I had no intention of entering the martial world.

Chapter 4 Calculation

After vomiting blood, life didn't get any easier.

Lu Jinghong no longer mentioned the "sword energy backlash," as if their conversation that day was just a fleeting illusion caused by a mountain breeze. But his training methods had changed. It was no longer standing in a stance under a waterfall, nor the monotonous chopping wood and carrying water—Lu Chenzhou had long since completed those basic exercises. His body was like an iron blank that had been repeatedly forged, with clear and restrained muscle lines, and an unusual sense of coordination in his every move.

"Killing is not a martial arts contest," Lu Jinghong said in the morning mist, holding a newly whittled bamboo branch in his hand. "Martial arts contests follow rules, killing is only about the result. Starting today, let's learn some 'unruly' things."

The first movement he taught was dazzling.

"The eyes are the most vulnerable." Lu Jinghong stood in the clearing in the woods, pointing a bamboo branch diagonally. "It doesn't require much strength or fancy techniques. Fingers, chopsticks, branches, anything will do. Quick, accurate, ruthless. Poke it in, stir it—even the toughest man will be crippled."

He demonstrated it once. The movement was so simple it was almost crude: a bamboo branch shot out from his waist, piercing straight towards the eye socket of the straw man hanging from a tree three zhang away. There was no wind, no warning; by the time Lu Chenzhou could see clearly, the tip of the bamboo branch had already sunk half an inch into the straw man's eye socket.

"Come here." Lu Jinghong tossed him a bamboo stick.

Lu Chenzhou took it. It felt incredibly light, much lighter than the wooden sword. He recalled his earlier movements: twisting his waist, shifting his shoulder, and using his wrist to generate power—

The bamboo branch flew out of his hand and landed diagonally on the straw figure's shoulder.

"You're wrong." Lu Jinghong shook his head. "You're thinking of 'stabbing,' not 'jabbing.' Stabbing uses wrist strength, while jabbing uses the strength of the whole body—pushing off with your heels, rotating your waist, and thrusting with your shoulders, the power traveling from the soles of your feet to your fingertips. Let's try again."

Lu Chenzhou retrieved the bamboo branch. He closed his eyes, imagining Zhao Fu's pointed, monkey-like face, and those always-scheming, triangular eyes. He slowly pressed down with his heels, a subtle tremor emanating from the ground. His waist twisted like a bowstring, his shoulders springing out like a spring—

Bamboo branches pierce the air.

This time, it flew past the edge of the scarecrow's eye socket, leaving behind a wisp of grass.

"This is getting interesting." Lu Jinghong nodded, a rare occurrence. "Remember this feeling. Killing isn't about striking a pose; it's about channeling all your strength into one point and delivering it to that 'spot.' Continue."

That day, Lu Chenzhou stabbed three thousand times.

From sunrise to sunset. His hands were raw and bleeding again, his wrists were swollen like buns, and his back ached so much he could barely straighten up. But he didn't stop. With each thrust, he imagined a different target: Zhao Fu's eyes, Qian Butong's throat, the hearts of the guards... With each successful thrust, the embers in the wasteland of his heart seemed to light up for a moment.

By the time they finished work in the evening, the scarecrow's eye sockets had become empty holes.

"Alright." Lu Jinghong glanced at the sky. "Tomorrow we'll learn the second move—the groin kick."

Lu Chenzhou put down the bamboo branch and stretched his stiff wrists. The setting sun cast dappled shadows on his face through the gaps in the trees. He suddenly spoke:

"Master."

"Um?"

"If... I mean if," Lu Chenzhou looked at his hands covered in blisters, "if one day, I really can't feel hatred anymore, or anything else... is it still worth continuing to practice this sword?"

The woods fell silent for a moment. Only birds returning to their nests chirped on the branches.

Lu Jinghong slowly walked to the stream and scooped up water to wash his face. Water droplets dripped from his graying temples.

"Sinking Boat." He didn't turn around. "Why do you think people carry swords?"

Lu Chenzhou thought for a moment: "To kill the enemy, to protect, or... to make a name for oneself?"

"That's the result, not the cause." Lu Jinghong straightened up, shaking the water off his hands. "People pick up swords because they feel they 'have no choice'."

He turned around, his blue robe swaying gently in the evening breeze.

"I have to take revenge, I have to protect, I have to move forward. This 'have to' is the soul of the sword." He walked up to Lu Chenzhou, his gaze as calm as an ancient well. "Right now, you feel that hatred is your soul, so you practice swordsmanship. When hatred is gone, if you can find other 'have to'—for example, having to live, having to watch this world become what you want it to be—then you can continue practicing swordsmanship."

Lu Chenzhou remained silent.

"What if we can't find it?"

"Then throw away the sword," Lu Jinghong said decisively. "Be an ordinary person, farm, chop wood, get married, and have children. There's nothing wrong with that."

After he finished speaking, he picked up his gourd and swayed as he walked towards the hut. He stopped halfway there.

"Oh, by the way, starting tomorrow, the three times a month for doing good deeds will be increased to five times." He paused, "...to see how those who 'have no choice' to live live. It will...be good for you."

---

The place where the good deed was done was Lijiaji, fifty miles away at the foot of the mountain.

It was a small village, with a few dozen households built against the mountainside. The land was barren, and people lived a meager existence. Lu Chenzhou would descend the mountain on the 5th, 15th, and 25th of each month, staying for two days each time. Lu Jinghong set rules for him: he was not allowed to use martial arts, nor was he allowed to mention his sect; he was to act as a young man passing through, making a living.

The first time I went was last autumn.

He was dressed in coarse cloth and carried a small bundle containing a few changes of clothes and two taels of silver given to him by Lu Jinghong. It was afternoon when he entered the village. Several ragged children were chasing and playing on the dirt road at the village entrance. When they saw strangers, they immediately hid behind trees, only revealing their wary eyes.

Lu Chenzhou drove around the village and finally stopped in front of a dilapidated thatched hut at the west end of the village.

The house was inhabited by a blind old woman surnamed Zhou. Her son had died in a fall while collecting herbs in the mountains years ago, and his wife had remarried, leaving her alone to tend to her two acres of meager land.

Lu Chenzhou stood at the door for a moment, then walked over.

"Grandma, I was just passing by and asked for a drink of water. I noticed your roof needs repairs, so let me help you."

Grandma Zhou was startled and turned around shakily: "Who? Who's there?"

"Just passing by," Lu Chenzhou said, trying to keep his voice gentle. "Please sit down, I'll be right back."

Without waiting for Granny Zhou's reply, he rolled up his sleeves and climbed onto the roof. His movements were swift and efficient—he had learned repairs from Uncle Kui when he was in the mountain village. Half an hour later, the leaking hole was patched up, and he then propped up the crooked part of the courtyard wall with wooden sticks, filled the water vat with water, and piled firewood in the kitchen.

After doing all that, Granny Zhou fumbled and brought out a bowl of wild vegetable porridge so thin you could see your reflection in it.

"Young man... I don't have anything good to offer. You can drink this."

Lu Chenzhou stared at the bowl of porridge. It was thin, the vegetable leaves were yellowed, and there was a faint musty smell. He thought of the Lu family kitchen, and how his mother always complained that the cook's lotus seed soup wasn't good enough. Back then, he was a picky eater, and this bowl of porridge was so meager it wouldn't even be fit for feeding the dog.

He took the bowl and took a sip.

His sense of taste had become somewhat dulled, but he could still taste the sour and bitter flavor. He finished drinking it expressionlessly and handed the bowl back.

"Thank you, Grandma."

"I should be thanking you..." Tears welled up in Granny Zhou's cloudy eyes. "Young man, you are a good person... a truly good person..."

Lu Chenzhou didn't speak. He packed his things and turned to leave. When he reached the village entrance, he looked back and saw Granny Zhou still standing in front of the thatched hut, "looking" in the direction he had left, her withered hands trembling slightly in the wind.

That night, he wrote in his "Good Deeds Log":

"In Liji Village, Zhou, blind and deceased, spent two hours mending the roof, repairing the walls, fetching water, and piling firewood. He served a bowl of porridge, which tasted sour and bitter. He called himself a 'good person,' but I felt nothing for him."

He wrote the two characters "无感" (unfeeling) very heavily, the ink almost seeping through the paper.

The second time I went was in December.

It was freezing cold, and several households in the village were short of firewood. Lu Chenzhou spent the whole day helping three elderly people living alone to go up the mountain to chop firewood, carry it back, and neatly stack it. His hands were red from the cold, and the old wounds on his hands cracked open and froze again.

An old man he had helped stuffed two frozen, rock-hard mixed-grain flatbreads into his hand, grinning with his missing front tooth: "Young man, eat! You'll have strength if you eat your fill!"

Lu Chenzhou took the pancake and took a bite. His sense of taste was even more dulled; he could barely taste anything, only that it was hard and gritty. He slowly finished eating and made a note:

"Chopped four loads of firewood, split two stacks of wood. Two cakes, tasteless. His laughter should have warmed my heart, but it did not."

The third time, the fourth time, the fifth time...