Chapter 27: The Art of Breathing and Absorption

As dawn broke, Li Daniu was awakened by a clamor of voices. He pushed aside a foul-smelling foot resting on his calf, struggled up from the hard wooden plank he called a bed, and, still half-asleep, dressed himself.

This was a bedroom, assigned to the servant disciples of Wudang Sect. It spanned about twenty square meters, but two long, rectangular communal beds took up nearly all the space, leaving only a one-meter-wide aisle down the center.

Li Daniu followed the other servant disciples out of the room and took his turn washing up at one of the water vats in the courtyard. Though the weather was far from cold—by noon it would even be a bit stifling—the chill of the water in the early morning made him shudder, banishing any lingering drowsiness.

Once everyone had finished washing, the group made their way briskly to the dining hall. Li Daniu hurried his pace as well, for if he was even a step too slow, he might end up with one less steamed bun for breakfast.

Yes, a single steamed bun—and not even one made of pure white flour, but mixed with coarse grains.

Li Daniu had never imagined that one day he would be racing thirteen- and fourteen-year-old children just for a chance at an extra coarse-grain bun. If not for the strict rules of decorum at Wudang forbidding running without cause, he would have broken into a sprint.

Even in his previous life as a nobody, Li Daniu had never lacked for a bun or two; this desperation was forced upon him by circumstance. The court was unjust, disasters both natural and man-made were unending, and the people were destitute. With productivity so low, grain was a precious resource. It was nothing like the great dynasties of old, where, though thrift was encouraged, the annual harvests were so bountiful there was more than enough to eat.

Though the area around Mount Wudang was relatively spared, the wider world was harsh, and here, where all disciples practiced martial arts and thus ate more than ordinary folk, if everyone ate to their fill, bankruptcy would not be far off.

The higher ranks of Wudang, of course, lacked nothing. Even the core disciples—the true heirs—were always well-fed, for they were the future of the sect. But for the servant disciples at the bottom, things were different; not everyone could eat their fill at every meal. The faster you were, the more you could eat; the slower, the hungrier you stayed. Li Daniu belonged to the small group who never managed to satisfy their hunger.

Servant disciples, while bearing the title of disciple, served primarily as laborers. For most, any hope of martial accomplishment had already been extinguished. Even with a lifetime of grueling practice, they would never make a name for themselves in the martial world.

This was Li Daniu’s fate as well—a servant disciple with no future prospects.

It had been a week since the suicide of Zhang Cuishan. Li Daniu, using the excuse that his benefactor Zhang Cuishan was dead, the world was in chaos, and he had nowhere to go, had managed to blend into Wudang.

It had been easy enough to gain entry, for he had originally come with Zhang Cuishan and Yin Susu, and he had no martial skills whatsoever. In fact, as a modern man, his physical condition was even worse than average, making him no threat to anyone. Wudang also happened to be short on slightly older servant disciples.

Generally, after reaching adulthood and picking up a few self-defense techniques, servant disciples would leave the mountain to farm or pursue business, for not everyone wished to spend their lives as servants.

At the dining hall, Li Daniu found a seat just as a large basin of buns was set on the table, along with a small dish of pickles. Having gone hungry for several days, he paid no mind to the children around him and wolfed down his food with abandon. He had never dreamed that such coarse buns could taste so delicious.

After his meal, he patted his stomach, now eighty percent full, and smiled with contentment. He was even more delighted at the thought that soon he would be learning martial arts.

Servant disciples were taught martial arts as well, though only the most basic forms of fist, foot, and sword techniques, and some simple breathing exercises. To become a master with such limited instruction would require extraordinary talent—but if you had such talent, no sect would limit you to worthless scraps.

Once a week, servant disciples were given a class, taught in rotation by the disciples of the Seven Heroes of Wudang, who also answered their questions. Li Daniu had learned the previous night that today was a teaching day, which had left him so excited he could hardly sleep.

To have less work and a martial arts class—Li Daniu wished every day could be like this.

Of course, the servant disciples did not learn in the grand Transmission Hall. After breakfast, Li Daniu followed the group of children back to their quarters, where a patch of open ground sufficed for practice.

Upon arrival, everyone sat cross-legged and began their breathing exercises. Li Daniu scratched his head awkwardly, standing off to the side, for he had no idea what to do.

Not only was sitting cross-legged difficult for him, but even the supposedly simple breathing exercise was beyond his grasp. He could not understand how regulated breathing alone could strengthen the body.

As he grew bored, he saw a Daoist novice approaching from afar—a face he recognized.

“Li Daniu, why are you standing there instead of practicing your breathing? At your age, you ought to be more diligent,” the novice scolded. It was the same one who had brought him into Wudang.

“Um… I don’t know how,” Li Daniu replied awkwardly. He hadn’t expected that the gatekeeper he’d met before was actually a disciple of Mo Shenggu, one of the Seven Heroes of Wudang.

“You don’t? Didn’t my Fifth Martial Uncle teach you?” the novice asked, puzzled.

“I was just a cart driver, not a disciple of Hero Zhang. How would I have had the chance to learn martial arts?” Li Daniu had wanted Zhang Cuishan to teach him, but they’d only spent about an hour together—and most of that time, Zhang had been sitting in the carriage.

“Well, all right,” the novice said, too inexperienced to dwell on the matter. “Since you’ve decided to become a disciple of Wudang, you must learn some martial arts. Otherwise, you’ll not just be a disgrace outside, but you’ll have a hard time even doing chores here in the sect.”

Then teach me, Li Daniu thought desperately, eager to begin. He had no patience for polite small talk.

“How about this: I’ll lead them through a few rounds of forms, and you can follow along for now. Later, I’ll teach you the basics one-on-one.” The novice took a liking to Li Daniu, having heard many of his fabricated stories about the martial world over the past few days.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Li Daniu was overjoyed. Only recently had he learned that servant disciples could study martial arts and that even novices took turns teaching. Had he known, he would have pestered the novice for lessons long ago, while telling his stories.

He moved to the side and watched as the novice led the group through several rounds of fist forms, occasionally correcting their stances. For the novice, these introductory techniques were already second nature.

After about an hour, the session ended. The novice instructed one of the servant disciples to request leave for Li Daniu and dismissed the group.

Li Daniu hurried over to the novice, basking in the envious stares of the other servant disciples.

“Is this… all right?” Li Daniu was worried about the leave; from his observations, he knew there was a pecking order among the servant disciples, and those in charge of assigning work might make things difficult for him for receiving special treatment.

“It’s fine. New arrivals are given a few days without chores to learn martial arts,” the novice explained. “It’s meant to help spot promising talent, but in your case, you probably weren’t notified because you’re older and have no future prospects.”

Older? The novice’s words cut deep. Since when was being in your twenties considered old?

“The best age to start martial arts is twelve or thirteen. You’re about twenty years too late,” the novice declared, eyeing Li Daniu’s appearance.

“I swear I’m not yet thirty,” Li Daniu protested. Physically and mentally, he was certain he wasn’t over thirty.

The novice showed no embarrassment for his mistake and continued to dash Li Daniu’s hopes. “It hardly matters. Judging from your physique, your natural endowment isn’t great either, so you can forget about becoming a master. Still, with effort, you can strengthen your body, and maybe handle a few petty thieves.”

“I’ve heard there’s a martial art called the Marrow Cleansing Scripture—it’s said it can transform your very bones,” Li Daniu retorted, unwilling to lose face. With his transmigration system, who knew when he might get the secret manual for that technique?

“So you’ve heard of the Marrow Cleansing Scripture? Don’t get your hopes up,” the novice scoffed. “It’s a secret art of Shaolin, passed down to only one or two disciples per generation. It’s like our Wudang’s Nine Yang Skill—apart from my master and a few others, no one in the sect has even seen the manual. Besides, even if you got your hands on it, you might not be able to master it. The deeper the art, the greater the requirement for innate understanding, and that’s rarer than talent itself. So you’re really dreaming.”

Are you here to tutor me, or crush all my hopes?

“Just teach me, please,” Li Daniu pleaded. He could feel his confidence draining away with every word.

“Fine. We’ll start with breathing technique. Sit cross-legged, five points facing upward.”

“What are the five points?”

“The crown of your head, the palms of both hands, and the soles of both feet.”

Li Daniu struggled for a long time but simply couldn’t manage the posture. Embarrassed, he asked, “Is there a way to practice breathing exercises while lying down?”