Chapter 9: Mending Imperfections

Hearing these words, the martial students' reactions varied: those from wealthy families appeared calm and discussed what kind of meals they would have if they paid for their food; those with limited means, unable to afford the monthly plan, hesitated, debating whether to grit their teeth and pay per meal for a few days to see the results; and those who had already sold everything just to study martial arts, whose families gave them no extra money and who couldn’t afford even a day or two of paid meals, lowered their heads in shame.

Zhuang Jin took in everyone's responses, reflecting to himself, "Master Ping is truly persuasive, linking paid meals to the cultivation of vital energy and becoming a formal martial artist. Anyone with money will surely force themselves to pay for the better food, even if only per meal. As for those who still can’t afford it, it’s simply impossible for them."

"What a clever advertisement from Master Ping. I wonder if the dining hall is giving him a cut... Still, even if he’s getting some benefit from them, what he says does make sense."

Zhuang Jin calculated his remaining coppers and bits of silver, coming to a little over six hundred and forty coins: "After paying the six hundred for the monthly plan, I’ll still have forty left for emergencies. Not bad!"

Though this nearly wiped out his savings, he didn't hesitate. He decided at once to spend the money—he wasn’t a miser; his past frugality was simply to save for critical moments, and now was such a time. Naturally, he had the boldness to risk it all with the confidence that fortune would return.

He silently gave his thanks once again to Tan San and the others for their previous generosity.

"Jin, if you’re short on cash, I can help you out," Xiong Lei said, a look of reluctant pain on his face. Earlier, he’d been stingy even with the five coins he tipped for the bedding, but he was willing to lend money to Zhuang Jin—if it had been anyone else, they wouldn’t even dare ask. After all, Zhuang Jin had helped him avoid trouble when collecting bedding and had given him pointers in training that morning; Xiong Lei considered himself someone who repaid favors.

"Thanks, Brother Xiong," Zhuang Jin declined politely, "but there’s no need. If I do need help, I won’t hesitate to ask."

Arriving at the dining hall, they saw that the free and paid meals were separate: the free meals consisted of greens, radishes, and brown rice soup; the paid meals boasted stir-fried pork with radishes, steaming white rice, and rich bone broth. The stir-fried pork was glistening with fat, the white rice steamed invitingly, and the bone broth shimmered with oil, garnished with fresh scallions and cilantro, making it irresistibly tempting.

There was clear reason for the price difference—the paid meals looked far superior.

Zhuang Jin and Xiong Lei queued up, paid, and registered for the paid meals. To their surprise, even Qian Wende—the one always looking for free advantages, who would shamelessly take extra soup—was willing to pay for the monthly meal plan.

Another memorable sight was a fellow student from their own dormitory, Bi Kai, who paid for two portions of the monthly meal plan and ate double the paid meals himself. Zhuang Jin remembered his name for this astonishing display.

After paying and collecting their meals, Zhuang Jin and Xiong Lei found a table. Xiong Lei, long hungry, devoured his food ravenously.

Zhuang Jin inhaled the aroma deeply. For someone who had once been a beggar, this was a rare delicacy. He took a piece of radish, chewed and swallowed it, feeling the richness seep into his body, nourishing his organs and limbs. The exhaustion from a morning of Black Fiend Stance practice seemed to melt away in this brief moment of happiness and contentment.

...

After the meal, most martial students returned to their dorms. Having eaten their fill, and with the afternoon sun at its warmest, drowsiness was unavoidable—especially after the morning’s exertions. They went to rest.

Afternoon training would not begin until the hour of Wei (1 p.m.).

Zhuang Jin did not return to the dormitory. Instead, he went to the training grounds to practice the Black Fiend Stance. He, too, felt fatigue and sleepiness, but he could resist such laziness with self-discipline. Compared to the noisy training grounds of the morning, now it was peaceful and quiet. He found a corner to practice alone, focusing on the flow of his energy and attempting to refine that pure inner breath.

It’s worth noting that Xiong Lei didn’t join him, saying he was heading back to the dorm for a nap. He wasn’t Zhuang Jin’s follower and didn’t have to do everything together. Zhuang Jin himself was not the type who needed company for every little thing, so he was unaffected and concentrated on his solo practice.

After three rounds of stance training, it was nearly the hour of Wei, and students began to trickle in. Xiong Lei also returned and sidled up to Zhuang Jin conspiratorially, "Jin, do you remember those two students who tried to slip money to Master Ping this morning, hoping for extra pointers?"

Zhuang Jin nodded slightly. He’d found that odd at the time. If Ping Yongfeng was truly upright, why had he reacted so strongly? There must be more to it.

"I heard this from Dezi..."

"Wait, Dezi?"

"That’s Qian Wende," Xiong Lei admitted, somewhat embarrassed.

Zhuang Jin’s expression was peculiar. That morning, Xiong Lei had been grumbling, "How does that guy have the nerve to come here?" Now he was addressing him so affectionately. That was quite the turnaround.

"Well, we never really had any big grudge with Dezi, nothing we can’t get over," Xiong Lei explained, then continued, "Anyway, Dezi heard that last time they recruited martial students, one of the instructors deliberately held back and only taught those who bribed him. It got so blatant that when it was discovered, that instructor had his meridians severed and was crippled."

"So this morning, when Master Ping saw those two trying to slip him money, he was so frightened he just left," Xiong Lei chuckled.

"So that’s how it is," Zhuang Jin nodded. The previous batch of students had taken the hit, and now they benefitted from the lesson learned.

But he was more interested in another point: "Qian Wende is quite interesting!"

Qian Wende had suffered a major setback that morning, nearly being expelled for lacking information. Clearly, he’d realized the importance of gathering intelligence and had adjusted accordingly.

With his shamelessness, Qian Wende was able to approach even those with whom he’d had falling-outs, like Zhuang Jin and Xiong Lei, and after being rebuffed, could still smile and try again. With such a personality, it really wasn’t hard for him to dig up news.

As for his improved relationship with Xiong Lei, that was easy to understand. They were all young men in their teens and twenties, and Xiong Lei wasn’t petty. Qian Wende only needed to humble himself a bit and share some insider information, and Xiong Lei’s attitude shifted accordingly.

As for why Qian Wende was making overtures—Zhuang Jin could guess: "He probably saw Xiong Lei and me demonstrating on stage and recognized the potential of our little group. Maybe he wants to join in for practice? It’s just human nature. As the saying goes, everyone in this world busies themselves for profit."

"After that incident, the instructors won’t hide things anymore, but apparently the money they make is split into two parts—one as a basic salary, the other as extra compensation. The task of teaching us doesn’t pay much, only one or two taels of silver a month. It’s not enough for them to treat us like their own sons," Xiong Lei continued. "We’re actually lucky—at least Master Ping picked three people to give pointers to in the morning. I hear that in two of the other three training groups, the instructors just ran through a few moves with everyone and left as soon as the required time was up."

"Oh, and apparently, each instructor is required to produce at least one formal martial artist per month out of the thirty students they teach, or their pay gets docked."

Zhuang Jin nodded at this and recalled that, aside from himself, the other two chosen by Ping Yongfeng—Xiong Lei included—were both tall and strong. "Most likely, they’re picking those with talent to meet the quota."

Suddenly, a more troubling thought occurred: "My former self died of cold and hunger—surely my body is suffering from deficiencies. Will that affect my martial training?"

"It probably will," Zhuang Jin sighed inwardly, but he did not wallow in self-pity. The reality could not be changed, and complaining was useless. He could only compensate for his shortcomings: "If my body’s weaknesses hinder my progress, I’ll just practice more. Two rounds for me should equal one for others—diligence can make up for lack of talent. And the paid meals are more nutritious; perhaps they’ll help nourish my body and restore some vitality."

...