Chapter 15: Division of Labor

The next morning, at the inn.

“So this, so that,” Zhang Chengyi nodded along, eyes fixed on the Beiming Divine Skill manual covered in annotations by Wuyazi, feeling as if his mind were expanding.

He hadn’t wasted the month he spent on Drumbeating Mountain; it was like he’d been enrolled in a private tutoring class under the head of the Xiaoyao Sect, intensely cramming martial arts knowledge.

As a golden finger spirit with inexhaustible internal energy, there were many more powerful ways to utilize it.

For instance, infinite energy transfer—without the Beiming Divine Skill to digest it, at best everyone could only practice the health-preserving heart method with him, but a fully mastered health-preserving heart method was still far superior to any peerless martial art.

The problem was, he didn’t know how.

Yes, energy transmission wasn’t something just anyone could do. It required abundant martial knowledge, experience in internal cultivation, and a high level of control over internal energy. Otherwise, if you sent your internal energy into someone else’s body and made a slight mistake, the best-case scenario was internal injury, the worst could be disability or sudden death.

The meridians were connected to the internal organs; otherwise, how could internal energy guide the qi to return to emptiness?

Even if Zhang Chengyi wanted to create several top-tier experts to study stronger martial arts—or the martial path—with him, he had to first study himself.

Taking shortcuts to get stronger was one thing, but if he wanted others to be like him, they had to honestly walk through the entire process.

Of course, an even more important reason was that artificially created experts, no matter how strong their martial arts, were meaningless; what mattered was martial knowledge. You couldn’t just replicate a bunch of illiterate experts—that wouldn’t advance the martial path at all.

Since both he and Wuyazi were already invincible, creating more experts had no point.

Relearning martial arts himself, however, held some promise.

With his photographic memory and Wuyazi’s guidance, his progress was rapid. Though it wouldn’t happen overnight, he had plenty of time.

As for the Beiming Divine Skill?

Wuyazi had endured thirty years of paralysis and, as head of the Xiaoyao Sect, was not bound by sectarian dogma. His claim that the skill was not to be passed on was simply a ruse to lure a peerless expert to inherit the sect’s leadership.

In the novel, before Xu Zhu accepted his transmission, he was explicitly unwilling to become the Xiaoyao Sect leader or take him as master, and Wuyazi accepted that without forcing him.

With abundant internal energy constantly replenished, energy transmission was truly no big deal.

Zhang Chengyi had weakened his internal energy to an almost pathetic level—practically entrusting his life to another—in order to receive the Beiming Divine Skill transmission.

Wuyazi was deeply moved by this and grew even more favorable toward him, fully affirming his character to the extent that he accepted his disciple’s willingness to sell himself into servitude.

Little did he know, Zhang Chengyi was a golden finger spirit and didn’t care about a single life.

This subtle difference in perception created a beautifully misplaced understanding.

Theoretically, together they could mass-produce peerless experts, but Wuyazi harbored reservations; after thirty years without finding a successor, he was a bit PTSD from Ding Chunqiu’s actions, believing that clever people were inherently bad and fools lacked comprehension.

On top of that, Zhang Chengyi found creating artificial experts pointless. He preferred to seek out martial arts masters from the jianghu and then unify them to reach the pinnacle together, exploring how to break human limits.

So they agreed: Wuyazi would go eliminate Ding Chunqiu and exorcise his inner demons; upon return, they would discuss grand plans.

Meanwhile, Zhang Chengyi set off into the martial world to find masters, intending to create a Drumbeating Mountain version of the “Hero Island.”

Along the way, he spent most of his time in the carriage diligently studying the Xiaoyao Sect’s manuals. Progress was a bit slow; he hadn’t even mastered half of the Beiming Divine Skill yet, let alone the various fist, palm, finger, and sword techniques.

By the way, after mastering and fully refining the Beiming Divine Skill, his athlete’s foot disappeared. This peerless skill inherently granted immunity to all poisons and balanced yin and yang. When circulating throughout the body, it could make the flesh feel like a furnace or as cold as ice several times over—likely a sterilizing effect.

However, it didn’t cure his hair loss. The problem was that his hair follicles were dead, and dead cells couldn’t be regenerated by internal energy. So even if the hair wouldn’t continue to fall out, the thinning remained.

Zhang Chengyi comforted himself that since his long hair was tied up in a bun, it wouldn’t be obvious at a glance.

“Good, morning study is over.” He slipped a bookmark into the book and tucked it into his bosom, wiping his face with a still-warm towel before heading downstairs for breakfast.

People in the Song Dynasty didn’t have the habit of three meals a day. As a poem said: “Fish and shrimp fill only two meals; the belly becomes a small pond.” Most people ate just twice daily—the main meal during the Chen hour (7 to 9 a.m.) and a smaller meal during the Shen hour (3 to 5 p.m.).

Wealthier families might have a midday tea, and the truly rich could eat whenever they pleased—even eight small meals a day—but these didn’t count as separate full meals.

Breakfast in this era was especially hearty, meant to fuel daytime labor, hence called the “big meal.” Having inhabited this body for over two months, Zhang Chengyi had somewhat adapted to local customs.

Besides breakfast and dinner, he often bought snacks and braised meat as treats.

When he arrived at the main hall, puzzled by the absence of people, Su Xinghe hurried in from the backyard and said, “Master Zhang, Mu Hua and the others have caught a spy.”

A spy, then.

Zhang Chengyi mentally translated the term and grew intrigued, setting aside his appetite to follow him into the backyard to join the commotion.

A monk was tied to a millstone, looking listless and uninjured, though his face still showed lingering fright.

Medicine and poison were inseparable; Xue Mu Hua and Su Xinghe, the doctor and his apprentice, could certainly concoct some poison or interrogation drugs if needed—but that would be overkill.

Gou Du, the third of the Eight Friends of Hangu, spoke as soon as Zhang Chengyi opened his mouth: “Master Zhang, Master, he says he was following orders from the Lingjiu Palace on Misty Peak, surveilling the actions of the Deaf and Mute Gate. This time he followed the carriage all the way here.”

Lingjiu Palace on Misty Peak?

Zhang Chengyi found this quite interesting. Tian Shan Tonglao was a complicated character. Though she appeared indifferent toward her missing junior brother for thirty years, she frequently quarreled endlessly with Li Qiushui. At the novel’s start, she even secretly sent people to spy on Sword Lake Palace and investigate the Boundless Jade Tablet—so she did care, after all.

Sending someone to the Central Plains to seek news was probably an attempt to find the missing Wuyazi through Su Xinghe.

Hmm, why so complicated? Why not just come and ask if you want to know everything?

Misty Peak’s Lingjiu Palace was far away, and information was tightly controlled. Apart from Zhang Chengyi, neither Su Xinghe nor the Eight Friends of Hangu knew what this was about and suspected it might be related to Ding Chunqiu.

“Let him go,” Zhang Chengyi said. What else could they do? Kill him?

They were at least considered family, all under the Xiaoyao Sect. There were degrees of closeness, but no need to take a life.

Although puzzled, Su Xinghe immediately used internal energy to break the ropes.

The monk fell to his knees with a thud, retched a few times without saying a word, then staggered away.