Chapter Fifty-Seven: Rescue and Apprenticeship

For a full year, Yuanye had not engaged in combat with anyone. Now, as he put his skills to the test, he felt a surge of satisfaction, moving with complete ease. Clearly, his martial arts had not diminished over the past year; on the contrary, they had grown even more profound.

The leading military officer suddenly opened his mouth wide in shock, stammering, "You... you... could it be that you are..." Yet he dared not finish his sentence, for at that very moment, he had finally seen the young man’s face clearly—those two silver eyes.

Yuanye folded his arms and shouted, "It’s been a year since I’ve killed any Tartars! My hands are itching for action. Today, you’ve run into me—blame your own unlucky fate!"

As he swept his sleeves, the officers and the foreign monks felt a fierce wind blast over them, their breath caught, chests tight as if about to burst, unable to draw air for a time.

When Yuanye’s sleeve finally stilled, their faces had turned ashen. With cries of terror, they scrambled back onto the large boat, paying no heed to the monks who fell into the water in their panic to flee. They knew already that the two companions were beyond saving; if they split up and ran, perhaps a sliver of hope remained for themselves.

But Yuanye had no intention of letting these Mongol officials escape. He summoned his internal strength and struck out with a dozen palm strikes. With each blow, thunderous explosions erupted—“boom, boom, boom!”—as if countless mines had detonated on the river. Water spouts shot skyward, scattering in all directions.

In the setting sun, several curved rainbows arched through the mist, a breathtaking sight.

Yet none aboard the small boat had the heart to admire the beauty. All eyes fixed on the river’s surface. A few breaths passed, and the figures of the foreign monks and Mongol officers who had thrown themselves into the river for escape were nowhere to be seen. Chang Yuchun thought to himself, "These Mongol Tartars must have fled to the bottom of the river. They’re fast indeed."

But in the next instant, streams of red rose from below—the unmistakable sign that the monks and officers had perished beneath the water.

Chang Yuchun was appalled. As a second-rate martial artist himself, he knew full well what it meant for someone to strike the river’s surface with such force from a distance. Yet this young man, barely in his twenties, had unleashed more than a dozen strikes, each with enough power to reach deep beneath the river and kill those men outright. It was nothing short of supernatural.

He could not help but wonder, "Who is this benefactor? His martial prowess is like that of a god! For me, Chang, to be saved by such an expert today—truly, fortune smiles upon me."

Seeing that none of the foreign monks or Mongol officers had escaped, Yuanye stepped forward, produced a medicinal pill, and fed it to Chang Yuchun.

After a while, when Chang Yuchun had regained his breath, Wuji had already rowed their skiff alongside the smaller boat.

Yuanye moved to help him across, but Chang Yuchun, still hardy despite his wounds, cradled the boy’s corpse and leaped lightly onto Yuanye’s boat.

Yuanye nodded to himself, "No wonder he would become a founding general of the Ming dynasty—gravely wounded, yet still loyal to his young master. A true, unyielding hero. With men like him by one’s side in the future, how could great deeds not be accomplished?"

Yuanye then leaped onto his own boat as well, followed by Yang Yaoqin, who picked up the boatman’s daughter—who had been sobbing in her arms for some time—and brought her aboard their skiff. The girl had stopped crying, though her eyes remained red, filled with grief.

Once Wuji fetched the medical kit, Yuanye promptly pulled the poisoned arrow from Chang Yuchun’s wound and applied a salve to draw out the poison and heal the flesh.

At that moment, the girl, seeing her father’s corpse drifting away with the small boat, began crying again. Chang Yuchun, witnessing this, cursed angrily, "Those wretched soldiers, so ruthless! They shot the boatman dead without warning. If not for the intervention of these heroes, that poor boatman’s daughter would surely have lost her life as well."

Seeing this, Yuanye turned to Wuji and instructed, "Wuji, help that little sister bring her father’s body over. Once we dock, we’ll find a proper place to bury him."

Hearing this, Wuji glanced at the grief-stricken girl. He thought back to two years ago—if not for his master stepping in to quell the martial world, he might have ended up like this girl, forever separated from his loved ones, alone in the world.

Moved by empathy, Wuji’s heart swelled with compassion for the girl. He nodded firmly, then leaped down from the boat.

Once in the water, Wuji used his lightness skill, skimming across the surface as if walking on water. After a dozen steps, he reached the small boat.

He rushed into the cabin and heaved the boatman’s corpse onto his back. Seeing that the small boat had drifted four or five yards away from his own, he dared not delay. Summoning all the power of the Nine Yang Divine Skill, he leaped into the river with the corpse.

Now, compared to his earlier trip, he carried an extra hundred pounds or more—a daunting feat. Fortunately, his internal cultivation and lightness skills were both peerless, and his years of diligent practice had given him considerable strength, even at his young age.

Though his body wobbled with exhaustion, he managed to stagger across the water’s surface toward the skiff.

Yang Yaoqin, holding the girl’s hand, watched the boy teetering across the river, anxiety written across her face.

The little girl was deeply grateful to Wuji for retrieving her father’s body, yet she worried that he might fall into the river and lose his own life.

Despite her concern, Yang Yaoqin made no move to assist. She understood that Yuanye was testing Wuji; should Wuji falter, Yuanye would surely step in.

As the skiff drew near, Wuji’s head spun with dizziness, and he felt utterly drained. He thought, "If only I could just lie down and sleep…"

But in the two years since he had returned from the Isle of Ice and Fire, Wuji had grown. After traveling with Yuanye through half of the Central Plains, he was no longer the ignorant child he once was.

Now he understood how heavy the burden was that he had taken on atop Mount Wudang two years before—accepting his foster father’s vendetta before the eyes of all the martial world.

On one side, the lives of his parents; on the other, the life of his foster father—how could he dare relax for even a moment?

Thus, no matter how rigorous or grueling his master’s training, Wuji had never once complained.

Even when his master had an old man strike him, forcing him to suffer daily from cold poison, Wuji had never voiced a single word of resentment.

Knowing now that his master was testing him, Wuji would rather die than give up. Forcing down the urge to sleep, he mustered every last bit of energy. Channeling his final thread of internal strength into his legs, he stamped hard upon the water and soared up.

The moment his feet landed on the skiff, he looked up to see the smile on his master’s face. Wuji’s own face broke into a brilliant smile—then everything went black, and he fainted.

As he collapsed onto the deck, the little girl rushed to her father’s body, sobbing and casting anxious glances at Wuji.

When Yang Yaoqin comforted her, explaining that Wuji had only fainted from exhaustion and would recover after a rest, the girl ceased her crying and knelt before her father’s corpse, tears silently falling.

At that moment, Chang Yuchun suddenly knelt on the deck and kowtowed. "Benefactor and lady," he said, "you have saved my life. Chang Yuchun owes you this bow."

Yuanye reached out to help him up. "Brother Chang, please—no need for such formalities."

Hearing him address herself and Yuanye as “husband and wife,” Yang Yaoqin felt a surge of joy. She gazed at Yuanye, her face tinged with shyness, but said nothing to Chang Yuchun.

Yuanye took Chang Yuchun’s hand and found it icy cold. He was well-versed in suppressing Wuji’s cold poison and immediately understood the cause. "Brother Chang, have you suffered internal injuries?"

Chang Yuchun replied, "To answer my benefactor: I was escorting my young master south from Xinyang when we were attacked four times by Tartar agents. A foreign monk struck me twice in the chest and back."

Yuanye checked his pulse and found it weak. Unfastening Chang’s clothes to inspect the wound, he was startled—the bruising at the site of the blow was swollen by an inch or more, a serious injury.

Had it been anyone else, they’d have succumbed long ago. Yet Chang Yuchun had traveled thousands of miles and resisted powerful enemies. Yuanye could not help but admire his heroism.

Yuanye ordered him to stay silent, then used his own internal energy to suppress the injury. "Rest in the cabin," he said. "When we reach Laohekou tomorrow, we’ll buy medicine for your wounds."

Yang Yaoqin stood lost in thought for a long while, then finally came to herself. Seeing Yuanye busy treating Chang Yuchun, she quietly left the cabin.

Outside, she finally took a good look at the girl—about ten years old, dressed in rags, barefoot, a poor boatman’s daughter, yet lovely in appearance, destined to become a beauty. The girl, having just lost her father, sat silently, tears streaming down her face.

Yang Yaoqin, moved by her plight, asked softly, "Little sister, what’s your name?"

The girl wiped away her tears. "My surname is Zhou. My name is Zhiruo."

Yang Yaoqin thought, "Such a pretty name for a boatman’s daughter."

She asked, "Where do you live? Who else is in your family? We’ll take you home in a little while."

At these words, Zhou Zhiruo’s eyes brimmed anew. "It was just my father and me, living on the boat. There’s... there’s no one else."

Yang Yaoqin sighed to herself, "Her family is gone—how can such a little girl be cared for now?"

At that moment, Yuanye emerged. Yang Yaoqin knew he must have overheard her conversation with the girl, so she looked at him expectantly, waiting for his decision.

"Qin’er," Yuanye said, "I see a deep bond between you and Zhiruo. Wuji is already my disciple—why don’t you take Zhiruo as your own? Who knows, perhaps one day Zhiruo will surpass Wuji, and your old wish might finally be fulfilled."

Yang Yaoqin’s eyes lit up at his words, her heart stirred with excitement.