Morning sunlight warmed the streets of Lian County City as Chen Mo and Zhou Heng stepped out of the trade house. The young hunter walked steadily beside the older man, satchel in hand, his eyes quietly observing the city’s rhythm—merchants arranging goods, children darting between stalls, apprentices from various martial halls moving in disciplined lines.

  Zhou Heng gestured toward a side street. “Keep close. The hall is just ahead, but no need to draw attention. By the way,” he added with a light smile, “if you ever have free time, there’s a small restaurant a few blocks from here that serves the finest braised lamb ribs in the county. And the pharmacy near the east gate has remedies famous across the region—just in case you ever need them.”

  Chen Mo walked with straight posture, each step precise and deliberate, reflecting the discipline instilled by years of archery training. He remained cautious, but there was no doubt in his carriage. Even in the crowded streets, he moved like a shadow guided by intent.

  Finally, the imposing gates of the Silver Crane Martial Hall, the hall to which Zhou Heng’s store was affiliated, came into view. High wooden gates, a clean stone courtyard, and faint echoes of training inside spoke of discipline and order. No banners flapped in the wind, no loud demonstrations of power—just the steady rhythm of routine.

  Zhou Heng led him inside. “Follow me,” he said, guiding Chen Mo toward the registration counter. Two attendants sat behind a wide desk, ledgers neatly arranged. One of them, Zhou Heng’s cousin, looked up and nodded in recognition.

  “Cousin,” Zhou Heng whispered, exchanging a brief word, and the path was instantly smoother.

  Chen Mo stepped forward, standing straight and steady. His registration was straightforward: name, age, origin, reason for joining. Zhou Heng answered when necessary, presenting Chen Mo as a capable, disciplined youth. With the recommendation spoken and the fee paid, the process went without hesitation.

  “Wait here,” the cousin said. “Someone from the inner hall will come shortly to guide you.”

  Chen Mo remained upright, posture calm, mind alert. Low-key. Observant. Safe. He had learned long ago that survival always came before bravery or kindness.

  Moments later, footsteps echoed from deeper inside the hall. A tall attendant in gray robes approached, scanning the waiting applicants. He motioned to six other applicants who had applied that morning, Chen Mo included.

  “You six, follow me,” the attendant said firmly but without hostility. “I’ll guide you to the outer courtyard.”

  Chen Mo walked straight, matching the rhythm of the other applicants, leaving Zhou Heng behind. The shopkeeper gave a small nod, then turned back toward his business.

  The threshold had been crossed. Beyond this point, talent alone would not guarantee survival. Chen Mo’s heart remained steady. Observation, patience, and subtlety—these were as crucial as any skill he possessed. And he would endure.

  The attendant led the six applicants through a narrow corridor to another office, instructing them to wait outside. He knocked lightly on the door before stepping in, and a voice from inside quietly said, “Enter.”

  Minutes passed in silence before he reappeared, telling the youths to remain patient. Time stretched uneasily until the door opened again, and a middle-aged man emerged. He wore a grey robe marked with green stripes along the sleeves, and his presence immediately radiated authority. Broad shoulders, well-defined muscles, and a disciplined posture made the youths instinctively straighten, feeling the weight of his gaze.

  He scanned them briefly, his eyes sharp and assessing, before speaking in a deep, steady voice. “Follow me.”

  The middle-aged man led the six applicants toward a large, squared courtyard. At least fifty youths were already there, each standing in awkward, uncomfortable stances, sweat dripping down their temples. Another man, equally imposing and disciplined, moved among them, scrutinizing their movements, occasionally stepping forward to correct errors with sharp words or harsh scolding. The newcomers’ arrival went unnoticed.

  They stopped at a corner, not far from the training youths. The middle-aged man turned to them. “Line up,” he commanded, his voice calm but authoritative. The six straightened immediately, posture precise, each aware of the weight of his gaze.

  “I am Master Lian,” he said, his tone firm im Skin Refining martial artist responsible for teaching and inspecting new recruits, alongside my colleague Master Wei. We rotate every day.”

  His eyes swept over them. “The first skill you will learn is the Silver Crane Stance. It is basic but essential—without it, you cannot sense qi or blood. I will perform the stance before you, thirty-six moves in total. You will observe, memorize, and repeat until it is perfect. Only then may you join the others in the courtyard.”

  He paused briefly, letting his words sink in. “Rules are simple but strict. You may train in the outer courtyard all day under an elder’s supervision, who will correct and assist you. Every three days, you are entitled to one bowl of body-nourishing soup—but for more efficient progress, I recommend consuming one daily. Each bowl costs three taels of silver; the hall provides only one free bowl every three days. Lodging is not offered unless you successfully sense qi and become a formal disciple. Minor fighting or unruly behavior is forbidden. If you fail to pay the next month’s fee, you will be expelled. If you fail to sense qi within three months, you will also be expelled.”

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  He fixed his gaze on the six, waiting for comprehension to settle. “Any questions?”

  Seeing that no one answered, Master Lian nodded to himself and began performing the Silver Crane Stance. He moved with precision and fluidity, the thirty-six moves flowing seamlessly from one to the next, repeating the full sequence three times.

  The six youths watched intently, concentration etched on their faces, trying to commit every movement to memory. After the third repetition, Master Lian stopped and turned to them. “Your turn,” he commanded.

  One by one, the applicants stepped forward, attempting to mirror the stance. Master Lian moved among them, patiently correcting every misstep, adjusting angles, posture, and rhythm. His voice was firm but encouraging, ensuring they understood each detail.

  Chen Mo struggled at first, the complexity of the thirty-six moves testing his coordination, but within an hour he had grasped the essentials. He performed the stance with remarkable accuracy, hitting roughly eighty percent of the movements correctly, his posture disciplined, his focus unshakable.

  The other youths, guided carefully by Master Lian, gradually caught up. Under his watchful eye, they were able to perform the stance decently, their movements growing more confident and precise with each repetition.

  Master Lian finally stepped back, folding his arms. “Continue practicing at this spot for the rest of the day. Observe, correct, and internalize the stance. Tomorrow, you will join the group and train alongside the others.”

  With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the six to their practice, the courtyard alive with quiet determination.

  The six youths continued practicing through the day, sweat soaking their robes, muscles aching with exhaustion, yet their determination never waned. As evening approached and the courtyard began to empty, one of the applicants, a stocky youth named Jin Tao, wiped his brow and suggested, “Why don’t we introduce ourselves properly while grabbing a bite to eat? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  A murmur of agreement passed among the group, and they stepped out of the courtyard, their postures still slightly stiff from hours of training. One by one, they introduced themselves—most hailed from the city, their families comfortably well-off enough to pay the martial hall entrance fees, coming from small merchant houses, shops, or local restaurants.

  Chen Mo remained silent at first, observing them carefully, but he eventually nodded in agreement. Joining them would be useful; a chance to listen, learn, and gather information about the city, the halls, and perhaps even the rival youths. He walked alongside them, composed as ever, letting the others chatter while he quietly assessed their personalities and backgrounds.

  They settled at a small street stall, the aroma of sizzling meat and freshly baked bread filling the air. Chen Mo spoke first, introducing himself frankly. “I come from a village outside the county. My family is not wealthy, but I make a living hunting. That’s how I managed to gather the fees.”

  The youths looked impressed. It was rare for someone from an outer village to have both the skill and the means to afford martial arts tuition. Jin Tao leaned forward, wiping his hands. “My father pressures me constantly to train,” he said. “He hopes building connections with the martial hall will secure our family’s standing.” The others nodded in agreement.

  A lean youth named Wei Zhen added, “Sensing qi is the hardest part. Out of ten people, only three or four may succeed.”

  Jin Tao chuckled but agreed. “True. But being noticed as a talent by the hall is a blessing in itself. And if you manage to cultivate to the Skin Refining Realm, you become a master that people fear.”

  Another youth, broad-shouldered and serious, chimed in, “I heard Skin Refining masters can lift a thousand jin with a single hand.”

  Chen Mo’s interest piqued. “Do you know anything about martial realms beyond that?” he asked.

  A brief silence fell. The others shook their heads; sensing qi alone was already a monumental hurdle, let alone contemplating higher realms.

  After finishing their meal, the group said their goodbyes. Chen Mo returned to his small room in Zhou Heng’s trade house, intending to take a bath and reflect quietly on his future plans, the day’s lessons already turning over in his mind.

  Chen Mo carried a bucket of water to the small bath area in the trade house backyard, letting the cool liquid wash away the sweat and grime of the day. Cleaned and refreshed, he made his way to Zhou Heng to thank him once more. “Everything went smoothly today, Master Heng. Your guidance made it possible.”

  Zhou Heng smiled warmly. “Good. Now work hard, Chen Mo. This is just the beginning.”

  With a nod, Chen Mo returned to his room. Sitting on the wooden floor, he counted his coins. Only six taels remained. At three taels a bowl, the body-nourishing soup would be impossible to buy every day unless he found a way to make money. His mind wandered to the nearby woods; perhaps he could make occasional trips to hunt game and sell it.

  He knew he couldn’t stay in the trade house room forever. Zhou Heng wouldn’t mind, but Chen Mo disliked being a burden—he already owed the man more than enough.

  Settling down, he opened the panel. The Silver Crane Stance did not appear, a clear sign that he had not yet performed it correctly. Resolute, he whispered to himself, “Tomorrow… I will get it right.” With that thought, Chen Mo drifted into deep, determined sleep.