Martial Arts: My talent multiplier increased

Fang Ying looked up at him and smiled.

"It's my brother!"

Fang Yuan looked at the small humanoid figure. Two straight lines were its legs. A circle was its head. Above the head was a line—probably hair. The figure was clutching a circle larger than its own body in its hand—he didn't know what it was.

What are you holding in your hand?

Fang Ying tilted her head and thought for a moment.

"It's a bad person's head!"

Fang Yuan's lips curved into a smile.

He stood up. He walked to the door. He glanced back.

Fang Ying squatted back down under the windowsill. She picked up a locust branch and continued drawing, humming a nursery rhyme she'd learned from somewhere, its tune completely off-key.

Fang Yuan stood at the door.

The sunlight streamed in from the courtyard, casting Fang Ying's shadow on the ground. The shadow was small, two tiny tufts of hair fluttering above her head.

Fang Yuan's right hand was clenched into a fist below the door frame—at an angle Fang Ying couldn't see. The knuckles of his fist were prominent. His knuckles were white.

He let go.

Turn around. Walk out.

In the corridor, Fang Lin walked over from around the corner, carrying a piece of clothing in his hands. It was a short, gray-blue brown garment, neatly folded with all four corners aligned, without a single wrinkle.

Fang Lin stopped in front of Fang Yuan and handed him the short robe.

"Young master, this is sturdy."

Fang Yuan took it. He pinched the seam of the cuff with his fingers. Dense. Twice as dense as the previous one. The stitches were extremely fine, and the spacing between the stitches was consistent—Fang Yuan's eight-fold stitching function was so precise that the difference between each stitch was less than half a centimeter.

Fang Lin's handicrafts.

Fang Yuan unfolded his short brown robe and turned it over. The stitching at the collar was neatly finished. The shoulder line was two inches higher than the previous one—Fang Lin had measured Fang Yuan's changes in physique. After breaking through to the late stage of the Bone Refining Realm in seclusion, Fang Yuan's trapezius muscles had thickened. Raising the shoulder line by two inches was just right.

Fang Yuan didn't speak. He took off his old shorts and put on the new ones. He fastened the buttons.

The cuffs are fitted. Not too loose, not too tight. Just right, about half an inch above the wrist—so they won't swing away when you throw a punch.

Fang Yuan moved his wrist.

Fang Lin stood to the side, silent, his face expressionless.

Fang Yuan finished buttoning the last fabric button and glanced at Fang Lin.

"Don't tell them about tomorrow."

Fang Lin nodded slightly. The movement was very small.

"Don't worry, young master."

Fang Yuan walked past Fang Lin. He took two steps.

Fang Lin.

Fang Lin turned around.

Fang Yuan opened his mouth slightly, then closed it.

He didn't say it.

Fang Yuan turned around and strode out of the inner courtyard.

Fang Lin stood in the corridor, his gaze following Fang Yuan's retreating figure until the grey-blue silhouette disappeared around the corner of the inner courtyard passageway.

Fang Lin lowered his head, looking at his hands. There were two or three red marks on the pads of his right fingers, marks from needle pricks. He'd pricked himself while rushing to finish work last night. They weren't deep. They didn't hurt anymore.

Fang Lin put his hand back to his side. He turned and walked towards Fang Ying's room.

She walked to the doorway. Fang Ying was drawing on the floor, humming a children's rhyme out of tune.

Fang Lin stood at the door for a moment.

He pulled the dagger from his waist and gripped it tightly.

-

The hour of You (5-7 PM).

Dusk pressed down beyond the city walls. The clouds thickened. The moon might not rise tonight.

Fang Yuan walked through the alley in the west of the city. His gray-blue short brown shirt blended into the wall in the shadows.

Northwest corner of the city. The outskirts of an abandoned mill.

Tie Meng leaned against an earthen wall. The snaps on his iron arm guards had popped open. His old wounds were covered in ointment, the smell of which carried far on the night wind.

Fang Yuan walked behind the earthen wall. Tie Meng turned around.

"You're here?"

Fang Yuan pulled a cloth bag from his pocket. He untied it. Twenty-four bottles of Qi and Blood Pills were neatly stacked inside. He took out four bottles and stuffed them into the inside of Tie Meng's arm guard.

"For emergency use only. Do not consume indiscriminately. One bottle at a time. Allow at least half an hour between doses."

Tie Meng's fingers touched the bottle inside the arm guard. He weighed it in his hand.

Fang Yuan squatted at the foot of the earthen wall. He drew several lines on the ground with his finger.

"Tie Meng. Is the fuse for the three barrels of fish oil connected?"

"Got it. Under the old locust tree. Just pull and it'll light." Tie Meng drew a short knife from his waist. The blade was narrow, and the edge was gleaming. He handed the knife to Fang Yuan. "Newly sharpened."

Fang Yuan took it and weighed it in his hand.

Light. Less than a pound. The blade has a slightly larger curve than a regular short knife—the curve used in close combat. The distance from drawing the knife to thrusting it is shortened by two inches.

"When did you learn to sharpen knives?"

Tie Meng grinned. His smile, in the twilight, only revealed half a row of yellowed teeth.

"I knew it twenty years ago. I just didn't have the chance to hone it."

Fang Yuan tucked the short sword into his lower back. The hilt faced right. The angle at which he drew the sword perfectly matched the path of his left turn to strike. In the instant he tucked the sword, his Eightfold Stance Technique had calculated the optimal path for drawing the sword.

Fang Yuan stood up. He pulled a blood-red token from his pocket.

The token was affixed to his forehead.

The pulse beats once per breath. It points towards the outskirts of the city. To Green Medicine Valley.

Fang Yuan took the token off his forehead and clenched it in his right palm.

"Tie Meng".

"Um."

"If any evil cultivators come in from the northwest corner of the city—there won't be too many. Fight them if you can. If you can't, retreat into the alley. Retreat to the old locust tree."

Tie Meng rubbed his fingers against the metal surface of the arm guard.

"Pull the fuse?"

"Yes. Three barrels of fish oil will cover a radius of twenty feet. Once the fire starts, the evil cultivators in the alley—those below the Bone Refining Realm—will be burned to death. Those at the Bone Refining Realm will be held back for at least two to three breaths."

Tie Meng's lips twitched downwards.

"And what about you?"

Fang Yuan did not answer the question.

Tie Meng's fingers paused on the arm guard. His gaze swept from Fang Yuan's face to his lower back—where the short knife was tucked. Then it swept to Fang Yuan's chest—that small bulge. He wondered what it contained.

"You're not here," Tie Meng said. (This is not a question.)

Fang Yuan's gaze shifted from the token to Tie Meng's face.

"I'm going to Qingyao Valley."

Tie Meng's Adam's apple bobbed.

"one person?"

Fang Yuan neither nodded nor shook his head. He put the token into his pocket. His fingers touched the edge of the dark gold fragment. Constant temperature.

Tie Meng leaned against the earthen wall. The hidden clasps on his iron arm guards creaked in the twilight. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Twenty years of mercenary service. Tie Meng has seen many people say "I'm going."

The places they went to varied, some near, some far. The reasons for going varied, some big, some small. Less than half of them returned.

Tie Meng ran his fingers along the dent in the iron arm guard. That dent was from the last time they were in the Hundred Beast Cave secret realm.

"Fang Ying is in the inner courtyard," Fang Yuan said calmly.

Tie Meng's fingers stopped.

"I know."

Fang Yuan didn't say anything like, "If I don't come back, send Fang Ying back to the old house in Qingzhou." He had already said it once before. Tie Meng remembered.

There's no need to say it a second time.

Dusk deepened. The changing of the guard bugle sounded from the direction of the city gate. A muffled murmur.

Fang Yuan spread out his twice-sized spiritual perception network. Twenty-five zhang. The alley in the northwest corner of the city was unnaturally quiet. Fang Yuan was very familiar with that kind of quiet—a quiet where even living things seemed to shrink back.

But this time it wasn't because of evil practices.

It was because Tie Meng had knocked on every door last night. Of the eleven households, nine had moved away. The old man and the drunkard were dragged away by Tie Meng.

empty.

Fang Yuan needed emptiness. Only when it's empty can it burn.

The sound of the drum came from the direction of the city gate tower.

Thump. Thump.

The hour of Xu (7-9 PM).

Fang Yuan pulled the token from his pocket and pressed it to his forehead one last time.

A pulse. One beat per breath. Steady.

Fang Yuan put the token away and glanced at Tie Meng.

Tie Meng leaned against the earthen wall. The clasps on his iron arm guards creaked one last time. His face was reduced to a mere outline in the twilight. Rough. Hard.

Fang Yuan turned around.

He stepped out of the alleyway in the northwest corner of the city. He moved along the path inside the city wall towards the south gate. He had scouted the route out of the city two days ago. The changing of the guard at the south gate had a thirty-breath gap at 1:15 PM.

Outside the south gate is wasteland. Seven miles northwest of the wasteland lies Qingyao Valley.

Fang Yuan's footsteps moved steadily forward in the twilight.

I walked fifty steps.

His double-strength spiritual perception network, pointing towards the rooftop on the left, detected the signal again.

Peak of the Bone Refining Realm. Blood and Qi flow evenly. Meridians are full. Cultivation technique is pure.

That person.

The third time.

Fang Yuan didn't stop walking. He didn't look up.

The signal followed him for twenty paces on the rooftop. Then it stopped.

Stopped in the direction of the city wall.

There was no follow-up.

Fang Yuan walked through the shadows beneath the city wall. The guards at the south gate were changing shifts. The torchlight flickered a few times in the gatehouse.

One quarter past Hai hour.

Empty window.

Fang Yuan's figure flashed out from the shadows of the city gate. His shoes scraped across the ground before disappearing into the night outside the city.

Above the city wall. A figure stood in the shadow of the crenellation.

The moon was obscured by clouds. Only a blurry outline of the figure could be seen—tall and slender. A sword hung at his waist. The scabbard didn't reflect light in the twilight—it wasn't an iron sheath.

The figure's gaze followed Fang Yuan's retreating figure as he disappeared into the wasteland outside the city.

He stood there for three breaths.

The figure took a step back from the edge of the battlement. Then it vanished.

-

Outside the city. Wasteland.

Fang Yuan moved northwest along the path through the weeds. His gait was controlled by his eight-fold stance training. The outer edge of his foot landed first, his weight shifting along the arch of his foot. Silently.

He took a paper package from his pocket with his right hand. He opened it.

The dark golden Breakthrough Pill lay quietly on the oiled paper. Golden rays cast faint flickering shadows on the surface. A pulse every three breaths, like a heartbeat.

Fang Yuan put the pill back into the oiled paper and stuffed it into his inner pocket.

He reached down to his lower back with his left hand and pulled out a black porcelain jar. He weighed it in his hand. It was Liu Ruyan's broken jar of medicine. Crimson Flame Core Powder.

Right pocket—a blood-red token. One breath, one jump.

Left pocket—Dark Gold Fragment. Constant Temperature.

Lower back—short sword. Curved blade. Newly sharpened.

Inner pouch—Breakthrough Pill. One pill.

In my mind—the numbers on the panel.

Temporary increase in points: 5.

Fang Yuan's steps moved steadily across the wasteland. A night wind blew in from the northwest, carrying the pungent smell of grass and leaves.

In the distance. At the edge of the wasteland.

The outline of a dark valley pressed against the horizon in the night.

Green Medicine Valley.

Fang Yuan's doubled divine soul perception network began to detect something at the limit of twenty-five zhang.

It's not a signal.

Not two separate paths.

In the direction of that valley—what Fang Yuan's sensory network encountered wasn't an isolated Qi and blood signal. It was a whole mass. Thick. Sticky. Warm.

It looks like it's boiling.

Fang Yuan did not stop.