Chapter 5: The Eighth Disciple, Qin Hao

Chapter 5: The Eighth Disciple, Qin Hao

Thanks to a housing agency, Su Chen found a suitable courtyard residence within an hour. The property was well-located and relatively private, though slightly expensive at half a tael of silver per month. Since the landlord refused short-term leases, Su Chen reluctantly signed a six-month contract, paying three taels upfront—a sum that made him wince.

Still, he finally had a foothold in the Outer City. Later, he bought daily necessities and retrieved his pre-packed belongings from an inn, avoiding his old house to evade detection by the Black Water Gang.

In the afternoon, Su Chen arrived at the martial arts institute. As he entered, he noticed a crowd gathered. Approaching, he learned someone had successfully cultivated the Iron Thread Fist.

“I think his name’s Qin Hao,” someone remarked. “He’s only been here half a month and already mastered it—what incredible talent!”

“Same here. I haven’t even grasped the basics yet.”

“No comparison. He’s just gifted.”

The crowd buzzed with envy. Amidst them, Su Chen watched Qin Hao being escorted into the Inner Courtyard, his eyes narrowing.

From their conversation, Su Chen gathered the Iron Thread Fist’s cultivation difficulty varied by individual. Those with talent could master it in days, while others might struggle for years without progress. Success manifested as a faint crimson bloodline on the arms.

Qin Hao’s achievement—reaching the “Iron Line” stage in just half a month—marked him as exceptional, even among Hong Ming’s disciples. Su Chen glanced at his own arm, where a thread-like crimson bloodline shimmered faintly. If Hong Ming knew Su Chen had achieved the same in thirty minutes, today’s spotlight would belong to him instead.

“What are you all staring at? Back to training!” Li Mo barked, dispersing the crowd.

The institute became Qin Hao’s stage that afternoon. Hong Ming openly praised him, declaring that if Qin Hao could stabilize his bloodline within a month, he’d be promoted to Formal Disciple.

Among Hong’s martial hall, there were countless apprentice disciples, over a hundred including those who’d left. But only seven held Formal Disciple status—Li Mo being the last appointed two years ago. This promise thrilled the young Qin Hao, who trained with renewed vigor.

Rumors spread that Qin Hao was a merchant’s illegitimate son, of low status. His admission here had taken great effort, and he dared not slacken now.

Inspired—or perhaps envious—the disciples trained like beasts in heat. Yet Su Chen stood apart, his apathy not from disinterest, but because conventional cultivation yielded minimal results.

After half-heartedly practicing for a while, he gave up. His real purpose today wasn’t cultivation.

“Su Junior, are you struggling with cultivation?” Li Mo approached, noticing his inactivity.

“No, Senior Li,” Su Chen shook his head.

Li Mo hesitated. “Is it because of Qin Hao?”

Su Chen stiffened. Li Mo mused, “Since I joined the institute, I’ve never seen Master this pleased.”

Curious, Su Chen asked, “How strong is Qin Hao’s talent?”

“Exceptional,” Li Mo sighed. “You haven’t started martial arts yet, so you can’t imagine cultivation’s difficulty. To master the Iron Thread Fist in half a month? His innate talent likely surpasses everyone here—even the Formal Disciples.”

“Who holds the shortest record besides him?”

“Master Senior, I heard he took a month.”

“How exactly does one ‘master’ the Iron Thread Fist?”

Li Mo paused, then relented. “Master says the first step is forming a crimson bloodline on the arms. True mastery comes when it stabilizes. Then it deepens from light red to red, then dark red, and finally black for perfection.”

He added grimly, “Each stage is grueling. Most never even begin, let alone reach completion.”

Thinking of his own two-month struggle to enter the first stage, he marveled anew at Qin Hao’s speed.

“Forget it,” Li Mo clapped Su Chen’s shoulder. “Focus on the Standing Stake first. Once you’ve grasped that, I’ll teach you the martial arts.”

Watching Su Chen’s silence, Li Mo mistook it for discouragement and left with a pat.

“A month, huh?” Su Chen murmured. “If not for my shortcuts, I’d seek Master Hong now for resources. But patience…”

He shook his head, slipping away unnoticed.

Li Mo, finally resting after coaching others, suddenly noticed Su Chen’s absence.

“That brat!”

From then on, Su Chen’s life fell into a routine: home and the teahouse. Except for meals, he spent days at the teahouse, where the waiter grew accustomed to his presence.

“Your peanut snack and tea, sir.”

Every morning, Su Chen arrived before dawn, staying until nightfall. He’d order peanuts, a book, and use tea to “practice calligraphy” on the table—though his true goal was learning the Great Qian Dynasty’s script.

The original Su Chen had been illiterate, but with knowledge from his past life, he quickly mastered 70-80% of the language.

All the while, his eyes occasionally flicked across the street—to the Black Water Gang’s headquarters.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter end