When Zhu Shen returned to Qingshui Town for the second time, his eyes no longer carried the uncertainty of a village youth overwhelmed by noise and crowds.
This time, he came with purpose.
The ox cart creaked steadily beneath the morning sun as Chen Dali guided it through the town gates. Merchants shouted over one another from roadside stalls, the scent of cooked food drifted through the streets, and travelers moved like flowing currents between rows of shops.
But Zhu Shen's attention lingered elsewhere.
On martial arts.
On cultivation.
On the possibility that the impossible truly existed in this world.
Ever since hearing the storyteller speak of immortals and swordsmen beneath the tea pavilion months ago, a quiet fire had been growing within him. At first it had been simple curiosity. Then it became fascination.
Now, it had become intent.
He wanted answers.
Real ones.
After helping Chen Dali unload goods near the market district, Zhu Shen finally spoke.
"Uncle Chen," he said respectfully, "may I walk around the town for a while?"
Chen Dali snorted while adjusting a bundle of hides over one shoulder. "As long as you don't get lost or robbed." His thick brows rose suspiciously. "You're not chasing after some pretty girl, are you?"
Zhu Shen smiled faintly. "No."
"Good. Pretty girls cost more silver than farming ever earns."
With that profound wisdom delivered, Chen Dali waved him off.
Zhu Shen left the crowded trade street and made his way toward the tea pavilion he remembered from his previous visit.
The storyteller was there again.
The old man sat beneath the canopy with his wooden fan, entertaining a small gathering of merchants and travelers. Zhu Shen ordered a cheap fried snack from a nearby stall and quietly listened from the edge of the crowd.
Today's story was different.
Bandits. Border wars. Wandering swordsmen.
But what interested Zhu Shen most were not the tales themselves.
It was the reactions of the listeners.
Some laughed.
Some argued.
And some spoke as though martial arts were not fantasy at all.
"…I'm telling you," one broad-shouldered man said loudly after the storyteller paused for tea, "that veteran from East River Town fought four men alone and broke one fellow's arm with a single strike!"
Another scoffed. "Drunken nonsense."
"I saw it myself!"
Zhu Shen's attention sharpened.
He approached carefully. "Excuse me," he said politely. "This veteran… where did he learn such skill?"
The man looked him over, amused by the question.
"In the army, probably," he said. "That's where half the real fighters come from. Some become guards. Some open schools. Some become troublemakers."
Another man nearby laughed. "Most just become drunks."
The group chuckled.
But Zhu Shen heard the important part.
Martial training existed openly enough for ordinary people to know about it.
That alone mattered.
"Are there many martial schools in Qingshui?" Zhu Shen asked.
The men exchanged looks.
"Schools?" one said. "A few."
"Too expensive for common folk," another added. "Rich merchants send their sons there. Or minor nobles."
A third spat onto the ground. "Even basic lessons cost silver. Real techniques cost much more."
Silver.
The word lingered unpleasantly in Zhu Shen's thoughts.
He thanked them and stepped away.
Not discouraged.
Only thoughtful.
As noon approached, Zhu Shen continued wandering through Qingshui.
Compared to the simplicity of Shiqiao village, the town felt layered with hidden currents. Shops sold medicines, iron tools, fabrics, incense, and strange dried ingredients he could not identify. Caravan guards carrying sabers walked openly through the streets.
And everywhere, he observed signs that strength mattered here.
Not merely physical strength.
Martial strength.
At a small food stall, Zhu Shen struck up a conversation with a young waiter while eating a bowl of noodles.
"You seem curious about fighters," the waiter remarked.
"A little," Zhu Shen admitted.
The waiter lowered his voice slightly. "If you're interested, some people gather outside the west pavilion near sunset. Caravan guards, retired soldiers, hunters… they talk more freely there."
Zhu Shen thanked him immediately.
That evening, he followed the directions.
The west pavilion stood just outside the town's main market district near a small stream crossed by a stone bridge. The atmosphere there was quieter than the bustling tea pavilion.
Men sat drinking weak wine while discussing trade routes, hunting grounds, and occasional skirmishes with bandits.
Zhu Shen listened carefully.
Piece by piece, the world grew clearer.
Martial arts were respected in the Great Liang Realm, but true instruction was difficult to obtain for commoners.
Scholars held higher status officially under the kingdom's laws, yet martial skill remained deeply valued—especially near frontier regions like Yong'an Prefecture where danger was never far away.
Veterans often taught practical combat.
Mercenary groups recruited strong fighters.
Caravan escorts earned decent coin.
And somewhere above all of that existed the mysterious realm of cultivators spoken of only in lowered voices.
Most considered them distant legends.
But not entirely fictional.
One grizzled hunter even swore he had once seen a man leap onto a rooftop "like a bird."
Others mocked him for exaggerating.
Still…
No one denied the possibility completely.
That alone caused Zhu Shen's pulse to quicken.
The path existed.
Perhaps distant.
Perhaps difficult.
But real.
As the sky darkened, Zhu Shen finally gathered the courage to ask the most important question.
"Are martial manuals sold in Qingshui?"
The conversation quieted briefly.
Then one caravan guard shrugged. "Some shops sell basic manuals. Mostly for body training or common sword forms."
"Nothing special," another added. "Real techniques stay within clans or sects."
Even so, Zhu Shen immediately pressed further until one man reluctantly gave directions to a small weapons and book shop near the northern district.
By the time Zhu Shen found it, dusk had already settled across the town.
The shop was narrow and dimly lit, its wooden shelves lined with practice weapons, old scrolls, and bound manuals wrapped carefully in cloth.
An elderly clerk glanced up as Zhu Shen entered.
"Looking for something?"
Zhu Shen hesitated only briefly.
"Martial manuals."
The clerk studied him for a moment before gesturing toward a side shelf.
"Beginner texts only."
Zhu Shen approached slowly.
There were only three manuals displayed.
One focused on strengthening the body through breathing and conditioning exercises.
Another taught basic saber forms.
The third described footwork and balance techniques.
Nothing mystical.
Nothing immortal.
Yet to Zhu Shen, they felt more valuable than treasure.
Carefully, he asked, "How much?"
The clerk answered casually.
"Three silver for the cheapest."
Zhu Shen's heart sank immediately.
Three silver.
To ordinary townsfolk, it was manageable.
To a farmer's son from Shiqiao village, it was enormous.
Their family could not spare such money for uncertain dreams.
For several moments, Zhu Shen simply stood there silently staring at the manuals.
So close.
And yet impossibly far.
The clerk, perhaps used to such reactions, merely returned to organizing scrolls without comment.
At last, Zhu Shen exhaled quietly.
"I understand."
He thanked the man politely and stepped back outside.
Night had fallen over Qingshui.
Lanterns glowed along the streets while distant laughter drifted from taverns and food stalls. The town remained alive beneath the darkening sky.
Zhu Shen stood motionless for a moment amid the flow of strangers.
Disappointment lingered in his chest.
But strangely…
Not despair.
Because today had already given him something precious.
Confirmation.
Martial arts were real.
Manuals existed.
Paths beyond village life existed.
He simply lacked the means to walk them.
For now.
As Zhu Shen slowly made his way back toward the marketplace where Chen Dali waited with the ox cart, determination settled quietly into his heart.
If silver was the obstacle—
Then he would find a way to earn it.
If knowledge was hidden—
Then he would search for it.
And if the path toward strength truly existed in this world…
Then one day, somehow—
He would step onto it.