Chapter Twenty-Four: Three Paths

Xiao Nan opened the car door and settled into the soft seat, fastening his seatbelt with practiced ease. The brief encounter at the hospital had taught him that the woman beside him was not fond of small talk; her temperament was somewhat aloof, preferring action over words whenever possible.

He had met plenty of people like her before and knew exactly how to handle them. There was no sense in stubbornly resisting. He could wager that if he refused any further, Qin Shuang would simply haul him into the car herself.

Seeing Xiao Nan’s submissive demeanor, Qin Shuang’s lips twitched slightly. She scrutinized him from head to toe before turning her gaze away and starting the engine.

The scenery drifted past outside the windows; the roadside, alive with pedestrians in the early morning, looked no different from the modern cities in Xiao Nan’s memory. The only distinction lay in the runners of various ages clad in athletic wear, sprinting along both sides of the greenbelt.

“There are so many people exercising in the morning—they make up about half the street’s foot traffic.”

“After all, this is a different world. People’s pursuits have changed. The scene may look much like the one from my past life, yet its essence is different.”

The two fell silent for a while, and Xiao Nan grew restless. Then Qin Shuang spoke: “In a few days, I’ll be leaving Yuanjiang for training. I’ll go ahead to the imperial capital.”

Xiao Nan turned to look at her, opened his mouth, but withheld his question.

Don’t get involved—her affairs are none of my business.

Yet, he couldn’t help but wonder what Qin Shuang was really thinking. From an outsider’s perspective, he couldn’t see what was so remarkable about his own original self that would linger in her thoughts.

In his memory, his previous self’s interactions with Qin Shuang had always been dull, timid, and sparing of words.

So he followed suit.

“The investigation is complete. The case from two days ago was orchestrated by the Longevity Society. You needn’t worry about the Special Affairs Office; their checks were routine and won’t target you further.”

Xiao Nan shook his head slightly, unconvinced. Qin Shuang didn’t know about the golden thread incident and had underestimated the complexity—but it wasn’t something he could easily confide in her.

Still, her words revealed that the Qin family had intervened, which explained why the matter had quietly disappeared. The Special Affairs Office hadn’t shown up, the City Guard Bureau hadn’t caused trouble, and there wasn’t a soul watching his house.

It was as if nothing had happened.

Seeing Xiao Nan’s continued silence, Qin Shuang sighed and said, “I know you dislike owing favors to my family. This time, I won’t give you any Divine Essence Incense. Take this instead.”

She reached between the seats and retrieved a notebook, handing it to him.

Xiao Nan accepted it and opened the cover. Inside were delicate, elegant handwriting—each stroke carefully rendered. Alongside the annotated text were some sketched figures of sword-wielders: faces blank, bodies slender, vaguely resembling his own physique.

The first drawing depicted a lunge with the sword, marked with numerous red arrows. Xiao Nan understood at a glance—these were the trajectories of power, starting from the feet and ending at the fingertips, layer upon layer, like waves surging forth.

This was a diagram of human biomechanics. The contents detailed the foundational Thirteen Sword Techniques, not merely the forms but also the methods for gathering and channeling force.

“These class notes are of no use to me anymore. You can use them for revision. You must get into Martial Arts University—even a third-rate school gives hope for further advancement. Don’t rely on sects; they value talent above all.”

“Alright.” Xiao Nan looked at her deeply, shaken.

He’d taken class notes before and could tell Qin Shuang was hiding something. The sword diagrams, from basic to advanced, were meticulously written, seemingly for children—clearly tailored for him.

Simply put, these were for the slow-witted, clumsy types; practice according to these, and even a fool could manage some results.

He was certain Qin Shuang had just compiled this notebook. It was pristine, showing no signs of prolonged use; even the ink was fresh, emitting a faint, sharp scent.

A third-rate university could never compare to the likes of Qingning, Heluo, Donghai, or Nanyun, nor to the first- or second-tier academies in Lijiang or Yanghe. Yet, it would at least provide a complete inheritance and opportunities for growth.

This was what society’s martial artists longed for.

To outsiders, a senior-year underachiever like Xiao Nan, if unable to enter Martial Arts University, was left with three possible paths:

The first was to join the military, starting from the bottom, earning merit through combat, learning martial arts, and seizing resources. This route was perilous; one misstep and you’d become cannon fodder, dying in some forgotten corner.

Battlefields were lush with wild grass, nourished by blood.

Xiao Nan had spent ten years in such pursuits in his previous life and understood their intricacies all too well. Having survived once, he would never seek death again. He didn’t object to military service, but the life of obeying orders, his fate not his own, had worn him out.

Having barely escaped death, to return would be sheer foolishness.

The second path was to join a martial sect: the Four Seasons Sword Hall, An Yi Meditation Society, Nine Li Dojo, Mount Putuo, Heavenly Pool Gate, and so forth—some worldly, some reclusive.

But no matter the sect, without extraordinary talent, one could not hope to learn the formidable skills. In this era of universal martial training, the landscape had shifted; sects were no longer sanctuaries of martial arts, and compared to state-supported universities, they were inherently lacking.

Whether in resources or advancement opportunities, orthodox universities had the edge. Sects adhered to tradition, passing skills from master to apprentice; the best techniques went only to elite disciples, and ordinary members had far fewer chances than imagined.

The third path was to abandon martial arts for the literary track. This didn’t mean a life without comfort, but it was certainly inferior.

Thirty years ago, high officials and wealthy merchants needed no strength to live like immortals. In a peaceful world, martial prowess was unimportant; connections and family background sufficed to succeed.

The law was paramount; no one could rob another’s fortune without cause. Everyone was flesh and blood, and none dared defy societal rules.

But now things were utterly different. Power was increasingly personal, and the social order had shifted. Heroes breaking the law with martial force was no longer mere talk. Some carried blades and murderous intent, overturning tables at the slightest provocation.

Without martial arts to protect oneself, no matter how high your position, you were nothing but a marked man. The higher you climbed in society, the more enemies you made.

Thus, whether for personal advancement or family prosperity, schemes and rivalry were commonplace. The authorities could barely maintain order, and keeping the peace was a feat in itself.

On the surface, unity prevailed—defending the people, fighting enemies, upholding justice. Internally, however, no one acted out of pure altruism; everyone had their own interests.

A purely academic background, no matter how clever or skilled, could not compete with accomplished martial artists. Who knew if some reckless brute would launch a surprise attack?

Moreover, in politics and business, martial artists outshined the academically inclined, and at advanced stages, even surpassed them.

Since the advent of spiritual cultivation, martial practice no longer produced mere brutes; practitioners grew sharp-minded and vigorous.

The Literary Pavilion’s martial research showed that reaching the second stage of spiritual training—meditative absorption—unlocked certain brain functions. Memory and logical reasoning were elevated above the norm.

Those who attained the Sitting-Forgotten or Embryonic Breathing realms could process information at speeds rivaling advanced computers, computing hundreds or thousands of times per second.

As for subsequent stages—Spirit Wandering, Manifestation, Universal, Celestial Heart—Xiao Nan had only heard their names, more legend than fact. Teachers avoided discussing such things lest students grow overambitious.

Given this social reality, what future was there for those who neglected martial arts? A lifetime as a subordinate, following orders.

Perhaps there would be food and clothing, but status would be negligible.

In summary, this era was both the best and worst for martial geniuses. One could rise to glory or die forgotten—the outcome hinged entirely on personal strength.

None of these three paths appealed to Xiao Nan.