Chapter Forty-Seven: The Sword Saint's True Scheme!

Undoubtedly, practicing martial arts is an arduous endeavor. Not only does one need the diligence to rise at the crow of the rooster, but also the fortitude to endure winter’s bitter cold and summer’s relentless heat.

At the fifth watch, in the small courtyard of the ancestral shrine, Pei Min began instructing Jin Bao’er in the martial arts. Another was present as well—Li Zhao.

Although Pei Min refused to formally accept Li Zhao as a disciple, he granted him the opportunity to observe. He could watch and listen, but was not permitted to ask questions; how much he could learn depended entirely on his own talent.

“Bao’er!”

“Master!”

“The way of martial arts is vast and profound. If you wish to become an unrivaled master, you must first lay a solid foundation. As the saying goes: ‘Before practicing sword and saber, first train your fists and feet; before training fists and feet, first strengthen the body.’ And to strengthen the body, you must understand it thoroughly.”

As he spoke, Pei Min produced a chart of the human meridians, clearly marking the twelve principal meridians, the eight extraordinary vessels, the twelve divergent channels—a total of three hundred and sixty-five acupoints. He explained them in detail.

Jin Bao’er, though not fond of reading and writing, possessed an exceptional memory. After hearing it three times, he had memorized all the acupoints of the human body. As for Li Zhao, he needed only one hearing.

With the meridian chart committed to memory, Pei Min proceeded to explain the art of acupoint striking.

Acupoint striking is often described in martial tales: a peerless master lightly taps a spot, and the opponent is rendered motionless or utterly limp; some tales even speak of striking through the air to take a life. Such depictions are admittedly exaggerated, yet the technique itself is real.

Traditional Chinese medicine holds that the body’s three hundred and sixty-five acupoints are intersections of the meridians and the flow of vital energy and blood. The so-called “acupoint striking” is the swift jabbing of a chosen point, sending a stimulus into the meridian, thereby affecting the flow of qi and blood. This can produce pain, numbness, paralysis, dizziness, or even death.

The art is exceedingly potent. Thus, there is an old saying among martial artists: “Fists are not as effective as palms; palms are not as effective as fingers; if you meet one who uses fingers, never attempt to resist by force!”

Once the theory was clear, practical demonstration was necessary, and naturally Li Zhao was to serve as the model.

“Bao’er, watch carefully. When I strike his shoulder—Tianfu acupoint—his entire arm will become immobile.

If I strike his chest—Lingxu acupoint—half his body will be paralyzed.

Strike the Ghost’s Cry point, and tears will flow uncontrollably.

Strike the Smiling Waist point, and he’ll break into foolish laughter. Amusing, isn’t it?

And if I strike the Guanyuan acupoint… well, best not. That point cannot be struck carelessly, lest the Li family be left without descendants.”

Pei Min taught with utmost seriousness; Jin Bao’er learned with delight. As for Li Zhao, he was soon weeping, laughing, wracked with pain, and even worrying for the safety of his most private parts. It was torment indeed.

Li Zhao even suspected that Pei Min’s true purpose in allowing him to observe was to punish him thoroughly in revenge for earlier grievances. So, the greatest swordsman of the Tang was, after all, a man with a grudge!

Pei Min taught for over two hours without pause, stopping only when his throat was parched.

“Sir, please have some tea!”

“Thank you.”

Jin Bao’er hurried forward to massage his master’s shoulders and ease his fatigue, while Li Zhao respectfully offered tea. Though Pei Min would not accept him as a disciple, their relationship had, in truth, already become that of master and student.

After finishing the tea, Pei Min nodded and waved his hand, signaling the end of the day’s instruction.

After bowing, Li Zhao hobbled out of the ancestral shrine, his limbs so sore and numb that they barely obeyed him. He resolved to master acupoint striking as soon as possible to avoid further suffering.

Meanwhile, Pei Min and Jin Bao’er began to chat.

“Master, since you’re willing to teach Brother Zhao martial arts, why not formally accept him as your disciple? He truly isn’t a bad person, and he’s incredibly clever.”

Pei Min smiled, “I know, the boy’s not bad at heart, and his intelligence is unmatched—a martial prodigy seldom seen in a century. But precisely for this reason, I cannot take him as a disciple.”

“Why not, Master? I don’t understand,” Jin Bao’er asked, eyes wide with confusion. Could being clever be a fault?

Pei Min glanced around to ensure no one was eavesdropping, then spoke in a low voice, “You’re still too young to understand some things. It is because you do not understand that I dare share my true thoughts with you.

When I was young, I made two great vows: First, to become the greatest swordsman under heaven, undefeated in all the land; second, to wield my sword to vanquish barbarians, punish traitors, and safeguard the Tang dynasty for generations to come.

The first vow, I once thought I had achieved, but now I see I have not fully done so. Still, I am confident I shall accomplish it in my lifetime and become truly unrivaled.

The second vow, however, is a thousand times more difficult. I have striven, fought, and shed endless sweat and blood—but my strength falls short. Even if I were shattered to pieces, I could not turn the tide.

Our Tang Empire has stood for over a hundred and twenty years, spanning seven sovereigns: Gaozu, Taizong, Gaozong, the Empress Wu, Zhongzong, Ruizong, and our present emperor. Though there have been storms, the nation has flourished, giving rise to the prosperity of the Kaiyuan era—abundant treasuries, a golden age of culture, power over all realms, envoys from myriad lands. The Tang is at its zenith.

But as the ancients said: ‘When the moon is full, it must wane; when the river is swollen, it must overflow.’ Though the Tang stands in glory, there are countless hidden dangers within.

Politically, since Chancellor Zhang Jiuling’s death, all power has fallen into the hands of Li Linfu—a cunning, sinister man who excludes the worthy, deceives the emperor, and silences all dissent, plunging the court into chaos and corruption.

Militarily, the central plains have long been lax, the militia system exists in name only, and the court now relies on recruited troops. Yet these elite soldiers are concentrated in the hands of the nine great military governors, leaving the heartlands defenseless. The court also favors officers of humble birth, men as fierce as wolves, ignorant of loyalty and righteousness—such men will one day become the empire’s bane.

Locally, the gentry have grown too powerful, seizing land and raising private slaves; the government is powerless to restrain them.

In taxation, agriculture is valued over commerce, and loopholes abound, leaving the people in misery.

Then there are the Turks, Tibetans, Nanzhao, Khitans, Xi, Mohe, the nine Tiele tribes, and the nine Sogdian clans—all sharpening their blades, eyeing us with covetous intent.

All these are dire threats.

I dare say, if this continues, within twenty years chaos will erupt—war will rage, fields will be laid waste, and our dynasty will be doomed.”

At this point, Pei Min struck his thigh in anger and sighed in helplessness.

The Tang Empire’s prosperity was built up bit by bit. Its hidden dangers, too, have accumulated over a century, now deeply entrenched in its very bones.

In recent years, many of keen insight have seen this and made every effort to eliminate the threats, pushing for sweeping reforms in military, politics, taxation, and institutions—Yao Chong, Song Jing, Zhang Jiuling—yet all have failed.

The obstacles are simply too great, too many interests at stake. One misstep and not only do the dangers remain, but chaos may follow, undoing this hard-won era of peace. And the reformers themselves would be destroyed.

Before his death, the virtuous Zhang Jiuling was visited by Pei Min, and they spoke for a day and a night of the empire’s perils.

Zhang Jiuling concluded that only two things could secure the Tang’s future: a sage on the throne, or a great minister at the helm.

A sage-emperor gathers heroes, commands the mighty, brings peace within, and expands the realm without; with a mere gesture, he changes the fate of the world.

Alas, such rulers are rare—through all history, only Qin Shihuang, Han Wudi, and Emperor Taizong of this dynasty truly passed that threshold.

The present sovereign is able and shrewd, but is suspicious by nature and indulgent in pleasure. Skilled in the arts of rule, yet lacking the will for reform—he stands just short of true greatness.

As for the princes, some are timid, some ambitious but inept, others lost in mediocrity—barely suited to preserve what is, let alone become sages.

If a sage on the throne is impossible, what then of a great minister?

First, what is a great minister? One whose talent reaches the heavens, whose schemes are as deep as the sea; who understands change, excels in strategy; who can govern the nation and manipulate the world as he pleases.

In all history, there have been but a few worthy of the name—Duke of Zhou, Guan Zhong, Xiao He—one every few centuries, rare and precious.

Now, however, Pei Min has found a promising candidate for such a role: Li Zhao.

Though so young, his cunning, resolve, and resourcefulness far surpass his peers. When grown, he will surely rise to high office, capable of governing the realm and preserving peace.

Thus, Pei Min allowed him to observe, teaching him martial skills in disguise, hoping that one day he would serve the court and secure the Tang’s future.

Given all this, why not formally accept him as a disciple?

There are two reasons.

First, Pei Min, after decades of wandering the world, has offended many both in the martial world and at court for his unyielding character—among them the powerful Li Linfu. If he took Li Zhao as a disciple, it would draw the vengeance of his enemies, especially at court, hindering Li Zhao’s prospects.

Second, the bond of master and disciple is as close as father and son. Should Li Zhao turn to evil, could Pei Min bear to slay him?

Could such a thing happen? Yes.

Through observation, Pei Min has found Li Zhao’s nature most complex: on one side righteous, bright, and kind; on the other, dark, cunning, and ruthless. The former is like Buddha, the latter like a demon.

Such a person could become a great minister or a villainous traitor—the future is uncertain.

Thus, Pei Min must be cautious.

“Li Zhao, if one day you become a pillar of the realm, I shall aid you with all my strength, that your name endure through the ages; but if you become a scourge upon the land, I shall not hesitate, even at the cost of my life, to end you with my sword. And if I am gone, my disciples will see it done. Let heaven and earth bear witness to this vow!”

In the days that followed, Li Zhao either learned swordsmanship from Pei Min, drank and played chess with Cui Zongzhi, or frolicked with Jin Bao’er and Little Yasha. Life was busy and joyful.

Alas, happiness is fleeting.

Half a month later, Cui Zongzhi, with great reluctance, departed with his attendants for Chang’an. As both Duke of Qi and Left Division Minister (a fifth-rank official, deputy to the Minister of the Left, overseeing the Affairs of the Personnel, Revenue, and Rites Ministries), his duties were many and he could not remain away for long.

With Cui Zongzhi’s departure, Li Zhao lost not only a confidant but also a protective shield.

Certain greedy and ambitious individuals began to stir once more.