Young hero, stay put and don't be reckless.

Chapter 17 Wild Boar and Sword Manual

Jiang Xun stayed alone in the mountains for three months.

Three months—not a long time, not a short time. Enough for him to master the breathing technique taught by the man in black, to the point where he could do it with his eyes closed.

The heat is much more subdued now, staying peacefully in my lower abdomen, like a tamed dog.

Although it occasionally runs away, it can be quickly pulled back without much effort.

He also developed many other skills—climbing trees, raiding bird nests, identifying wild fruits, and determining directions.

He could tell you with his eyes closed which grove had mushrooms, which stream had big fish, and which tree had the most bird eggs.

Once I even encountered a wild boar, a big, black blob with its tusks sticking out, which looked quite intimidating.

The beast was probably starving; it grunted and groaned as it burrowed into the ground and walked toward him, white breath coming out of its nostrils.

Without saying a word, Jiang Xun climbed the tree, using both his hands and feet, faster than a monkey.

He squatted on the tree branch for most of the day, not daring to breathe, and only dared to slack off after watching the wild boar walk away.

When I got down, my legs were so weak that I sat down on the ground with a thud, and my heart pounded for a while before it calmed down.

In addition to that, Jiang Xun did one more thing—practice swordsmanship.

After living in the mountains for more than a month, he took out the book "Spring Water Sword Technique".

I haven't had time to look at it before.

First, he was recuperating from his injuries, then he practiced breathing exercises, and later he was busy building shelters, spearing fish, and dealing with wild boars. He had no free time at all.

He carried that sword manual in his bosom so much that it was practically oozing oil.

One night, he lay in his shack, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, when he remembered that he was still carrying this thing in his arms.

He took out the sword manual and opened it by the moonlight.

The first page is the general outline, written in a very literary style, with phrases like "The highest good is like water, which benefits all things without striving" and "When spring water first rises, its flow is gentle; as spring water gradually rises, its flow becomes stronger."

Jiang Xun found it overwhelming and skipped over it after flipping through it—he could recognize the characters, but he couldn't understand them when they were put together; they were like gibberish.

He thought to himself that the person who wrote this sword manual was probably an old pedant, insisting on using literary language to explain martial arts as if he was afraid that others would not be able to understand it.

The following are illustrations of the moves.

Page after page of tiny figures, each holding a sword, striking various poses.

There are words next to it explaining what the move is called, how to apply the force, and how to switch between moves.

The little figures are drawn quite realistically, with arms and legs clearly defined. Some even have hair and sashes that flow gracefully, making them look rather intimidating.

Jiang Xun looked at those little figures and suddenly felt a little tempted.

He now possesses internal energy—though he doesn't know how to use it, the heat is indeed present in his body, real and tangible, not a dream.

If I could learn swordsmanship, wouldn't I be even more powerful?

If I encounter someone like the bald guy again, I won't be trampled underfoot.

Since I'm just killing time anyway, I might as well give it a try.

The next morning, he whittled a tree branch into a sword and began practicing, following the little figures in the sword manual.

First move: Spring waters begin to rise.

It's very simple: just stand there, sword tip pointing forward, and slowly thrust it out.

However, the sword manual says that this move requires "the mind to follow the sword and the breath to follow the mind," sending internal force to the tip of the sword.

Jiang Xun tried it out, thrusting his sword forward, but felt nothing at all.

He tried ten more times, but it was still the same.

Twenty times, thirty times, fifty times—

I still don't feel anything. The branch is still just a branch, and when I prick it, it feels soft and yielding, like poking cotton.

"Damn it, is this sword manual fake?"

Exhausted, he sat on a rock and looked at the sword manual over and over again, the pages rustling as he turned them.

After reading for a while, I suddenly noticed a line of small print hidden in the footer of the page, which I almost missed: "If beginners feel that their internal strength is insufficient, they can practice the form first and then seek the meaning."

Does that mean we should learn the form first and not worry about the internal strength?

Jiang Xun stared at the line of small characters for a long time, cursing inwardly: "Why didn't you say so earlier? Who could see it written in such a remote corner?"

He tossed the sword manual aside and began to pose like the little figure.

First move: Thrust; Second move: Slash; Third move: Chop; Fourth move: Wipe—

Learn one move at a time, like a child learning to write, stroke by stroke.

He practiced over and over again, from morning till night, and from night till morning.

I would get up and practice when it was light, practice by moonlight when it was dark, and practice in the dark when the moon was gone.

When your arms ache from practicing, take a break and continue; when your legs go numb, stand up and shake them; when your hands develop calluses, don't worry, just wrap them with a strip of cloth and keep going.

Sometimes, while practicing, that warm current would spontaneously emerge, flowing down my arm to my hand and onto the tree branch.

The branches would get slightly warm, and the thrusting sword would be a little faster, carrying an indescribable force.

But most of the time, the heat just won't come out, like a stubborn donkey, no matter how much you call it, it won't respond.

Jiang Xun wasn't in a hurry.

One good thing about him is that he's easygoing.

In the past, when he stole things in Jiangzhou City, sometimes he would not steal anything all day and would lie in a dilapidated temple hungry. He was not in a hurry, he would just turn over and fall asleep.

Anyway, there's plenty of time. No one's rushing him or scolding him. He can practice slowly.

A month later, he was able to perform the first seven moves quite well.

Although he hadn't yet developed internal strength, the tree branch in his hands had already begun to resemble a "sword"—it was no longer just wildly swinging, but rather methodical, with each move resembling a real sword.

Sometimes he would stand by the stream practicing his sword, watching his reflection sway in the water and the sword move with him, which he found quite interesting.

Three months later, he could occasionally feel that the heat would automatically follow when he practiced swordsmanship, without him having to consciously urge it.

Although it's not very stable yet, sometimes it's there and sometimes it's not, like a gust of wind that you can't hold onto, but at least it's a good start.

That night, as he looked at the branch in his hand, a thought suddenly popped into his head: If the elder who was passing on his skills saw him like this, I wonder what his expression would be.

As I was thinking about it, I started to laugh.

As I laughed, I started to feel a little bitter.

He's a proper elder who transmits skills, what is he anyway?

A petty thief who steals chickens and dogs might secretly practice someone else's martial arts manual in a remote mountain valley. No matter how well he practices, it's still stolen.

He stuck the branch into the ground, lay down, and looked at the stars in the sky.

There were many stars, densely packed, many times more than he had seen in Jiangzhou City before.

As the weather gets warmer, the flowers in the mountains are blooming—white, pink, and yellow—in clusters. The birds are chirping even more merrily, chattering as if they're arguing.

On this day, Jiang Xun was fishing by the stream when water splashed all over his face. Suddenly, he heard voices coming from afar.

He froze for a moment.

It's been three months, and this is the first time I've heard a human voice.

It wasn't birdsong, insect chirping, or the sound of wind and water; it was the sound of a person.

He almost thought he had misheard, so he listened again—yes, it was human voices, and more than one.

He put down the branch and followed the sound, moving very lightly, like a cat.