Section Six: The Poor Man's Turnaround (Part Three)

Feng Xiaobao, bare-chested, began his day with a warm-up routine before sinking into a horse stance for a full hour. The Four-Square Horse Stance demanded perfect balance—he placed tea cups filled with water atop his head and shoulders, not a drop allowed to spill.

The foundation lay in the lower body; there could be no carelessness here. When the sun had risen, he shifted to practicing punches and kicks, then took a brief rest to enjoy his breakfast.

Meat porridge with steamed buns!

The rich aroma wafted from the thick, hearty meat porridge—truly the breakfast of a wealthy landlord!

Xiaobao loved meat, and as he was still growing, Feng Dabao spared no expense. He lived simply himself, but would grant his son anything he wished.

Watching his son gulp down the porridge, Feng Dabao beamed with pride, “Slow down, slow down, don’t burn yourself.”

After breakfast and a short rest, Feng Xiaobao resumed his martial training, this time focusing on boxing and staff techniques.

He practiced with unwavering seriousness, each movement precise and powerful. This was no mere pastime—his future prospects depended on it. Should he ever rise to greatness, his form must be impeccable!

His techniques were nimble and ever-changing, hands shifting left and right, striking the wooden dummy before him with solid thuds. Anyone versed in the art would recognize it: he was practicing Wing Chun.

Wing Chun, a Southern style of Chinese boxing, blended internal techniques with close-quarters combat. Known for its practical combat focus, varied techniques, flexible application, springy punches, and the hallmark short-bridge, narrow-horse stance, it was the very style Bruce Lee learned from the legendary master Ip Man.

Once he finished with Wing Chun, he shifted his stance to wide and open, launching into the Northern styles of Pi Gua Palm and Tan Tui.

Pi Gua Palm excelled at defeating enemies from medium to long range, emphasizing extended strikes—long when far, retracting when near, with the power to extend and contract, swift and fierce.

Tan Tui, with its symmetrical movements, seamless momentum, versatile kicks, and fluent transitions, demanded perfect coordination of hands, eyes, body, and footwork, integrating both internal and external strength.

Pi Gua Palm and Tan Tui suited Xiaobao’s long limbs perfectly, while the agility of Wing Chun suited him as well; he had already mastered its essence.

In his past life, he’d been wealthy, and the wealthy fear death most of all. Besides hiring bodyguards, the more determined among them would personally seek out masters to study martial arts. As the saying goes, the poor study literature, the rich study martial arts. With money to please the masters, even if they didn’t receive the true teachings, they could still learn enough to defend themselves.

In truth, most martial arts commonly taught were for show—flowery fists and embroidered kicks, impressive in form but lacking substance, good for exercise but far from actual combat.

The real skills for fighting were never passed on lightly. The law forbade it—a single blow that broke bones, a kick that made someone cough blood, and you’d end up in court, perhaps in prison. Teaching such skills brought trouble as well; who would risk it?

Thus, the martial world became harmonious on the surface, with the true combative arts reserved for the inner disciples of the great schools. The most diligent of wealthy landowners might learn a portion, while the rest—the bystanders—were left with nothing.

Feng Xiaobao, however, had truly learned the art of fighting. Born in the South and adept at Wing Chun, he took advantage of his long arms and legs to master the Northern Pi Gua Palm and Tan Tui. In his spare time, he drilled these techniques over and over, seeking to engrain them as reflex. If an opponent drew close, he’d use Wing Chun; at a distance, he’d unleash Pi Gua or Tan Tui.

After the hand and foot techniques, he practiced his family’s staff forms.

The routines were wild and unrefined, but with little opportunity to learn better, he made do.

By late morning, his training ended.

And what could finishing be without Tai Chi? He performed the slow, deliberate movements, posture upright and relaxed, each step as quiet as a cat’s. Watching from the side, Feng Dabao grew impatient, unable to fathom the purpose of such a gentle art.

No one else was allowed to watch Xiaobao practice, but Dabao, being his father, had the right. In truth, Xiaobao’s behavior was so different from before that he had devised a clever excuse.

He claimed that during his first fainting spell, his soul left his body and chanced upon a procession of immortals. One of the immortals, surprised to see him, exclaimed, “Is this not the Emperor? How did you come to wander here? Return to your place at once!”

The immortal gave him a push, and Xiaobao awoke—henceforth, his intelligence increased greatly.

Simple-minded Feng Dabao believed every word. How else could his son display such wisdom? There was no other explanation!

Most importantly, the boy had always been under his watchful eye—no possibility of deception.

Xiaobao’s other memories, such as his family’s martial arts and knowledge of medicine, remained sharp as ever; he couldn’t be an impostor.

So Feng Dabao believed him, and asked which immortal had been so kind. Xiaobao replied, “Lord Guan!”

Lord Guan, or Guan Yu, sworn brother to Liu Bei of the Three Kingdoms, was famed for loyalty and righteousness. Worship of him began in the Southern and Northern dynasties, and in the Tang, after Xiaobao’s own rise to power, devotion to Lord Guan would flourish. At present, though, people knew his name, but offerings were not yet widespread.

As for the “Emperor” title Lord Guan mentioned, or Lord Guan himself, neither father nor son spoke of it again. Sometimes, Xiaobao would boast that he would one day marry a princess and his father should prepare a lavish dowry.

Anyone overhearing would chalk it up to childish fantasy.

…

After training, Feng Dabao handed him a dry towel. “Here, wipe your sweat.”

“Thank you, Father!”

As he toweled off, Feng Dabao eyed the Wing Chun wooden dummy with curiosity, mimicking a few moves before giving up.

Xiaobao had wanted to teach his father Wing Chun, but Dabao refused. He was too old—his methods already set. To start anew would bring little gain, and there was no need.

At midday, the two shared lunch—noodles with minced meat and a variety of wild vegetables, the red, green, and yellow colors appetizing and nutritious, the taste unparalleled.

Xiaobao, ravenous, ate with gusto, recalling how not long ago he survived on dry, hard bread—it felt like another lifetime.

…

After the meal, Xiaobao went for a nap.

To be honest, Feng Dabao thought his son was too indulgent: meat at every meal, hiring workers to tend to his needs, and even taking afternoon naps!

What poor man had the luxury of a nap?

They toiled without rest, lucky to catch a few winks at midday.

But this was his precious son—had it been a hired hand, he’d have been knocked on the head for such behavior.

Years of going without naps made Dabao resentful of his son’s habits, but as always, Xiaobao convinced him to try it himself. “Father, just try it once!”

Dabao shuddered at the thought. If he tried it and liked it, that would be real trouble.

…

When Xiaobao awoke in the afternoon, he dressed neatly and headed to the county to apprentice at Doctor Zhang’s clinic.

After entering into a long-term supply contract with Doctor Zhang, their two families became close. Feng Dabao seized the opportunity and shamelessly asked the doctor to take Xiaobao as an apprentice.

Doctor Zhang considered for a moment, then agreed, and Xiaobao began studying at the “Hall of Returning Spring.”

He wasn’t required to go every day—just two afternoons and two full days a week. The full days were the busiest times at the clinic, when he would help out; the afternoons were quieter, giving him time to consult Doctor Zhang.

The other days, two were reserved for gathering herbs with his father, so as not to neglect the skill.

Even this led to arguments—Xiaobao wanted to hire a donkey cart to transport the herbs!

They’d always relied on their own hands and legs, but now Xiaobao wanted a cart—he didn’t care about money at all.

At this rate, he’d soon refuse to go picking herbs himself!

After much back and forth, Dabao relented, since his son argued that the earlier they returned, the more rest they’d get, which was good for their health.

It made sense. But Xiaobao went further—he demanded one day a week for himself, to rest and do nothing at all!

Hearing this, Dabao was nearly speechless. Had Xiaobao not been so calm and sincere, he might have beaten his wastrel son and started over, for fear of the family fortune being squandered and disgracing the ancestors.

Fortunately, even on his “rest day,” Xiaobao still trained in the morning and only rested in the afternoon, which usually meant reading and memorizing what he’d learned. This appeased Dabao somewhat.

Seeing his father’s dark expression, Xiaobao thought to himself that if he ever asked for weekends off, his personal safety might be at risk!

He imagined the faces of modern bosses, aghast at employees demanding overtime pay, medical insurance, national holidays, or weekends off—Feng Dabao’s current expression was just like theirs!

…

Now, Feng Xiaobao knew they lived in Fengzhou (present-day Feng County in Shaanxi). It was an excellent location—southwest of Baoji in the Guanzhong region, with the Wei River leading all the way to the Western Capital (Xi’an). It connected Shaanxi and Gansu, served as a gateway to Sichuan, nestled between the main ridge of the Qinling Mountains to the north and Zibai Mountain to the south. Ancient plank roads ran through the territory, earning it the title “throat of Qin and Shu, key to the north of Han,” with rich mineral deposits and abundant medicinal herbs.

Walking through the bustling county town, he felt as if he were strolling through a modern shopping mall—a pleasant reminder of the future he’d left behind. Xiaobao enjoyed shopping.

Sadly, there were no low-cut tops or backless dresses to be seen, let alone hot pants, crop tops, or bikinis.

What a pity!

Xiaobao resolved that, should he ever hold power, he would establish a fashion design conglomerate to introduce modern styles across the land!

Let the beauty of Tang Dynasty women be admired by all the world!

To be fair, Tang women were indeed lovely—fresh-faced, dewy-skinned, with a natural beauty that far surpassed the modern era. Unfortunately, they lacked stylish clothing—a criminal waste!

Some might mention the famous revealing gowns of Tang women, or the renowned fullness of Yang Guifei’s figure.

But that depended on the place—conservative customs ruled in small towns. Who would dare dress so boldly? Only women in brothels!

Xiaobao didn’t mind visiting brothels, but he would never give up his virginity there. If he were to “deliver the goods,” it would be to a beautiful girl he truly loved.

As he walked, the crowds thinned. He stepped into a grand hall, spotted Doctor Zhang at the head, bowed respectfully, and smiled, “Good afternoon, Doctor Zhang!”