Why do I have so many masters?

In the following days, Wang Anfeng immersed himself entirely in cultivation.

The seventy-two sword techniques became increasingly dense and intense in their exchanges, and he had mastered them. His sword shadow split the air, sharp and intricate, while his Hundred Poison Immunity Mixed Yuan Body reached the limit his physique could tolerate. Any stronger, and it would be detrimental to himself, a loss not worth the gain.

Perhaps it was because he had just completed a medicinal bath, and the medicinal effects hadn't dissipated.

The faint scent of medicine always clung to the young man, earning him cold glares from the scholars.

At night he rested from his cultivation practices, and during the day at Fufeng Academy, Wang Anfeng wandered around the academy, occasionally meeting Gu Jianzhang and others. They walked together, discussing current affairs and gradually becoming more familiar.

Although he was nominally the guardian of the Library Tower of Fufeng, the Wind Character Tower was actually entirely the world of the old man. His presence or absence made no real difference.

Last time, the gambler from the Yin Yang Family, Su Wenchang, had jokingly said that what he, the Keeper of Fufeng Library, should really be called was the Library Tower's floor sweeper. The phrase "library keeper" wasn't about his duties but just a designation of place—it was nothing compared to his ancient colleagues. He could only respond with a wry smile.

It seemed that was really the case.

Fufeng Academy was founded by the Confucian School, and although other schools joined later, the base construction was still the Six Palaces.

Ritual, Music, Archery.

Charioteering, Writing, Arithmetic.

Ritual and law have always been the same, with no difference a thousand years ago. Disciples of the academy needed to understand the laws of this world, follow ancient rituals, be skilled in music, hit a target a hundred paces away with a bow, and escape unscathed with a sword.

Since the Military Family entered the academy, the spirit of the Charioteering and Archery Palaces grew stronger, specially setting up a place for martial practice where disciples could spar with their swords and showcase their skills.

Wang Anfeng had gone to that place for martial practice several times, once with Gu Jianzhang and others, and had met the steward there.

He was a middle-aged man dressed in a gray Confucian robe, and also someone whose presence could provoke one's appetite at any moment.

It seemed he was always eating, and although it was just ordinary snacks, they looked irresistibly delicious when he ate them, as if it were the finest flavor in the world, tempting people to drool. Sometimes it was dried fruit, other times it was crispy fried peanuts, still warm, sprinkled with fine salt, perfect for accompanying a drink.

While holding a couple of peanuts in his mouth and chewing vigorously, he poured warm, soft yellow wine, reclining on a Grand Preceptor's chair with a graceful and unruly posture. However, his Confucian robe always had an oil stain on it, giving him a slovenly appearance, indeed a unique character in Fufeng's martial practice.

During this period, another odd character emerged—the Keeper of the Fufeng Library.

Most who came there wished to demonstrate their learning, but the young man in the blue shirt often visited yet never stepped onto the field.

Although he always carried a sword, he always said his swordsmanship was not refined.

Usually, he just talked with the Confucian steward, and then for some reason, he brought a stove one day.

He cut three ribs, boiled them vigorously, skimmed off the froth and removed them, then lowered the hot oil and wrapped the cubed ribs with green onion, ginger, and garlic, fried them until fragrant, added water, and with skilled Whip Lock technique, pulled out most of the charcoal, also cutting taro, radish, lotus root, and Chinese yam into small pieces, adding them all and let them simmer over low heat.

While talking softly with the steward, asking about some previously unfinished questions, he added some powdered seasoning. The middle-aged Confucian swallowed silently, his eyes greedily fixed on the pot, having already been seduced by the food, leaving only his gluttonous spirit and soul focused entirely on the pot.

Whatever the youth asked, he answered comprehensively, covering topics far and wide.

Wang Anfeng nodded repeatedly, his doubts clearing up, and at the same time, he held a tattered fan in his right hand, gently fanning, as the pure white broth bubbled. The rich aroma spread like mist over the martial practice ground. It was noon, and two disciples—one with a sword, the other with a wooden spear—were sparring intensely.

Upon smelling the fragrance, their stomachs roared like thunder, and their combat will instantly vanished.

The roaring continued, and they covered their faces and fled.

They were so annoyed they itched, but since the place was under the steward's control and the Confucian didn't speak, there was nothing they could do.

After that day, the martial practice God of Stove and Keeper of the Library became famous throughout Fufeng Academy.

In the sparring, the descendant from the Military Family had lost all his silver over the last two months, even resorting to using only a third of the usual amount of toilet paper, cutting back on daily expenses to a degree that made others weep with pity and hurt hearts, later nicknamed "Thunderous Belly" due to his inability to eat fully before matches.

How he wished he could find an opportunity to fiercely beat up that 'God of Stove' in the martial practice ground.

But now, with the tales of the 'God of Stove' and 'Thunderous Belly' spreading wildly outside, as a descendant of a noble clan caring deeply about face, he did not dare go out again. Instead, he simply lay straight in bed with his spear every day, pretending to conserve energy and save money.

Today, after scrounging a meaty meal, he was lying on his bed when someone suddenly pushed the door open and shouted:

"Thunderous Belly, no, Xiuwei, the God of Stove is there again!"

The voice paused, then shouted again:

"They brought the stove right over!"

The disciples of the Military Family's eyes widened instantaneously, gritting their teeth in anger.

On the martial arts field, the Confucian Scholar was sitting on a grand master's chair, sitting so improperly that he was snoring like thunder. Wang Anfeng chuckled lightly, setting the stove he carried aside on the ground. The Eight-Sided Han Sword remained sheathed, strapped to the young man's back, its scabbard as plain as his own clothing.

Taking the initiative to learn swordsmanship was to rid himself of suspicion.

But once proficient, he could not rashly reveal his hand. Mr. Jiang had once said that all things in nature occur naturally.

Being too deliberate could also arouse suspicion.

He shouldn't take the initiative to strike.

He should pique others' curiosity, repeatedly facing challenges without responding, and then striking seemed justifiable.

Thus, although he came, he did not ascend the stage, claiming to be unskilled in swordsmanship, yet never parted with his sword.

Even though his sword skills were deemed by Mr. Ying as dreadful to the sight, his abundant mixed skills and adequate fist techniques were enough to fulfill his envisioned plan…

At this moment, Wang Anfeng was like Yi Nanping, quietly and meticulously carrying out his agenda.

Time spent as Yi Nanping, the man who carried a sword and traveled three thousand miles, would inevitably not pass as a wind through sparse bamboos without leaving a trace. Since he had blood on his hands, it meant stepping into Jianghu, and once one steps into Jianghu, there is no turning back.

The abilities and tempers of those from Jianghu, as well as the dream of returning to Great Liang Mountain to chop wood and feed pigs, were already delusions.

Gain and loss, after all, are but a thought apart.

As the stove began to heat up, it gave off wafts of fragrance. The young man chuckled lightly, holding a hand fan, wafting the aroma toward the middle-aged man.

During a casual conversation at the martial arts field, he had found out that this steward, despite being unkempt, was well-learned about diverse topics from all places, but was extremely ill-tempered.

He spoke in captivating ways but always stopped midway in his stories, stubbornly closing his mouth, and the young man, after several inquiries to no avail, was left with no choice but to resort to this tactic.

This was the medicinal porridge taught by his second master.

The young man chuckled secretly in his heart.

The aroma spread, the slumbering Confucian Scholar's nose twitched, his eyes fluttered, and he opened them. Stretching lazily, he yawned and still half-asleep, he lazily chanted:

"A dream of Taotie brings delight, let the pots cool and the stoves chill. Salty affairs, sweet discussions, diners over mountains and rivers."

"Old millet wine poured out, generous meat makes a grand sight. Hahaha, waking from the dream, just in time for the meal."

Among the laughter, he had already appeared next to the young man.

Like a dream or illusion, it was clearly a highly skilled movement technique. The Confucian Scholar squinted, taking a deep breath of the fragrance and intoxicatedly exclaimed, "Delicious, delicious, fine stuff, fine stuff, Little Crazy, serve me a bowl." Continue reading on empire

"The junior is not a madman."

The young man responded through gritted teeth but was also a bit curious about how it turned out. His right hand brushed at his waist, a large iron ladle casting a lingering shadow, secured in his grasp.

Just then, a rush of hurried footsteps came all at once, followed by a sharp gust of wind hurtling straight toward Wang Anfeng's shoulder. Caught off-guard, the young man instinctively sidestepped, his iron ladle lifted.

Having trained like a possessed swordsman recently, he instinctively executed the Azure Dragon Breaks the Water, deflecting the incoming wooden spear, neutralizing its vigorous energy, but the dust couldn't be stopped, and it clouded over, sprinkling into the pot.

The initially entranced faces of the two men, young and old, in front of the pot suddenly turned blank.

A young warrior from the Military Family in red armor and silver glared, flames seemingly flickering in his eyes, and bellowed:

"Wang Anfeng, come and fight me immediately!"

As anger poured from his core, the tip of his spear quivered slightly, knocking some of the dust back down, floating on the surface of the porridge, as if mocking...

"My medicinal porridge..."