Chapter 12, in which the hero learns that one is sometimes better than two and overcomes the intrigues of his enemies

* * *

For centuries, one of the main problems of peasant life has been food. It was an eternal, relentless battle in its cultivation, harvesting, and eating, where on one side of the battlefield stood hard peasant labor and abundant sweat, and on the other - hunger, crop failure, and the tax collector.

The place where Duojia was located was as if it was created by the indecisive gods who couldn't decide what kind of terrain to set up in this forgotten corner of the Empire. On one side, there were tree-covered mountains that turned into large, steep hills. From the mountains flowed several rushing rivers, which at the foot of the river merged into one large, equally fast river. Then there were dense forests, where the river, slowing down its run, overflowed and formed huge swamps.

And even here, it wouldn't be all bad. Countless generations of farmers had worked hard to create cascades of terraces on the hills where they cultivated rice. The grassy slopes were well suited for grazing the unpretentious goats that provided wool and milk. There was also some fertile land where they grew soybeans, herbs, and vegetables. In the forest, there were nuts, mushrooms, and berries, and in the mountains, it was said, iron and copper had once been found, but long ago and in such small quantities that there was no point in setting up a mine. There were also occasional shiny black pieces of "hot stone," which the peasants often called "phoenix shit" because it burned hot and long, unlike bog peat, charcoal, or firewood.

But it wasn't a blessed land, anyway. There was absolutely nothing here that couldn't be found elsewhere, closer to major cities and busy trade routes. Nothing important enough and in quantities that would attract miners, traders, or craftsmen. The swamps, mountains, and wild beasts here collected regular tribute, taking the lives of not only careless children but even skilled woodcutters and coal miners.

But the main problem was still food. While in late summer and fall, there was always enough food, and the peasants tried their best to eat enough, in winter and spring, they had to make do with nothing but empty rice, a handful of soybeans, and the few nuts and dried vegetables they could procure for the winter.

The peasants also harvested fish, and there was even some surplus during the rice harvest. But there was no way to preserve it. Salt was considered precious here, and there was never enough of it to afford to spend on salting. They tried to dry large fish - just in the sun or even by smoking them with smoke from smoldering twigs and bamboo chips to drive away insects and to smoke them at the same time. And still, the fish constantly spoiled, rotted, or was infested with fly larvae. Small fish at such times were simply used as food, knowing in advance the rest would be lost anyway. The same was true of animals if, of course, someone managed to hunt them alive. The fat was collected in pots. The rest was smoked, dried, or stuffed in their bellies while they had it.

Therefore, no matter how nimble and skillful Feng was, the approaching winter was going to wipe out all the efforts.

* * *

Feng had been preparing for this moment for a long time - a whole day, from early morning to late afternoon. He needed qi, as much as he could get. So Feng stopped using his qi vision, which was even more difficult for him, as he was used to the constant burning in his eyes and the tugging feeling in the depths of his skull. The world immediately changed, becoming faint and blurry, as if a piece of oiled rice paper had been placed over Feng's eyes. Although he was relieved to be free of pain and pain, Feng felt an unbearable urge to take it all back, which he quickly suppressed. The master wasn't lying, or rather, he wasn't lying about everything. Feng really got used to the new way of perception. His "qilin's eye" even began to find the differences between the most familiar colors seen by ordinary eyes and the flows of natural qi, the glow of life, the wandering sparks of spirits of forests, mountains, or rivers.

Feng also stopped running and started moving at a normal pace. He needed to gather all the energy he had not spent during the day and use it for the realization of his plan. And the result was completely unexpected. Not only did the villagers not sigh with relief when they saw that the foolish Feng had taken to his senses, stopped showing off, and began to behave like a normal inhabitant of this remote place, but on the contrary, they became very worried. His parents, neighbors, and neighborhood kids came up to him one by one. Basketmaker Yao, Potter Kun, Aunt Zhao, and even the headman Wang asked if he was sick and feeling well. Of course, no one cared about his health, but Feng understood from their questions that they wanted to know if the disease was transmissible to others and if they should send Feng out into the forest before he infected anyone else.

When they heard that Feng had simply decided to rest today and start again tomorrow, they nodded and went away, and, as it seemed to him, with a degree of disappointment. The news of a terrible, preferably fatal and painful, disease of one of the villagers could at least dilute the monotony of the peasants' everyday life, unlike the simple desire of the local fool to stop fooling around, and for a short time, just for a day.

To Feng's surprise, instead of being pleased with his desire to "be like everyone else," his parents and brothers were not happy either. They were too accustomed to Feng doing everything quickly, to rush from the house to the fields, river, or forest at the speed of the wind. But, fortunately, this dissatisfaction remained only in words, Feng was not even beaten, well, except for the usual daily slaps.

All day long, he tried to absorb as much of the surrounding qi as possible. Actually, he did something like this all the time to grow his inner strength steadily and relentlessly, as all masters do when meditating in the mountains or caves. But today, he was taking in as much qi as he could, trying to cram in as much as he could, feeling that just one extra drop and his head would crack, shattering into a dozen dozen pieces and splattering everything around him.

As he lay down to sleep on his stiff, prickly straw, he realized that he would not be able to sleep, and not from the sharp, skull-burning headache. It was not only energy but intense excitement, greedy, impatient anticipation. Today, he was going to use every drop of qi, every bit of strength to dive into the depths of memory and uncover all the secrets hidden there. Today, he would learn his master's name and thus his future name! A name that will be famous for a thousand accomplishments, which will be recognized by the entire Empire, and which, after viewing the crystals, will be repeated by children dreaming of growing up and becoming like this great hero!

Feng would also browse through all the scrolls and books he had ever held in his hands, picking out and studying everything useful and everything that could be useful here in the peasant life, and also help to plan his development in the best way possible. And, of course, if he had enough qi, Feng would pay tribute to his favorite crystals. And it's not because he wants to have fun, not at all! By looking through the crystals, Feng will be able to peek at Bao Xiao's techniques, not only his but those of other heroes and villains as well, so that he can recreate them, reproduce them, and get closer to true power! After all, his father once said that a rogue master teacher is stronger than crystal heroes, so Feng needs a suitable benchmark, a visible target to surpass. And the fact that the master's favorite saying was a twist on the words of the villain from Impetuous Blade would also serve as an extra boost of motivation! The idea was so good and had so many benefits that Feng wondered why he hadn't thought of it sooner.

Feng squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated. The first thing he decided to tackle was the most important. His future great name. No matter how disgusted he was with his master. No matter how painful the memories were, he recalled that scene in the small palace reception room and channeled the qi into his head.

Fortunately, the recreation of this scene in memory did not bring the expected heartache. Unfortunately, it didn't happen only because the memories never appeared. Feng repeated the attempt several times until he was convinced of the utter futility of his actions. He frowned. Obviously, the vile master had thought of everything. He had used a particularly sneaky and insidious technique to prevent him from learning his name!

Just in case, he tried to recall the forest herb scroll, and it immediately appeared in his mind as clearly as if Feng was holding it in his hands.

He sighed heavily and rolled onto his other side. He sighed heavily and rolled over to the other side. The blocking of his memories had been a hard blow, but let the master hope for nothing. His former student Han would make a new name for himself and make him famous for centuries to come!

The outburst of emotion had weakened his control, and his chi was churning, trying to escape and flood everything around him, so he needed to channel it into something that was not only useful but also energy-consuming. And what could fit better than an extended viewing of a favorite series of crystals? Feng summoned the first issue of Bao Xiao's Impetuous Blade, channeled the qi, and... Again, nothing happened!

Was the master more sneaky and devious than Feng had imagined in his darkest expectations? Had he decided to deprive Han of his last joy... that is, the most useful and important material for gaining power? Feng tried his luck with the other crystals - all his deepest fears were confirmed: in place of the crystals about Jube and Zhang Chuan, there was also a gaping void.

Feng was almost out of control with terror and excitement, so, to avoid being burned by his own qi and giving the villagers something to talk about, he tried to remember something else. And what could be longer, more monotonous, and soothing than the endless process of rewriting scrolls whose contents he had no idea what they were?

To Feng's delight, the memories dutifully materialized before his eyes: he saw his own hands, which were transferring the text from one scroll to another with frugal and very fast brush movements. He was able to read the text of the scroll freely and more than once!

Maybe it wasn't the master. Maybe it was the spirits of the ancestors, the vengeful old chumps who had never forgiven Han's self-will. Han tried to recall the taste of his favorite dishes to relive those moments again. But alas, once again, nothing worked. The theory of spirits was confirmed, but it was too early to write off the master's shenanigans. So now Feng would never be able to taste the seven-layer plum cake, the fried pork ribs in sweet and sour sauce, or the crispy splendor of the Fujian bun...

As soon as he thought of the bun, as soon as he felt the desire to eat it, his qi surged and materialized in his memory the moments of the last feast in Han's life, where he held the bun in his hand and took his first bite. And as it turned out, the taste, smell, and sensation of dragon fire and phoenix flame were no different from the real thing!

Feng frowned. Something didn't add up. Neither master nor spirits would ever bother blocking out memories and leaving something so important behind! He began to flip through the memories of various episodes of his life and quickly deduced a pattern.

Only those periods in which Han had already awakened and circulated qi were available for reproduction. The same was true for the new life - the very first episode in Duojia that could be vividly recalled was a relatively recent fishing trip. Realizing that it was not the intrigues of family guardians and master but some fundamental law of nature, where awakened qi takes on additional tasks and serves as a repository of memory, Feng felt a slight disappointment. After all, what is it worth overcoming the enemy's dastardly intrigues if the enemy himself is not even aware that he was building them for someone?

He sighed and finally calmed down. The qi also calmed down and swirled in a calm whirlwind. It was a pity that he hadn't watched a single crystal after his master's appearance and had only eaten rice, vegetables, and chicken breast! But he still had the most important thing, which was a large library of various scrolls. This meant that there was simply no obstacle to Feng's plan. Feng focused his qi and dived back into his memories. He had scrolls to read!

* * *

"One and two, one and two, and the head fell off," Feng hummed as he worked the sickle

The sickle was a very expensive and valuable object, so one had to be careful - if one drowned it somewhere in the mud, one would not be able to find anything in return. Well, except for the invigorating blows from his relatives, who, unconsciously following the doctrine of the trinity of spirit, body, and mind, cleared the mind and toughened the spirit. Feng had lived in this world long enough to understand the values of the peasants, but it still sometimes struck him: how could something so pathetic, wretched, and poorly made have so much value?

While his feet kneaded the mud, his hands worked on their own. He pulled rice stalks, cut them with a sickle, gathered and tied them into sheaves, which he threw on his back. After the water was released, the ground on the checks would suck, but Feng took it as a workout: not to lose concentration, to work on the precision of the cut and the strength of his feet, which came out of the ground with a loud chomp, and to circulate qi. Then came the jog, during which he would stack the sheaves in neat mounds, and then it was time to work with another implement that could easily become a weapon as well - a large heavy Flail. A weapon which he had learned to use by himself - without any help!

There was also another basket hanging on Feng's side. After the water was drained, not all the fish in the checks had a chance to swim back into the river. Finding it was difficult and almost impossible, so the small fish carcasses would spoil and decompose, serving as fertilizer for the next year. But thanks to his qi vision, which Feng had already managed to keep around the clock, he could see the beating of life so that he could organize a real fishing trip. Alas, all the larger fish that the other peasants had not caught were gone, so Feng was left with the smaller fish. But it was enough not only to eat today but also to dry in the sun, making a winter supply for the whole family!

"Here we'll cut, here we'll tie, and we won't be hungry," he continued to hum.

Life around him was still hard, dirty, and disgusting, but he had managed to do something. And he did it himself, without any help, relying only on his wits, perseverance, and persistence. He survived and stood his ground. He began the way forward and upward. He was not lazy, did not slow down, did not give himself any indulgence for a single day or even an hour. After all, it was worth it to slow down just a little, just to decide that it was possible to rest and relax a little, getting bogged down in the peasant routine, to lose concentration on the goal, as the image of the master immediately came to mind, sometimes with Mei in his arms. The master did not say anything. He just looked with a satisfied smile and nodded, all his appearance as if to show: "I told you so!" A bright little sun burst out from within, any lethargy and apathy disappeared, energy flowed in, and the desire to move forward resumed. To avenge, to prove, to disprove everything that bastard had ever said about Han! His hands began to move faster, his qi boiled furiously, and his hatred blazed like the breath of a fire god. It was still burning, and it had not subsided in the intervening time.

And even if a hundred years, even a thousand, had passed, how could Han forget such a thing? Forget those words from his once favorite crystal, twisted, corrupted by a vile scoundrel?

"If I had a plum pie, I could do better than that!"

* * *

"Look, you bums, follow Feng's example!" Zanzen said, pointing her finger at him.

Feng wrinkled his nose. If he was made an example in front of his brothers and older sisters, then they would want to retaliate by giving him a good beating so he wouldn't become conceited.

"So what if he brought some herbs!" Aimin snorted and was immediately slapped.

"Not "some," but the proper ones!" Mother said. "Which will help you not to die in the winter!"

Even though it promised painful consequences, Feng stuck out his chest and proudly raised his head. He would be beaten either way, so why not enjoy the moment of triumph?

"How does he even know which ones are needed?" His sister persisted

Feng's proud smile turned into a sour grimace. The origin of the knowledge that such a child was not supposed to have was a big problem. If the "son of the general" was written off as Feng being a fool, then the recipe for the mixture would not work. "I know how to store food!" it was enough for his mother, but the others might have unpleasant and untimely questions.

"Everyone in the city knows it!" Feng blurted out, preparing himself for further confrontation. After all, no one could seriously think that.....

"Did you hear that? Everyone in the city knows!" said Zenzen. "And instead of wiggling your ass in front of the whole village, you could do something useful too!"

"But this is a disgusting abomination!" Kang snorted as he stuck his finger into the pot, dipped it in the contents, and put it in his mouth. His mother grabbed a large bamboo spoon and cracked him on the head.

"Keep your hands off it, you little brat! When winter comes, we'll see what you have to say then!"

"Hey, I'm not a kid anymore! I'm an adult," Kang took offense, and Feng laughed."

Kang was indeed already almost grown up. The only thing left was to find a suitable wife because so far very few people willing to marry the son of a not-wealthy, even by local standards Shirong.

"But it's really gross!" Ying supported her brother. "I won't eat it!"

"Oh, look at her!" Zenzan said caustically with her arms at her sides. "I apologize, your city nobility, for serving the food to your table without proper ceremony! Feng! It's all your fault for infecting Ying with your aristocracy! Now that brat probably thinks she's the daughter of the town magistrate or a general."

Ying's gaze directed at Feng did not bode well. The beatings would be augmented by fingernail scratches - the vengeful fool Ying would take care of that. And if a fight couldn't be avoided, then Feng would take it as his good training - channeling his qi to strengthen his body, dodging blows, and hitting back!

"Well, I'll eat the shit of the forest spirits as long as I don't starve to death!" Gang suddenly spoke up for Feng. "Are you sure it won't spoil? Because if we've wasted two days on useless nonsense, I'll twist your head off!"

Of course, Feng wasn't the least bit sure of anything. Yes, he had memorized this scroll by heart in his past life, plus he had recently used qi and refreshed his memory of the contents. The illustrations of forest plants done in two colors with ink and brush were very different from the real live originals, so the possibility of error not only remained but also remained quite high.

But he still gathered the herbs he needed, broke off the fleshy petioles of the right leaves, found and dug up some of the right roots, pounded them with stones into a brown-green, ugly-looking mush, and mixed them with the ashes from the burnt bamboo trunks. The scroll said that food could be stored in this way even without salt, and indeed, the pot of boiled fish stood in the sun for a week, after which the contents, though tasteless, were edible.

And when the time came for the rice harvest, they boiled the fish in a copper cauldron borrowed from the headman and pounded it with a mixture made by Feng, filling large clay pots with the brew, in which they had stored water. After all, they could always run to the river for water, which, because of its swift current, did not freeze even in the most severe frosts, and where could they find something to eat in winter?

Feng realized that such an initiative would have serious consequences in any case. If everything worked out, then the family would not only have food for the winter but also a source of income - the brew could be exchanged for other products and even sold for real money! If Feng wastes a lot of time and effort, he'll get a good beating and a lot of scolding. But since beatings are also good training.....

"It will work!" Feng replied with a confidence he didn't feel at all. "We do it all the time in our city! Honestly!"

* * *

After opening the second dantian, he finally understood what his master was talking about. There were many disadvantages to using two points at once, and Feng understood all the other masters who had given up and concentrated on one thing at a time. He felt weak, helpless, and pathetic once again, as if he had just channeled the energy into his groin, spiraled it into the second dantian, endured the agony, and overcome the wild resistance of the qi that wanted to return to its usual flow. No wonder. The amount of internal energy available for use had perceptibly, simply catastrophically dropped. Feng then tried both reinforcing and strengthening his body, but they were only enough for a few moments, after which he collapsed to the ground, gulping in the cold autumn air.

The disadvantages of using two dantians became more and more obvious the further he went. Now, the qi that Feng's body produced, as well as the qi he received from the natural surroundings, flowed into two places, divided equally. The restriction of the lower dantian was also restricting the upper dantian, making it impossible to absorb and restore the usual amount of qi. Attempts to redirect qi from one center to another were also unsuccessful - getting into the dantian, the internal energy acquired properties that prevented it from properly interacting with other centers. Qi from the lower dantian that was sent to the head caused only pain and bloodshot circles in front of the eyes, although it was probably partly to blame for the fact that Han immediately ran and crashed into a tree as if trying to knock the "wrong" qi out of his head. The qi from the upper dantian launched into his body causing all of his senses to become heightened, and even the roughness of the peasant's body didn't save him. At that moment, Han jumped up, screamed, and then scratched himself for a long time afterward, as if he wanted to shake off the feeling of millions of invisible paws.

He had spent a good deal of time understanding the limits and possibilities of what he had ended up with. At first, he had wanted to just let go of the dantian in his head so he could concentrate on developing the lower dantian, which he considered more important for the battle with his master. The only thing that stopped him from doing so was that he suddenly and clearly realized this action was irreversible. And that if he ever wanted to do it again, he would have to start from the beginning.

Now that he had awakened and mastered qi, the behavior of heroes in many crystals became clear. Previously, he wondered why a hero who was killed by enemies and traveled back in time to his childhood body to take revenge would take so long to grow in strength. After all, not only did he know Heaven Trampling Techniques, but he also had the experience of previous cultivation! The same was true for heroes who had their dantian destroyed by their enemies but had the good fortune to meet a hidden expert or stumble upon a scroll with a secret technique that allowed them to start over. It was always easier to do things off the beaten path, but for some reason, they had to go back to their old level of power instead of meditating for a week or two and going straight back to their old level of power.

As Feng had experienced in his two lives, his previous qi cultivation experience had been almost useless. Now, he would compare cultivation to painstakingly laying out a handful of rice on a go board rather than calligraphy or painting skills. Once the rice is flung to the floor, you can't easily get it back; you have to pick it up and put it out again, no less painstakingly than before.

It was a pity, and Feng liked the level of perception that the dantian in his head gave him. Feng didn't like it enough to abandon the path of power and stay on the path of a scholar because, in addition to thinking, he needed the ability to act, and he couldn't kill a sneaky master without it.

It didn't work with the development of only one dantian, so he could use the second weak one only briefly, only when necessary. The qi Feng's body received and produced tended to flow equally into each of the dantians. Feng's willpower could change its flow, but to a certain limit, beyond that the resistance increased many times over, and the resulting pain made him lose consciousness, as he had experienced a couple of times.

He hesitated and hesitated for a long time, walked like a lost chicken, and even crashed several times into the doorjamb, causing the hut to shake and rice straw to fall from the roof. His parents thought that he was ill, but they were unusually sympathetic, and after giving him a spanking, Feng was allowed to work lightly.

As it turned out later, the hesitation proved to be life-saving. Feng had almost decided to dispel the dantian in his head, sacrificing both the time he had spent and his newfound perception of the world when he suddenly discovered an interesting peculiarity of possessing two dantians.

The qi from the lower one became more sensitive, and it was possible to direct it much more precisely and make much more subtle manipulations. And the qi from the top suddenly gained additional strength, so with a little effort, it was possible to penetrate the depths of the earth or even stone with his eyes. This change was so subtle and insidiously imperceptible that if Feng had been a little more determined, he wouldn't have been able to sense it.

Unfortunately, the problem of developing strength was still the same. Qi flowed equally into the two dantians, each of which grew stronger twice as slowly. But Feng had a solution to this problem as well. That attempt to learn his master's name showed that the pain he had gone through while absorbing qi to the limit was not in vain. Yes, the next day was very hard. He was wrenching and staggering, but after a few days, he felt that the amount of qi had increased significantly! So now, if he could pump qi into the two dantians as much as he could if he could endure the unbearable pain, if he didn't kill or maim himself in the process, he would be able to handle the development of both dantians not only at almost the same speed as before, but even a little faster!

He realized the third heart dantian should be opened as soon as possible. He realized he should open the third heart dantian as soon as possible because the third dantian - whose usefulness Feng now had no doubts about - would add some new and incredible property to the first two. And the sooner he does it, the less damage he'll do to himself, and the less he'll have to regain his former strength!

* * *

If someone had asked Feng what he was doing, he wouldn't have had an answer. It wasn't because he didn't know, and it wasn't because he didn't have the words. He'd argued with his brothers, sisters, and the village kids many times over the months to perfect the art of fighting in tongues. No, of course, no 'duels of minds' - those words stirred up bad memories. But a long time ago, he had decided to take the verbal skirmishes as training, too. After all, what could be closer to a mind exercise than a well-chosen word, spoken not sometime later, maybe even in the back of an opponent who had already forgotten about you, but at the right time, at the right moment?

Just say, "I'm tasting the rocks"? Then it would sound completely stupid, in the style of a village idiot. "I do it with qi"? The locals had no idea what qi was. "Choosing the right stone?" That would be pure truth - but dull and scrambled, not conveying even a thousandth of the full picture.

Feng actually tasted the stones. He didn't bite them, lick them, swallow them, or chew on them. He sat on a rocky bank in the middle of the river, on a pile of rounded stones sharpened by water, chose each one, enveloped it with his qi, and grasped its inner essence. And who knows why trying to feel the stone qi from the palm of his hand caused exactly the taste sensation?

"Hey, Feng! What are you doing?" came from the shore. "Choosing, ha-ha, a weapon against the water spirit?"

He rolled his eyes. As soon as he went to the river, the children began to gather. He'd thought no one would come this time because the sight of Feng diving had grown old and old, so fewer and fewer people showed up to watch him die in the jaws of the rivermaster.

"Go to the ass!" Feng replied resourcefully.

"Then sit there, you fool!" Bokin took offense and really went away.

Feng smirked. A duel of the minds, you say? You need to choose the right weapon!

One of the stones he grasped with his palm seemed different from the others. Feng closed his eyes and concentrated on it even more. The stone had a very dense structure and was made up of many wavy layers of intermingled layers, giving him a feeling of solidity and reliability. Feng had come across similar stones before, but they were either much smaller than he needed or inappropriately shaped.

Feng's grin grew even wider, turning into a satisfied smile. Looks like this is it! He looked around - more out of habit than necessity, for his sight and sense of qi showed all the living things around him. There was no one around. Bokin had moved far enough away, and the others were not interested in the village fool sitting on a pile of cold stones.

So he reached for the qi and released it through his fingers.

"I have qi. And that's really enough."

He could not get used to how easy and malleable his qi was, how strong and flexible it had become at the same time. A trickle of sand sprinkled out of the stone clutched in his hand, and the farther it went, the faster and faster it went. It took only a few moments before a perfectly round hole with shiny smooth walls appeared in the center of the very heavy and incredibly hard stone. Feng picked up a pre-prepared stick and stuck it into the hole. The stick was too thin and went too deep into the hole. He could, of course, look for a thicker stick. Or shove some bamboo chips inside to wedge the stick and fix it firmly inside the stone. Or you could just tie it down with a rope. Feng chose the fourth option.

The stone he channeled the qi into felt like a wave and shrank a bit, tightly encompassing the stick and clamping it firmly inside. Feng looked at the resulting tool and smiled. It didn't even look like a hammer, but a heavy pickaxe, like the illustration in one of the scrolls he had read.

Feng swung it and with all his human strength, without using his qi, struck the rocky ledge. The rock spattered out, hurting his bare feet, and a noticeable indentation was formed where the blow had struck. Feng scrutinized the pickaxe and was satisfied that the stone he had chosen with his qi was very strong and suitable for making the strongest tools.

"Master Yi, just wait. You'll have a new apprentice soon!"

After all, as the great thinker Han Nao once said: "A brush can hurt more than Star Steel." And a good heavy stone pickaxe can hurt even more!

* * *

Chapter 13, in which the hero learns the power of words, the disadvantages of fame, and the benefits of mushrooms