“What do you mean, ‘what do you mean’? What are you thinking about?” Qi Rong half-laughed, half-exasperated, and tapped Yunxi lightly on the forehead.
“Am I really that hated by you?” he asked.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Yunxi clapped a hand to her head, eyes misting, her whole face a picture of accusation. “Hated! Your behavior right now is annoying!”
“You hit me like I was a watermelon — expected it to make a satisfying crack, did you?!” she snapped. Who could blame her for not wanting him to call her master after that? With a student like him, who’d have the face to answer to being called “master”?
Qi Rong had deliberately held back, but when he pried Yunxi’s hand away he still saw the faint red mark on her forehead. He felt a pang of guilt and reached to blow on it in the silly, old-fashioned way people soothe small hurts — but Yunxi shoved him away, rejecting his mock concern.
He could only smile at her with a rueful helplessness and began to tell the story.
“He was a very peculiar old man…”
It had been barely half a month after the palace upheaval. Branded as a traitor for allegedly colluding with the enemy—an accusation pushed by Qi Hong’an—Qi Rong had been stripped of his rank and cast out to live among the common folk and beggars. Even with his fall from grace, death shadowed him constantly.
The beggars thought he must still be a prince in disguise and therefore worth robbing. When they found no valuables on him, their jealousy turned to hatred; they excluded him, taunted him, made sure he had no place to beg, and beat him whenever the mood struck. Pride kept him from lowering himself to beg; he would rather starve than demean himself with supplication. But pride did not make him stronger against men who were both older and far more savage. No matter how fiercely he fought back, it only invited worse beatings.
Only later did he learn that not all of them were beggars. Many wore rags as a disguise—hired hands out to end his life. Who had sent them was an obvious question no one dared answer.
Once, they left him for dead on the city’s outer burial mound, a place where dead dogs and cats, executed prisoners, and unclaimed corpses were dumped. He lay there and listened to the distant howls of wild dogs and the sounds of them tearing at each other for scraps.
He tried to rise and flee. He dragged himself a few meters, then a dog latched onto his trouser leg and dragged him back. Through a haze of blood and pain he watched the pack close in, his hope dwindling. Thinking of his father and mother, he forced himself up, found a rotten stick, and—summoning every last scrap of strength—aimed a desperate blow at the lead dog’s face.
They say a dog’s nose is a vulnerable spot. His stick landed true. The lead dog collapsed, dead from the strike.
The rest froze, unnerved by the sudden collapse. They neither advanced nor retreated; they simply ringed him, waiting to wear him out and then swarm. He knew their cunning. Exhausted, he propped himself up and gripped the stick with both hands, ready to hold them off.
He lasted two days like that. The dogs could take turns scavenging; he had no food, could barely sit upright, and the constant circling sapped him until he finally collapsed from sheer weakness.
As he watched the pack barking and preparing to pounce, his vision dimmed. He didn’t feel pain then—only heard the dogs’ shrill yelps—and then a rough hand dragged him upright.
“If I hadn’t wanted to see how long you’d last, I wouldn’t have bothered to save you,” a voice mocked.
He tried to open his eyes to see who it was, but his lids were heavy. Before he could hear more, he blacked out.
When he came to again, he was in a tiny wooden hut in the woods. A steaming bowl of medicinal broth sat on the bedside table; he realized someone had nursed him. At the door, an old man sat crookedly on a low stool, puffing on a battered pipe. A ragged beard hid most of his face.
The old man spat a strand of tobacco beside him and said, “Hurry up and drink that. Don’t expect me to feed you again, you little bastard.”
Qi Rong’s brows knotted at the insult. He answered coldly, “I’m not a bastard. Don’t call me that.”
The old man froze for a heartbeat, then stomped over and grabbed Qi Rong by the collar, hoisting him upright with a scolding bark. “I said you’re a bastard, so you’re a bastard. Say another word and I’ll throw you out to the dogs!”
The threat was meant to cow him. Qi Rong wiped the spittle from his cheek, met the man’s glare, and shot back, “Fine, throw me out. Who cares if you saved me?”
He wasn’t about to grovel for gratitude, even to someone who’d pulled him from death. Had he been stronger, he’d have torn that man’s mouth apart.
The old man stared for a long moment, surprised by his spirit. He loosened his grip, and Qi Rong collapsed back onto the pallet with a groan, every muscle protesting.
“Well, you’ve got backbone,” the old man said, an odd warmth cracking his rough voice. Beneath his tangled beard, a hard-to-place smile twitched. He crouched by the bed, eyes suddenly intent. “You want to learn to fight? Kneel, kowtow a few times, and I’ll teach you every trick I know.”
Qi Rong looked at him with outright disdain. “You? I wouldn’t learn from you.”
The old man’s expression soured. He grabbed Qi Rong again, felt for muscle and bone as if measuring him, and declared bluntly, “You’ve got the makings of a fighter. Train under me for ten years and you’ll have a name in the martial world—far better than those fame-hungry showoffs. You sure you don’t want to learn?”
Qi Rong waved the man’s hand away. “If I’m going to learn, it won’t be from you.”
He remembered the insult. To kneel and kowtow to a man who’d called him a bastard? Better to be dead.
The old man’s impatience flared. He leaned in, voice low and irritable. “Then what will it take for you to learn? I’m telling you—I’m the best there is. Opportunities like this don’t come twice.”
He spat the words like a warning: don’t be foolish, kid—don’t be ungrateful.