After a moment’s thought, Xiangzi cupped his fists and replied, “I’ve never trained at a martial hall, just practiced some forms with family elders.”

His words were vague, not false, but revealing little.

Young Master Jiang’s face stiffened, a hint of caution rising. Family elders? Could this big fellow be from a martial clan?

He quickly dismissed the thought. If he were a clan heir, why queue like them?

Suddenly, the chubby youth who’d spoken to Jiang earlier leaned in, grinning. “With your build, brother, your blood energy must be robust! What’s your dantian like? A finger of blood energy or a pillar?”

His eyes gleamed with obvious intent.

Tested by such words, Xiangzi felt a flicker of irritation.

He only shook his head, smiling silently.

To the two youths, this made him seem even more extraordinary.

Even the haughty Young Master Jiang’s heart skipped a beat. Could he be a hidden master?

Forcing a rare smile, Jiang—named Jiang Wangshui—recalled his father’s advice: the family had paid dearly for this chance at Baolin. He mustn’t waste it. Even if he couldn’t reach rank, he should befriend promising talents for future connections.

About to say more, the crowd surged forward, pushing Jiang Wangshui ahead, and he could only follow.

—

At the martial hall’s entrance, the central gate stood wide open, a gold-threaded banner fluttering in the breeze.

Though Great Shun’s old rules were long gone, the solemnity of opening the central gate showed Baolin’s regard for apprentice selection.

Any faction aiming to endure needed fresh blood.

Baolin Martial Hall had stood for centuries, not just because its masters were peerless, but because it valued young talent.

Take the current old master: years ago, hearing that a strange old man’s disciple was an outer disciple, he personally visited, inviting Lin Junqing to the inner residence for a night-long talk.

No one knew what was said.

But the story that followed was known citywide—Lin Junqing, at sixteen, became Baolin’s direct disciple.

—

At the gate, an elderly martial artist oversaw apprentice verification.

When Miss Li emerged, Old Liu had been admiring her graceful figure, but seeing the massive crowd, his face fell.

“Name?”

“Jiang Wangshui.”

“Age?”

“Fifteen.”

“Realm?”

“Blood Energy Barrier, peak.”

Jiang Wangshui raised his voice, and as the crowd’s eyes turned to him, a faint smirk appeared.

Even Old Liu paused, giving him a second glance. Fifteen and at Blood Energy Barrier peak—not bad. A few months of training, and he might reach rank.

Jiang Wangshui presented a finely wrapped recommendation letter.

Old Liu glanced at it and nodded. The letter came from a former disciple, a ninth-rank great achievement martial artist—decent enough.

Seeing Old Liu’s reaction, Jiang Wangshui felt a pang of disappointment. That letter had been hard-won by his brother.

Old Liu produced an inkpad, and Jiang Wangshui pressed his finger onto a contract, leaving a blood-red print.

Old Liu’s voice boomed, “The contract is set. You’re now an apprentice of Baolin Martial Hall. From this moment, your fate is your own, Jiang Wangshui. Are you willing?”

The voice carried a commanding air, startling Xiangzi. This lecherous old man’s cultivation isn’t bad.

The words “your fate is your own” stunned Jiang Wangshui.

He’d been dreaming of the glory of becoming a ranked martial artist, but now recalled his brother’s warnings of the dangers.

His face paled, and after a moment, he stammered, “Willing… willing.”

A flash of disdain crossed Old Liu’s cloudy eyes. The old master often said: Martial arts demand courage.

This youth had decent cultivation, but without that spark of bravery, could he withstand the “bone-tempering broth”? Failure might ruin his martial path—or worse, his life.

As Jiang Wangshui entered the courtyard, shaken, Old Liu stretched lazily and called, “Next.”

A dark-faced, tall figure stepped forward.

Old Liu frowned at the sight. Who recommended this guy? He’s too old to be an apprentice.

It wasn’t entirely Old Liu’s fault.

Xiangzi, long a rickshaw puller among rough men, and tall for his age, didn’t look like a youth under eighteen.

“One hundred silver dollars, hand them over,” Old Liu said listlessly.

Xiangzi produced a hundred-dollar silver note and placed it carefully on the table.

Issued by Mid-City’s Barlow Trading House—rumored to have clan backing—the note was renowned for its reliability in Forty-Nine City.

Made of special cotton paper with steam-pressed patterns, it was nearly impossible to forge.

The edges were slightly browned, the once-vivid vermilion seal faded to pale pink.

Though aged, the note’s creases were neat, its surface spotless.

Clearly, its owner cherished it.

This note belonged to Uncle Jie. Xiangzi had retrieved it from the white building at Harmony Rickshaw Yard that night—its hiding spot repeatedly drilled into him by Uncle Jie.

The man buried in the deep pit at the Li family mine had spent half his life earning just this one note.

—

From experience, Old Liu glanced at the note and guessed Xiangzi’s humble origins, his demeanor growing curt. “Recommendation letter.”

Per Baolin’s rules, apprentices needed the Blood Energy Barrier, a recommendation letter, and silver coins—no exceptions.

Xiangzi produced a letter wrapped in blue cloth.

Old Liu opened it slowly, but his eyes froze upon seeing the bold, silver-stroked characters: Lin Junqing.

Old Liu slapped his forehead—he’d nearly forgotten.

Having overseen apprentice selections for years, he’d dealt with countless connections, some with intimidating backgrounds.

Apprentices came in types:

Some came to gild their resumes, avoiding the risks of “bone-tempering broth.” After six months, they’d leverage their status and family ties for cushy jobs at the Police Bureau or Marshal’s Mansion.

Others genuinely sought martial mastery, determined to temper their bodies for a shot at rank.

Sorting these varied intentions was a delicate art.

Misplace a gilder in rigorous training, and you’d offend their backers while wasting resources. Let a true martial aspirant be sidelined by connections, and the hall’s purpose would erode, harming its future.

Thus, recommendation letters were critical.

And Old Liu’s knack was key.

Over the years, he could gauge a candidate’s intent from their letter and trial performance.

But this big fellow’s letter was extraordinary.

It was Lin Junqing’s first recommendation since his fall from grace.

More crucially, the former senior brother had personally visited Old Liu before leaving the hall.

That the reclusive Lin Junqing would make such an effort left Old Liu stunned. Who could move him?

Seeing this unremarkable big fellow now, Old Liu felt puzzled. He doesn’t look like a prodigy.

Still, Lin Junqing’s face had to be honored.

Old Liu straightened, his tone warming. “You must be young brother Xiangzi! Lin Junqing mentioned you before he left. My memory’s slipping!”

Smiling, he personally handed over the documents.

The crowd, waiting for over an hour without seeing Old Liu’s warmth, gaped at his sudden friendliness.

Eyes turned to Xiangzi.

The chubby youth behind him froze, his small eyes flickering with calculation.

—

With Lin Junqing’s connection, identity checks were a formality.

Old Liu scribbled on Xiangzi’s file, then pointed to the name field, grinning. “Young brother Xiangzi, what’s your full name? We can’t leave this blank.”

The question stumped Xiangzi.

Surname?

His parents died early, and his memories held only the name Xiangzi—many like him lived and died without a proper name.

Old Liu patiently asked again.

Xiangzi gazed at the worn silver note, a gentle smile curving his lips as he said earnestly:

“My surname is Li, Li Jie’s Li.”