At that moment, a rickshaw was halted at the entrance of Ming Dynasty Lane.

A yellow cord, held by uniformed officers, kept the surging crowd at Baolin Martial Hall’s gate at bay.

The old rickshaw puller, drenched in sweat, gripped the handles and craned his neck over the cord, glancing back at his passenger with an apologetic smile. “Well, didn’t expect today’s the apprentice selection. The road’s blocked. Shall we take another route?”

The passenger, a young man with unremarkable features, merely nodded without a word.

“Alright then, hold tight,” the old puller chuckled. “Judging by your look, you ain’t local, are ya? If you’ve got time, this commotion’s worth a gander.”

“You’ve got a sharp eye, old man. What makes you say that?” the young man asked.

The old puller turned back, grinning. “Us pullers don’t claim sharp eyes, but I see you with that knapsack, lookin’ mighty unfamiliar with Forty-Nine City… just a bold guess.”

“Then I’ll take your advice and watch the show,” the young man said with a smile, his peach-blossom eyes curving into crescents.

His otherwise plain face suddenly came alive.

Even the old puller was momentarily stunned.

And so, an old rickshaw puller and a young outsider parked the rickshaw to observe the spectacle.

The old puller, Old Ma, prattled on about the martial hall, inside and out, especially the apprentice trials, recounting them like treasures.

“They say Forty-Nine City hides dragons and crouching tigers. You’ve seen it all, haven’t you?” the young man remarked, his gaze sweeping over the grand architecture with keen interest.

“Ha, the goings-on in that hall ain’t for just anyone to know,” Old Ma’s face lit up, his brows dancing. “I only know ‘cause of my little grandson. He’s a second-class apprentice there—might even make first-class!”

The young man smiled, sensing Old Ma’s pride, and tossed in a couple of compliments.

Old Ma grew even more animated, spittle flying as he spoke.

“Judging by your fine air, you’re no ordinary sort. Why not settle in a big inn? The city’s been restless lately!” Old Ma said, lifting a black clay teapot from the rickshaw’s bamboo frame and taking a hearty swig.

The young man’s interest piqued. “Old man, what’s been going on in the city?”

Old Ma tucked the teapot back, his eyes glinting. “You haven’t heard? The Marshal’s Mansion and Police Bureau are in a frenzy, scouring the city for that elusive King Chuang. They’d dig up the city’s roots if they could.”

“They say King Chuang kills without blinking, with tricks like scattering beans to summon soldiers. That’s how he holds off Marshal Zhang’s troops!”

“Listen to your old man Ma. A lone outsider like you should stick to an inn with a Police Bureau license for safety.”

Old Ma’s tales were lively, and the peach-eyed young man listened with relish.

“What brings you to Forty-Nine City? If you’re just sightseeing and don’t mind, how ‘bout hiring my rickshaw? Others charge six dimes a day, but for you, five’ll do.”

Old Ma’s chatter all led to this—he was strapped for cash, with his son spending heavily and the Police Bureau’s roadblocks hurting business.

This young man, generous and easygoing, was a rare catch. A few days’ hire would be a fine deal.

The young man only smiled and shook his head. “Nah, I’m just back for a look.” His peach-blossom eyes drifted past Baolin Martial Hall toward Mid-City, and he added softly, “Years ago, I lived here. Some trouble forced me to flee the old house.”

His words were cryptic, and Old Ma took them as a tale from when Marshal Zhang seized Forty-Nine City. “So, you’re back to see the old place?”

Old Ma was reluctant to let this deal slip.

The young man waved a hand. “No, the old house is off-limits now. I’m back—”

“To meet some old friends and settle a debt.”

A debt? Old Ma blinked.

The young man nodded earnestly. “A blood debt.”

Old Ma paused, then burst into laughter. “You’ve got a way with words, sir!”

The peach-eyed young man laughed too.

But in that laughter, Old Ma’s eyes sharpened—there, at Baolin Martial Hall’s gate, a tall figure in a navy-blue silk robe stepped inside.

That familiar silhouette sent a jolt through Old Ma’s heart. He strained to look closer, but the figure vanished.

No… Xiangzi died in the Li family mine. How could that be him?

Old Ma’s heart sank further, and he muttered, “Heaven’s unfair. Good folks get no reward.”

His words reached the young man, stirring a trace of buried melancholy.

With a soft sigh, the young man leaned back in the rickshaw, gazing lazily at the pale dawn sky. “The world’s unjust… topple it.”

—

Beyond the recommendation letter and silver coins, the martial hall’s apprentice registration was straightforward, skipping details like hometown or realm.

Xiangzi pondered briefly and realized—the trials lasted only six months, and most wouldn’t stay. Why bother with extra scrutiny?

To Baolin Martial Hall, only ranked martial artists warranted closer attention.

This thought brought a pang of wistfulness to Xiangzi.

In South City’s rickshaw yards, a Blood Energy Barrier martial artist could be a guard, earning a respectful “Master.” A ninth-rank martial artist was untouchable, strutting through South City unchallenged.

Back at Harmony Rickshaw Yard, just Fourth Master Liu and Liu Tang, two ninth-rank martial artists, were enough to hold the fort and secure the mine routes.

But at Baolin Martial Hall, even temporary apprentices had to be at the Blood Energy Barrier, and ninth-rank martial artists were as common as carp crossing a river.

And there were two other halls like Baolin in Forty-Nine City.

No wonder these three major halls stood above the fray, commanding respect even from Marshal Zhang with his thousands of firearms.

Lost in thought, Xiangzi stepped through the martial hall’s gate, his view opening wide.

This was his third time here.

The first time, the gatekeeper hadn’t dared lead him through the main entrance. The second, he’d snuck in and nearly got caught.

So this was his first time standing here openly.

As one of Forty-Nine City’s three major halls, spanning centuries, Baolin’s grandeur exceeded Xiangzi’s expectations.

A bluestone path stretched to the horizon, flanked by uniform wooden buildings with green tiles and red eaves—dozens at a glance. In the distance, layered terraces and cloud-like structures loomed.

The front courtyard alone exuded majestic splendor.

This wasn’t just a martial hall—it rivaled the smaller universities of his past life.

Xiangzi tilted his head, gazing at the rising sun, its faint red tinged with bright gold.

The sky was vast and blue, the hall’s yellow-glazed tiles shimmering with dreamlike golden light.

In the hazy glow, Xiangzi felt transported to his past life, standing at a university gate for the first time.

Unlike the hope he’d felt then, now he was struck by a mix of daze and melancholy.

His presence here was a chance bought with Uncle Jie’s and Wen San’s lives.

Xiangzi’s hand, hidden in his silk robe, clenched slightly.

Seeing an apprentice standing dazed, a black-robed disciple barked, “Hey, big guy, don’t dawdle! Grab your number plate, head to your room, and rest. The first trial’s at noon.”

Xiangzi started—so soon?

He hadn’t expected the trials to begin on the first day.