[Skill: Gale Stride]

[You run extremely fast and possess considerable lower body strength.]

Though it was just a humble Rickshaw Puller profession, and the panel only called his strength “considerable,” Xiangzi’s lower body power now far surpassed that of an ordinary man.

As the wiry man reeled in quiet shock, others couldn’t hold back, cursing loudly.

“You damn dog, refusing a toast only to drink a forfeit!”

“Fat Master, let’s break this kid’s leg today!”

They advanced with menacing grins.

Fatty Fan, still smiling, made no move to stop them.

As the fight loomed, Xiangzi calmly pulled the blue cloth bundle from his pocket and set it on the table. “Fat Master, at least let me deliver this letter first.”

“Master Lin Junqing’s letter.”

The room’s air froze.

Fatty Fan’s eyes narrowed, his fat hand shooting up.

The men halted mid-step.

Lin Junqing?

The former head disciple of Baolin Martial Hall?

The cripple?

How’s this third-class puller mixed up with him?

Fatty Fan’s fleshy face flickered with uncertainty. A man whispered in his ear, “I saw Xiangzi come out of Baolin’s back gate. Even the gatekeeper was polite.

”

Fatty Fan’s brow rose.

A third-class puller waltzing into Baolin Martial Hall was odd enough.

Contact with that cripple? Even stranger.

Though fallen, Lin Junqing was still the hall master’s direct disciple.

That was a connection Ma Liu couldn’t afford to cross.

Fatty Fan’s gaze swept the blue bundle.

He didn’t dare open it, his small eyes slanting at Xiangzi. Is this kid bluffing?

Xiangzi’s smile was warm, his demeanor unruffled.

After a long pause, Fatty Fan’s face broke into a grin. “Oh, Brother Xiangzi, why didn’t you say so?”

“Delaying Master Lin’s business? That won’t do!”

“Delivering the letter comes first! We’ll catch up another day!”

Without hesitation, Xiangzi stood, cupping his hands. “Fat Master, until next time!”

Fatty Fan didn’t rise, just grunted a soft “hm” in reply.

Xiangzi tucked the bundle back into his pocket and walked out.

The room fell silent, save for the cold glint of silver dollars flickering in the candlelight.

After Xiangzi left, a man grumbled, unconvinced. “What’s so great about that crippled Lin? Didn’t he get ruined in the arena?”

Fatty Fan’s eyelids lifted, his voice icy. “Want to die? Learn to shut your trap! Baolin’s business isn’t for dogs like you to yap about.”

The group fell silent as another man leaned in, whispering, “Fat Master, should we dig into what’s between Xiangzi and Master Lin?”

Fatty Fan’s eyes narrowed, nodding slightly.

“Find out that dog’s background.”

“If he’s got no real tie to Baolin… heh.”

Fatty Fan sneered. “Break one of his legs.”

The sunset painted the sky blood-red, the moat’s water reeking sharply.

Xiangzi, hunched over, sped along the cobblestone road, his rickshaw’s wheels kicking up clouds of dust.

The rickshaw moved at a startling pace, drawing sidelong glances from passersby.

This was the first time since his Rickshaw Puller profession reached minor mastery that Xiangzi held nothing back.

He didn’t head straight back, instead detouring through North City’s market square, where new patrol posts made Ma Liu’s thugs think twice.

Getting out of the teahouse didn’t mean the road was safe.

Fatty Fan, a South City veteran, was notoriously vengeful and ruthless.

Xiangzi, a mere third-class puller, had humiliated him publicly.

Bound by Baolin’s name, Fatty Fan hadn’t dared act in the teahouse, but with his temperament, he’d surely try something on the road.

Xiangzi’s caution paid off.

In East City, Ma Liu’s pullers were scouring for a tall man in a black vest.

Truth be told, Fatty Fan’s offer was tempting.

Fifty silver dollars gleaming on the table, plus a first-class puller’s golden rice bowl—most would’ve kowtowed in gratitude.

But Xiangzi saw clearly: that money was too hot to touch. It’d cost his life.

And Fatty Fan, cunning as he was, might sell him out the moment he handed over the books.

A third-class puller’s life was worth nothing.

The thought ignited a fire in Xiangzi’s gut, his grip on the rickshaw handles tightening until veins bulged.

But the spark fizzled as quickly as it flared.

Courage needed strength to back it up.

A lowly third-class puller, living under others’ roofs—what could he use to fight?

If not for Lin Junqing’s letter in his pocket, he might’ve been done for in that teahouse.

Strength. Only greater strength can secure a place in this world.

For now, learning martial arts was his way out.

A mere crippled martial artist could intimidate Fatty Fan into holding back?

The martial artists of this world were far stronger than he’d imagined.

Xiangzi exhaled deeply, his eyes narrowing.

He had to find a way to learn martial arts.

With a heaven-defying tool like the Profession Panel, wasting his days on the Rickshaw Puller profession was pathetic.

If he could unlock a martial profession, would he have suffered such humiliation today?

The sun sank, twilight creeping in.

Passing Zhengxi Lane, Xiangzi spotted Harmony’s faded wooden sign, his taut nerves easing slightly.

Entering the yard, he returned the rickshaw.

Old Wu at the counter peered over his tortoiseshell glasses. “Xiangzi, calling it a day so early? Sun rising in the west today?”

“You paid a full day’s fee—early return doesn’t get a refund.”

“I know the rules,” Xiangzi replied, his smile strained.

Through the front courtyard’s side gate lay the back.

The back courtyard was split by a brick wall: the left held the second-class pullers’ cramped dormitory, the right the guards’ private quarters.

Compared to the pullers’ crowded space, the guards’ yard was spacious, with faint elegance under the dappled shade of a wutong tree.

Entering the guards’ yard, Xiangzi found several guards eating around a stone table under the tree.

Rough porcelain bowls clinked against the table, steaming with the rich aroma of meat.

Seeing Xiangzi, they paused.

“Pardon me, where’s Master Tang’s room?” Xiangzi asked.

At the mention of “Master Tang,” their expressions softened. One set down a large bowl, pointing to the west wing with a smile.

Xiangzi cupped his hands in thanks, his eyes flicking to the table, his throat bobbing unconsciously.

A large porcelain basin held glossy braised pork, alongside cabbage and meatball stew.

Compared to the second-class pullers’ chaff and vegetable slop, it was heaven and earth.

No wonder the second-class pullers dreamed of becoming guards. This food alone was worth risking their lives.

But Harmony’s standards were strict. Rumor had it guards had to be martial artists who’d broken through the vitality barrier.

Xiangzi had only heard this in passing and didn’t know what the vitality barrier meant.