Chapter 38

Chapter 38

Luo Qianyu had proposed this idea, his heart inevitably unsettled.

It was a decision he had pondered all night.

After the incident with Guan Mingyang… no, not just Young Master Guan—Luo Qianyu knew the original occupant’s martial arts were severely lacking. Yet now, following the novel’s plot, since his path had crossed Wen Yu’s, he would inevitably face numerous romantic rivals in the future—each far more formidable than himself.

Setting others aside, Wen Yu could not always serve as his personal guard, much less protect him forever. In the future, when he stepped onto the battlefield, ventured beyond the capital, or confronted danger alone, relying solely on his current abilities would make it impossible to guarantee his own safety.

Luo Zhenchuan had never taken his heir onto the battlefield—not even a single step. From childhood to adulthood, the Young Marquis had left the capital only a handful of times—all during his youth, accompanying the late emperor’s entourage on summer retreats or imperial tours, occurrences easily counted on one hand.

Luo Qianyu turned the matter over repeatedly in his mind. Though this era valued literary cultivation over martial prowess, who wouldn’t aspire to excel in both? The Marquis’s ancestors for three generations had galloped across battlefields, amassing illustrious military achievements. Yet by his generation, his father had deliberately kept him sheltered within the capital, isolating him entirely from the clamor of arms and bloodshed.

Even if Luo Qianyu failed to grasp the old Marquis’s intentions, he couldn’t fathom why the entire Marquis residence treated him with such excessive protectiveness. But plans belonged to the individual; if he intended to leave, he needed the ability to protect himself. Otherwise, countless more Guan Mingyangs would appear in the future—what then?

After prolonged deliberation, only one person met every criterion: someone who could remain by his side day and night, meticulous and reliable, upright in character, a true gentleman—and a master so rare that finding another like him within the entire story would be nearly impossible. The very one who wielded the Jade Spirit Sword, its edge concealed within his sleeve.

Yet his heart remained uneasy. After all, the indenture contract was explicit in black and white—it never stipulated that Wen Yu bore any obligation to assume such responsibilities or become his martial arts instructor. The “Little Beauty” was merely a personal guard he had forcibly retained, never willing in the first place. How could he possibly agree to such an arrangement—one demanding the full transmission of his knowledge?

After careful thought, the only viable approach was to cater to Wen Yu’s preferences and offer sufficient incentives. And fortunately, Luo Qianyu knew precisely what the protagonist most desired at this moment—to rid himself of Luo Qianyu as soon as possible and regain his freedom.

Yet Wen Yu showed no sign of delight or even a flicker of brightness in his expression, contrary to Luo Qianyu’s expectations. Even his brief momentary daze lasted only an instant before his expression returned to its usual calm.

Dawn had not yet broken; the night remained ink-black. The Jade Spirit Sword at his waist glinted faintly, its facets catching delicate lines of light. His figure stood elegant and upright, rendering the beautiful man even more cold and severe.

Wen Yu simply asked, “Has the Young Marquis truly thought this through?”

He spoke solemnly: “Mastery of martial arts is not achieved overnight—the essence lies in persistence. To succeed, one must endure more than mere hardship.”

Luo Qianyu replied, “I understand.”

When the beautiful man took up the longsword suited to his physique—its hilt wrapped in soft cloth to prevent slipping—the Young Marquis was momentarily stunned, then snapped back to awareness: he’d succeeded!

“Begin with the basic sword-gripping posture,” Wen Yu instructed, grasping the hilt and slightly rotating his wrist. “Hook your thumb and index finger over the hilt, while the remaining three fingers grip naturally. Keep your palm hollow—not too loose, not too tight.”

He stepped forward, took Luo Qianyu’s hands in his, and adjusted his posture. “Hold the sword steadily—this is the foundation for all strikes.”

Once the youth secured a firm grip, Wen Yu continued, “Stance is equally critical. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, center of gravity lowered. This ensures stability and allows force to be delivered more effectively.”

Luo Qianyu adjusted accordingly, though he inevitably wobbled slightly. Wen Yu patiently corrected each detail until the young man’s posture began to resemble the proper form.

“Next is footwork.” Wen Yu lowered his gaze and demonstrated. “When advancing, the front foot steps out first, followed by the rear foot. Steps must be light yet forceful. When retreating, the rear foot withdraws first, followed by the front foot—maintaining balance throughout.”

Guiding Luo Qianyu as he carried the sword around the courtyard, he repeated these footwork drills. At first, the Young Marquis’s steps were chaotic—missteps, near-stumbles. Wen Yu watched closely, reaching out just in time to steady him and prevent falls.

After mastering footwork, they progressed to sword techniques. “The most fundamental thrust concentrates power at the sword tip. Extend the arm fully, exert force from the wrist, and deliver the thrust swiftly.” As he spoke, Wen Yu slowly swung the Jade Spirit Sword, allowing Luo Qianyu to observe every nuance of the movement.

Luo Qianyu imitated—but his thrusts were weak and flaccid, utterly devoid of force or presence.

Wen Yu said nothing. He moved behind Luo Qianyu, his long, distinctly knuckled hand covering the youth’s slightly cool one, guiding him through the motion. “Power originates from the dantian, travels through the arm to the sword tip—not mere arm strength. Use the twisting momentum generated by your waist and core, channeling it along the arm’s meridians to the sword’s point.”

When Luo Qianyu thrust again, his strike carried real force, slicing the air with a sharp *shush*.

The Young Marquis froze, eyes suddenly brightening.

He sensed that, within his still-clumsy movements, a hint of sharpness had emerged—like unpolished jade beginning to reveal its luster.

Thereafter, Wen Yu taught him foundational techniques—chopping, upward cuts—breaking each down into precise components. He repeatedly explained key points for every posture, having Luo Qianyu practice alongside him.

Watching the fluid demonstrations, Luo Qianyu marveled inwardly—as a modern person, he could gradually grasp the essence under such instruction, and this was only the first day.

He had always known Wen Yu was exceptional—but how could he be *this* outstanding as a teacher?

After one hour, sweat soaked through his clothes; his inner robe clung damply to his back, and his forehead hair stuck to his flushed temples. The original occupant’s physical limits were nearly exhausted. The Young Marquis’s lips grew redder as he looked up. “Do you always cover this much on the first day? Won’t it be overwhelming?”

“Not overwhelming,” Wen Yu replied softly, his tone unwavering. “Rest after completing this set.”

In just one morning—from basic sword grip, stance, and footwork to fundamental sword techniques—by the time the sky gradually lightened to the pale hue of a fish’s belly, the Young Marquis could already perform a coherent sequence of sword forms independently. Though his movements remained imperfect, the makings of a novice were unmistakable.

Luo Qianyu wiped away his sweat and returned to the bathing chamber to clean himself. Zhao Nian had just woken up, looking bewildered, unable to comprehend why the Young Marquis had changed so drastically. He assumed the young man had suffered a nightmare—hence the flushed face and sweat-drenched body. Just as he rolled up his sleeves to assist, he was shooed out.

Lowering his gaze, Luo Qianyu realized his palms trembled, his legs felt leaden, and his entire body seemed drained of strength—as if treading on soft clouds… the result of holding stance for too long.

He was exhausted—but a faint surge of exhilaration rose within him. He *needed* this kind of exhaustion.

.

Yet Luo Qianyu had overestimated the original occupant’s physical constitution.

Due to the intense morning training, during daytime classes, Luo Qianyu lacked even the energy to glance toward the Young Prince. His hands resting on the desk grew weary, and he kept nodding off like a chick pecking at grain.

The Director of Studies had praised him only yesterday—and, considering his recent recovery from serious illness, intended to overlook today’s lapses, merely tapping his desk as he passed by.

Yet, moments after the elderly Director finished reciting an essay and looked up, he found the Young Marquis already curled up, sleeping soundly with a rosy face, eyelashes trembling.

The old Director could no longer restrain himself. “…Luo Qianyu!”

“Come up here and recite *The Nine Arguments on Border Pacification*. You may return only after reciting it flawlessly.”

Luo Qianyu rose immediately, stepped forward, and recited it fluently.

Director Song: “?”

Zhao Nian had drilled him on it last night, explaining allusions and meanings. Though the original occupant was lazy, he was clever—able to memorize after hearing something just once.

The old Director hesitated briefly, feeling it improper to let him off so easily. He treated all students equally, never considering their backgrounds, never withholding reprimands. His beard bristling slightly in anger, he declared, “Luo Qianyu—you’ve only been back at the Imperial Academy for a few days, yet you already sleep and slack off! Falling behind due to illness was excusable before—but what excuse do you have *now*? I tolerate neither laziness, idleness, nor half-heartedness! Hand—out!”

He intended to punish him.

Luo Qianyu’s scalp prickled. Though other memories remained fragmented and vague, his experiences of being caned on the hands at the Imperial Academy were vividly clear. The Young Marquis was born with a fear of pain—his pain tolerance lower than most. Steeling himself, he extended his hand—and Director Song’s ruler came down.

*Smack!*

Luo Qianyu nearly cursed aloud from the pain. By the second strike, he tried to pull his hand back—but the Director seized it firmly and delivered three sharp blows.

The fatigue from morning training vanished instantly; drowsiness ceased to be an issue—only the searing pain in his palm remained. Luo Qianyu picked up his brush, his palm burning, the sensation lingering.

As soon as classes ended, Luo Qianyu was detained—required to copy the essay three times before leaving.

Early winter in the capital brought early sunsets. A light snow had fallen recently, and the hazy twilight steeped everything in chill. Luo Qianyu peeked out, noticing the sky had darkened.

He rubbed his sore wrist—just setting down his brush and paper—when he spotted someone approaching, likely Zhao Nian coming to fetch him.

Yet when Wen Yu’s figure appeared at the doorway, Luo Qianyu couldn’t help but freeze, wondering if he was hallucinating. He blurted out, “Why *you*? Where’s Zhao Nian?”

“The Marquis summoned him—he has already returned to the residence.” Wen Yu paused, then countered, “Why *couldn’t* it be me?”

“Nothing…” Luo Qianyu silently shifted topics. “I got my hand caned today. Will it affect my sword grip?”

As he spoke, he held out his hand to Wen Yu.

Wen Yu gently took his hand. The palm was indeed badly swollen, red and patchy. For some reason, he found himself staring at it for a moment before frowning and asking, "Because you couldn't recite your lesson?"

"No, because I fell asleep in class." Luo Qianyu's words trailed off, suddenly recalling that before class, the Director of Studies had also glanced at his calligraphy copybook with a rather telling look. "Wait, or perhaps it's because my handwriting is too ugly... The Director loves punishing people so much, who can guess why?"

Wen Yu gently lowered his hand and said, "The student dormitory keeps salve for wounds."

Luo Qianyu nodded absentmindedly.

Come to think of it, the jade ointment Lou Xian had given him was truly effective—no wonder it was a rarity from the Western Regions. Last time, when he injured his knees from kneeling, he had only applied the medicine three or four times, and now there wasn't a trace of bruising or swelling left.

The cold outside was biting, and the walk back to his quarters was a long one. Luo Qianyu hesitated for a moment before asking, "Is there no one outside anymore?"

Wen Yu responded, "Mm."

Sitting on the wooden chair, he let his pampered young master habits resurface. He blinked his eyes and whispered, "Since there's no one, will you carry me?"

Thinking the other likely wouldn't agree, he softly added, "Teacher Wen."

Surprisingly, after a moment of silence, Wen Yu didn't refuse with the expected look of disgust. Instead, he slightly bent down.

But it was Luo Qianyu who got cold feet, hesitating and suddenly not wanting to go through with it. Yet he was in a bind. He leaned forward, braced himself, and wrapped his arms around the other man's neck, allowing him to scoop him up by the knees and lift him.

It had just been a spur-of-the-moment whim, not meant to be taken seriously. Luo Qianyu pursed his lips, filled with nothing but regret.

He felt like a child being picked up from school. Thankfully, they didn't run into any classmates on the way—it would have been too embarrassing.

As they walked, Wen Yu suddenly spoke up, asking him, "Since you were sleepy, should you train less tomorrow?"

"No." Luo Qianyu refused without hesitation, resting his chin on the other's shoulder. He caught a faint scent, inexplicably soothing now, almost hypnotic.

Perhaps because he was drowsy, or perhaps due to the grievance of being punished, a whiny tone, usually reserved for Zhao Nian, crept into his voice toward his Personal Guard. "As a student, one should be diligent. I can adjust on my own. Teacher Wen needn't go easy on me; please treat me exactly as before."

The corner of Wen Yu's lips twitched slightly, revealing a smile even he himself didn't notice.

"The sooner I master it, the sooner you can leave, right?"

Wen Yu stiffened slightly. After a moment, he softly replied, "Mm."

"That would be for the best."

-

That night, at the sound of the first watch drum.

The Young Marquis finally lay down on the pillow he had been longing for. After days of running around, exhaustion, and piled-up matters, he could finally steal a moment for a good night's sleep. Resting well wouldn't hinder tomorrow morning's practice.

The youth had just closed his eyes, drowsiness washing over him like a tide. He had just begun to meet the Duke of Zhou in his dreams when a faint, familiar noise abruptly yanked him back to wakefulness.

...

Him again?

Luo Qianyu opened his eyes, his fists unconsciously clenching.

Three days.

The Young Marquis was almost laughing in anger. He had returned to study, not died—you'd think he was at a funeral!

Luo Qianyu gritted his teeth. This time, a calming mantra did no good. He didn't call for Zhao Nian or Wen Yu. Instead, he personally rolled off the bed, casually threw on an outer robe, opened the door, and strode quickly toward the neighboring room.

He hadn't had time to tie up his hair; dark strands cascaded over his shoulders and the collar of his padded jacket, softening some of the youth's uniquely overbearing arrogance. When he knocked, the force wasn't heavy. The Page inside thought it was a friendly visitor, but upon opening the door, the young page's face instantly paled as if he'd seen a ghost, terrified out of his wits, stammering:

"Young... Young Master... How did you..."

Luo Qianyu looked down at him, his expression dark as water. He was utterly exasperated with this household. Was he some newly appointed King of Hell from the underworld?

Bypassing the page, the young master walked straight into the main room, his gaze immediately falling upon the bed behind the screen. The page behind him was still tremblingly trying to dissuade him, "Young Master, you mustn't! My young master, he..."

Before he could finish, Luo Qianyu closed the distance in two or three strides, grabbed the edge of the brocade quilt bundled into a roll, and yanked it off with a fierce pull.