David Sullivan hesitated to speak. After spouting nonsense last night, this guy went back to squat in a horse stance for another half an hour, collapsed from exhaustion before finally sleeping, and started snoring the moment his head hit the desk, keeping him up all night as well.

　　But that level of effort really is commendable.

　　David Sullivan didn’t know whether he should mock him for overestimating himself or offer encouragement, so he quietly gnawed on his cornbread and said, “In the dead of winter, just having something to eat is already pretty good. Last night, you and I even had chicken legs—do you know how many people would drool over that?”

　　Charles Carter came to his senses. Whether this was a world of martial strength or one where only scholars were respected, it was still an ancient world template. With ancient productivity, even landlords might not have meat at every meal, let alone in these “chaotic times” when plenty of people went hungry. Being able to fill your belly in the morning was already not bad...

　　Thinking of this, he felt a bit worried. The nutritional requirements for the Blood Fiend Technique were no joke—cornbread alone wouldn’t cut it. He wondered if there were missions to get more food.

　　Would he have to resort to robbing people?

　　The things he couldn’t get used to weren’t just the cornbread—there were all sorts of other inconveniences.

　　For example, there was a waterfall behind the mountain stronghold, the water forming a pool before splitting into streams that flowed down the mountain. The scenery was actually quite nice. The daily water supply was carried up by laborers... but no one would fetch water for you to wash up with; that water was for drinking. Who could possibly jump into the pool to bathe in this weather? How was anyone supposed to live like this...

　　David Sullivan scratched an itch and complained, “I’ve never gone so many days without a bath... What a godforsaken place. The conditions in the Luo family were something so many people could only dream of, and look at you, you’ve managed to become a wanted man.”

　　Charles Carter grunted, “Is this really the time to bring that up...”

　　David Sullivan turned his head away, ignoring him. He knew he was just being unreasonable—there was no real reason to blame Charles Carter for this.

　　Actually, Charles Carter felt the same way. After such a privileged modern life, ending up like this, he could totally understand David Sullivan’s baseless complaints. If that blind man were in front of him now, Charles Carter figured he’d probably slap him.

　　He wondered how other mountain lords managed to enjoy themselves... But he knew that no matter how good things got, you had to be the mountain lord, not just a lowly grunt.

　　“Enough talking, I’m going to practice.” Charles Carter didn’t say any more, just kept gnawing on his cornbread as he headed to the training grounds in the stronghold.

　　As a total novice who had never practiced martial arts, just reading the “manual” wasn’t enough to learn anything—he needed someone to answer his questions, otherwise there were plenty of terms he couldn’t even understand. David Sullivan’s methods were completely different from the Blood God Sect’s, so asking him was useless.

　　Fang Buping, the dignified branch leader, didn’t teach here himself; there were instructors specifically responsible for teaching, and you could just go learn from them.

　　There was no snow today. When he arrived at the training grounds, quite a few people were already practicing, and Charles Carter noticed they were all training with sabers.

　　The instructor’s voice echoed across the grounds: “The saber may be easy to pick up, but that doesn’t mean you can just swing it around wildly! Look at this simple turning slash—how many times have I told you? Don’t make the movement too big, or you’ll leave yourself wide open and won’t have time to defend. Michael Bolton! Look at how you’re twisting your waist—do you think you’re your mother dancing the yangge?”

　　Charles Carter watched closely as the instructor pointed at Michael Bolton. Michael Bolton spun around and slashed, extremely fast—it looked like anyone sneaking up behind him would be cut in two, yet he still got scolded harshly.

　　The instructor snatched Michael Bolton’s saber: “I’ll demonstrate again—watch carefully!”

　　He bent his legs slightly, shifted his steps lightly, twisted his waist, and Charles Carter saw a flash of the blade—the saber stopped firmly at a ninety-degree angle behind him.

　　This slash was clearly faster than Michael Bolton’s, but it stopped dead, not advancing even half an inch further, as if there were a wall blocking it.

　　The instructor shouted, “Don’t use up all your strength—only then can you stay flexible. With a slash like this, whether or not you get the result you want, as long as you haven’t used all your strength, you’ll always have options for your next move!”

　　So that’s how it is, that’s how it is.

　　How did he get killed in that dream again?

　　Even the simplest martial arts had their subtleties. If he’d practiced moves like this before—even just the basics—maybe things would have turned out differently...

　　Wasn’t the whole point of “entering the dream” to learn this stuff?

　　After all this, he was finally getting started... Even if he’d probably already strayed from the blind man’s original plan, maybe that was actually a good thing...

　　Then he heard Michael Bolton say, “But instructor, it’s not like I’m trying to use that much force, but you also want the slash to be fast—once it’s fast, I can’t stop it...”

　　“You have to practice! Just this turning slash—how much force to use, where to stop—practice it a thousand times a day and you’ll get it!” Instructor Harris’s voice was still booming. “Besides that, did you all understand how I coordinated my waist and legs just now? I’m not making you do horse stances just to look pretty!”

　　“Huh?” Michael Bolton scratched his head. “I-I didn’t catch it, instructor, could you...”

　　“Hmm?” Instructor Harris glared.

　　Michael Bolton shrank back with a sheepish grin.

　　The other disciples all chimed in, “None of us saw it clearly, instructor, please show us again...”

　　Instructor Harris shook his head, clearly disappointed. This wasn’t the first time—one by one, they were as dumb as oxen, learning one day and forgetting the next, yet still had the nerve to say they hadn’t seen clearly.

　　He looked around, wanting to see if anyone had understood, and his eyes landed on Charles Carter, who was standing a bit farther away, deep in thought.