This was a saying that the master never tired of repeating. The master was the head proprietor of Linzhi Hall in Taiyuan, highly skilled in medicine, a former soldier, and also quite adept in martial arts. Henry Bolton was his only disciple. Although he was the master, he had never taught Henry Bolton even the basics of diagnosis or medicine, and in martial arts, he had only taught him the most practical set of battlefield combat knife techniques.

‘Practicing medicine is a trivial skill, not suitable for you. As for a mere warrior, he will always be beneath others!’

It wasn’t until after Henry Bolton turned twenty that he gradually understood the master’s true intention: to temper his will to be as resilient as steel.

He had already swum five laps. The deep night was beginning to thin, and a faint blue was appearing on the horizon. Henry Bolton felt utterly exhausted, his strength completely spent. The iron sandbags on his legs felt like a heavy mountain, dragging him down to the depths of the river.

“Give it a try! Challenge the sixth lap.”

A thought suddenly surged into his mind. He had wanted to attempt the sixth lap ten days ago, to once again push the limits of his endurance, but he had already failed three times. Yet today, the urge was especially strong. He needed to vent, to completely expel the frustration in his chest. His fighting spirit instantly turned into a raging fire, burning fiercely in his heart.

He took a deep breath, slowly relaxed, and let his body gradually sink to the riverbed. The strength within him began to gather bit by bit. All around was dark and silent. After the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, his endurance had reached its limit. Death’s grim smile was unusually clear at this moment—if he weakened even a little, he would be doomed, but if he persevered with tenacity, he would once again conquer himself.

“One, two, three,” he silently counted. The gathered strength began to rapidly spread to his limbs, as if a tiny flint had exploded violently inside his body. At last, his fists could clench again. Henry Bolton summoned all his strength and leapt upward. In an instant, every pore in his body felt an exhilarating rush, as if a current of electricity surged through him. The extreme fatigue vanished without a trace in that moment.

……

Dawn was breaking, the eastern sky turning pale. There was movement across the river—a carriage sped by, and a few early-rising farmers hurried along the road, carrying vegetables still dewy on their shoulders.

Henry Bolton leapt ashore from the water, feeling refreshed and invigorated, as if every muscle in his body was joyfully dancing. He stretched, then strode toward the small courtyard.

The courtyard was quiet. Uncle Ya had already left. On the stool by the gate was a neatly folded set of clean clothes and a long robe. Henry Bolton casually pulled off his shorts, took a few steps, then seemed to remember something, turned back to bolt the door, and quickly walked to the well, drawing a bucket of water to pour over himself from head to toe.

Suddenly, with a loud “bang,” the courtyard door was flung open. A gust of crisp morning wind, mixed with a flash of red, burst into the yard. “Samuel Bolton, your breakfast is here!”

The voice was urgent and rapid, like beans being stir-fried. Immediately after, there was a loud “Ah!”—the woman in red nearly dropped the food box in her hand. Her face turned even redder than her clothes, and she dashed out like the wind. “You dead man, not wearing any clothes again, so embarrassing!”

Henry Bolton gave a helpless, wry smile. Anyone else would surely suspect that Grace Carter was doing it on purpose, trying to peek at Henry Bolton naked. Otherwise, this wouldn’t be the umpteenth time—how could she never remember?

But Henry Bolton knew she truly just couldn’t remember. She was very forgetful and often absent-minded. There was a time when she was in charge of bringing lunch to her grandfather, and as a result, during that period, the old man got used to eating lunch and dinner together.

Yet, strangely, she never forgot how Henry Bolton bullied her as a child. She even remembered in detail whether he pulled her left braid or her right one.

Grace Carter was the master Robert Carter’s youngest daughter, eighteen this year, four years younger than Henry Bolton. She came from a family of doctors; her father was known among the people as Dr. Carter, and he was also highly skilled in martial arts. Her mother, though over forty, was still beautiful and dignified. With such excellent genes, it seemed that in Grace Carter’s case, they had all become recessive.

She was plain-looking, and from childhood was often invited by other girls to various gatherings, always as the “green leaf” to set off the “red flower.” But she insisted this was because she was well-liked.

Her martial arts were mediocre. She often rushed in bravely to help bullied friends, but in the end, it was always her friends who had to rescue her.

Her medical skills were average. Once, when her father was out on a medical visit, a long-time patient suffering from years of constipation came from the capital to seek out Dr. Carter. Thinking that a tiger father would not have a dog daughter, he asked her to work her magic. Grace Carter boldly added half a tael of croton seed to her father’s prescription, nearly ruining Dr. Carter’s reputation.

……

“This is your breakfast!”

Grace Carter slammed the food box onto the table in a huff. “Porridge and fried…” She suddenly remembered something, and couldn’t help but beam. “Didn’t you say you were tired of fried eggs? I changed it up for you today.”

Henry Bolton glanced at the small silver frying pan hanging from her waist and smiled slightly. “So, is it fried goose egg or fried duck egg today?”

Grace Carter was stunned. “How did you know?”