After a while, he finally dared to take a step, walking over to push open the window that his mother had closed.

The slightly chilly night breeze brushed against his face, instantly refreshing his spirit. Gazing at the crescent moon in the night sky, with faint stars scattered about, he suddenly smiled: “A great dream for twenty years, the clouds part and the moon shines bright—only today do I truly know myself.”

Behind him came the anxious call of Mrs. Brooks: “Yuan’er, you just woke up—why are you opening the window to let in the wind? Quickly, quickly, lie back down on the bed.”

Chapter Two: Hidden Edge in the Heart, Sword Nurtured by Blood

A small sandalwood box, no more than half a foot long and three fingers wide, hollow inside—not for holding writing brushes, but a sword.

The box was bought at the Four Treasures Studio in Jing County, costing a full ten taels of silver—a considerable sum. You should know, a thousand wen make a string, a string makes a tael; for an ordinary family, ten taels of silver could last a long time.

The steward Uncle Harris who paid for it was heartbroken, but there was no choice—the young master liked it. Over the years, Sanlang Brooks had no interest in pleasure or adornment, but loved the Four Treasures of the Study, and spent quite a bit on them.

Of course, this time Uncle Harris didn’t know the young master’s true purpose for buying the box—it wasn’t for brushes, but for a sword.

The mysterious little sword was by no means ordinary. Especially during the nurturing process, it could not be placed just anywhere, lest its essence leak away and all effort be wasted. Therefore, it had to be stored in a vessel of special quality, such as fine sandalwood.

According to the silk manuscript, to nurture this sword, one must drip blood on it every twelve hours, until it is fully sated.

Only with perseverance can one achieve minor success and awaken its sharpness; when mastery is attained, its edge will be fully revealed; with the art of sword control, one could send the sword a thousand miles to behead an enemy.

Truly the means of an immortal!

When he first learned of this prospect, Sanlang Brooks was both shocked and overjoyed beyond measure. He was deeply curious about Ruby, who had brought him the sword as a token of gratitude.

And as his perspective broadened, he realized how shallow his knowledge of this world was, lamenting the twenty years wasted as a frog at the bottom of a well.

After sighing, he officially began nurturing the sword, only to be jolted awake by the bloody pain of reality: to become an immortal and wield supernatural powers—difficult, truly difficult.

Bleeding from his finger, the blood trickled out, pain piercing to the bone—almost unbearable.

A scholar’s body is frail to begin with—how could it withstand the toll of sword nurturing? He feared he wouldn’t last two or three days before becoming a dried-up husk.

Yet once the process began, it could not be interrupted. Missing a day meant the previous day’s blood was wasted; missing more than three days, all previous effort would be for naught, and everything would have to start over.

Since he had started, he had to grit his teeth and push on.

After much thought, the only method Sanlang Brooks could come up with was a simple one: eat. Eat to build up his appetite, eat to build up his body.

Whereas he used to have one bowl of rice per meal, now he ate three bowls at a time, and six meals a day. As for vegetables, fish, and meat, he made no fuss, chewing and swallowing in big mouthfuls, like a pig or an ox at the table.

This way of eating left Mrs. Brooks and the others dumbfounded: was this still the gentle and refined Sanlang?

But since Sanlang Brooks could eat, they couldn’t refuse him—only try to satisfy him as much as possible, buying whatever he wanted to eat. Chicken and duck today, beef and lamb tomorrow, taking turns.

Simple methods often yield good results—at the start of sword nurturing, he was sickly, weak-limbed, exhausted, and pale. But gradually, he adapted, and with his diet keeping up, he managed to maintain the critical point of loss, not collapsing.

But daily bloodletting was far from something that could be replenished by eating alone.

Thus, in the bright spring days, Sanlang Brooks grew thinner by the day.

He ate more, yet grew thinner, which made Mrs. Brooks frantic, thinking her son had fallen seriously ill, and hurried to call a doctor. The doctor came, took his pulse, and said Sanlang Brooks was weak in blood and energy, and needed great nourishment, prescribing a dose of “Ginseng Nourishing Decoction” to be taken daily.

This decoction was made from ginseng, angelica, poria, and more than ten other medicinal ingredients, and was quite expensive—one dose a day cost five hundred wen.

With increased food and the need to buy herbs for the decoction, expenses soared, silver flowing away like water.

Mrs. Brooks wore a worried look.

The The Brooks Family had once been merchants, accumulating some wealth over years of business. But since Mr. Brooks died young, and Mrs. Brooks was not suited to appear in public, the business was handed over to others and converted to cash. She devoted herself to raising Sanlang Brooks, hoping he would succeed in his studies and enter officialdom. Unexpectedly, though Sanlang was talented, he was born with stage fright and couldn’t take the exams. Year after year passed, and he couldn’t even become a xiucai.

Thus, Mrs. Brooks gradually gave up her ambitions, deciding not to think too much, and to simply guard their savings and see Sanlang Brooks married and settled. But with more outflow than income, the family’s resources would inevitably run dry.

In recent years, to save expenses, all the servants had been dismissed except for an old steward and a personal maid.

But now, with her son unwell, Mrs. Brooks loved him dearly and would spare no expense, thinking that even if it meant losing everything, she must nurse Sanlang back to health.

During this period, Sanlang Brooks would walk by the Jing River every day, but never again encountered Ruby. That mysterious fish had probably already left the Jing River, its whereabouts unknown.

Countless doubts lingered in his heart.

But Sanlang Brooks’s resolve to feed the sword with his blood never wavered. Without madness, there is no life—he was no longer the pedantic scholar buried in old papers.