Stop for a moment, Michael King added with a hint of regret, “And besides, you started practicing 聚力 a bit late. Usually, people begin training around the age of ten. Once the body’s muscles and bones are set, it’s a bit too late to master it.”

Eric Bolton’s heart sank. Didn’t that mean he had no hope at all? He was already twenty-two, long past the age for practicing 聚力.

Michael King stood up and gently patted him on the shoulder. “You don’t need to be discouraged. You are the exception I mentioned. You have such height, such a strong physique, and your tendons and veins are no weaker than mine. That’s natural talent. As long as you can retrain in 聚力 and focus all your strength into your arms, I believe your achievements will far surpass mine. You’re a late bloomer. It’s just that my abilities are limited—I can only help you a little, but it’s my heartfelt intention.”

……

Eric Bolton lived in a small courtyard at the easternmost end, which was the guest room at Michael King’s house, and he was the only one staying there.

The room was simply furnished. Facing the door was an old bed that had been used for over a decade, still very sturdy. On the bed were brand-new fine linen bedding and a bamboo pillow. Beside the bed was a glossy bamboo chest, and in the corner stood a table and a sitting mat.

At this moment, Eric Bolton stood with his hands behind his back in front of the window, staring blankly at a distant ginkgo tree laden with white fruit. A few naked-bottomed children from next door were climbing the tree, using bamboo poles to knock down the golden fruit.

Eric Bolton seemed not to see any of this, appearing somewhat troubled and distracted. He was still mulling over what Michael King had just said—tapping into potential, focusing all one’s strength into the arms. Only now did he realize how unattainable it was to reach the level of Andrew Carter.

Not to mention Andrew Carter, even Michael King’s martial skills seemed like a world apart.

Eric Bolton had loved martial arts since childhood. At six, he was selected for a youth martial arts class, following his teacher everywhere to learn from masters. He had a natural obsession with martial arts.

At eighteen, he joined the army. Thanks to his solid martial arts foundation, he was immediately picked out by a special forces instructor, beginning two years of grueling training. Two years ago, he was sent to the military academy for further study. Even while studying, his passion for martial arts was extraordinary, as if it was innate.

After discovering he had accidentally arrived at the end of the Sui dynasty, his first thought was to learn martial arts. After all, in the chaos of the Sui’s end, strength was the only truth. He didn’t have enough literary talent to be a civil official or strategist, so the only path left was the martial one.

And in this era, there were also Patrick Lee, Andrew Carter, Albert Page, Mark Rowe, Thomas Quinn...

Countless mighty generals who made his heart race would appear before his eyes one by one. Just a few days ago, he had dreamed of becoming one of them. But now... he actually felt a bit hopeless.

Michael King had tactfully explained to him the difference between martial skills and martial prowess. Martial skills were just moves and techniques, while martial prowess was about strength.

He was 1.9 meters tall, yet couldn’t wield a fifty-jin spear, while Michael King, half a head shorter, could handle a sixty-jin spear with ease—not to mention Andrew Carter’s over two-hundred-jin phoenix-winged gold halberd.

He had underestimated the martial prowess of this era.

Just then, a round little head poked in at the door, grinning as he said to Eric Bolton, “Uncle Zhang, my father asked me to bring you a saber and a saber manual.”

The little fellow ran in, placed a saber and a scroll on the table, and then pulled a porcelain bottle from his pocket. “Oh, and this too!”

Luke Bolton curiously took the porcelain bottle and opened it. Inside were ten vermilion pills, each the size of a grape, giving off a fragrant aroma.

“What’s this?”

“This is Peiyuan Pill, our Wang family’s secret medicine. I take it too, hehe! But you can only have one a day. Once I sneaked two, and it almost made me overheat.”

Eric Bolton patted his little head and asked with a smile, “I still don’t know your name! What’s your name?”

“My name is Edward King. My father says a man should have great ambition, but my mother always calls me Little William. How am I small?” The little guy pouted in protest.

Eric Bolton couldn’t help but laugh, patting the back of his head. “Little William isn’t a bad name either. Where’s your father?”

“My father went out. I heard him tell my mother he was going to buy some kind of water jar and would be gone for a few years. My mother cried.”

Eric Bolton was taken aback, and immediately understood. It wasn’t a water jar, but 瓦岗寨. In history, Michael King followed James Lee to Wagang.

But... James Lee was killed by him! Why would Michael King still go to Wagang? He was truly puzzled. Could it be that the James Lee he killed was a different James Lee? He recalled the head he saw at the city gate—it was clearly someone else. He was really confused now.

At that moment, a burst of children’s laughter snapped Eric Bolton out of his thoughts, and he realized the little fellow had long since disappeared.

Eric Bolton knew he couldn’t figure it out, so he simply stopped thinking about it and put it out of his mind. He picked up the saber on the table—the same one he had sparred with Michael King with that afternoon, a Sui army saber, very handy. He couldn’t help but recall what Michael King had said.

‘You don’t need to be discouraged. You have such height, such a strong physique, and your tendons and veins are no weaker than mine. That’s natural talent. I believe your achievements will far surpass mine. You’re a late bloomer.’

A surge of heroic spirit welled up in Eric Bolton’s heart, and he began to feel confident once again.