Is It a Game or Reality?

Though he had harbored a premonition on the return journey, hearing the old man admit it himself still caused Mu Xiangli's heart to surge with excitement. With a master of such extraordinary status, he would possess greater strength to traverse this realm. However, in the wake of this revelation came countless doubts.

"Regarding the events of that year, Master surely must have rendered great service. Why then did you not remain in the Royal City, but instead chose to dwell deep within this place?"

Qi Beihang was naturally a man of few words. Yet, having accepted Mu Xiangli as his nominal disciple and revealed his identity, he did not mind explaining a few more words.

"In the past, when this old man fortunately returned alive to the Royal City, I had sustained severe injuries, rendering me unfit to continue as the Deputy Commander of the Palace Imperial Guards. Furthermore, escorting the Heir Apparent back to the Royal City, though seemingly a meritorious deed, was in truth merely falling into a trap and escaping in wretched defeat. How could I have the face to claim rewards? Thus, I took the initiative to resign, departed the Royal City, and came to this place where my sworn brothers laid their bones to heal and recuperate.

At first, I thought to wait until my wounds healed to take up arms and seek vengeance. Yet, the injuries upon my body were far graver than imagined. As I nurtured them, my blade grew dull, and my ambition withered. This old man eventually grew accustomed to wasting away the years in these mountains."

Mu Xiangli asked with concern, "How is Master's injury now?"

Qi Beihang glanced at the saber hanging by the bed, then at Mu Xiangli, as if seeing through his petty thoughts. "The injuries have long ceased to be of concern. Though my strength may not recover to its peak, instructing you is still more than sufficient."

"That is only natural," Mu Xiangli replied hastily.

"Let me examine the blade you purchased," Qi Beihang said, extending his hand.

Mu Xiangli hurriedly presented the saber. It was an ordinary, unremarkable blade, common in any shop, costing a mere dozens of copper coins. Knowing nothing of blades, he had simply chosen one that felt comfortable in his hand.

Qi Beihang took it, tapped the flat of the blade with his knuckle, and nodded. "Sufficient for your initiation."

Mu Xiangli was overjoyed. "In that case, will Master teach me martial arts tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" Qi Beihang smiled faintly and tossed the saber back. "Go. Before you sleep, practice in the courtyard."

All day, Mu Xiangli had walked until his calves were numb; he wished for nothing more than to lie down and rest. Catching the returned saber in a flurry, he was stunned to hear such an order. "Now?" Qi Beihang replied, "Otherwise, when?"

Having spent too little time with Qi Beihang, Mu Xiangli had yet to fathom his master's temperament and dared not bargain. "This disciple shall go at once."

Steeling his resolve, Mu Xiangli carried the saber into the courtyard and looked toward Qi Beihang.

Qi Beihang emerged carrying his own saber. Under Mu Xiangli's expectant gaze, he slowly executed three movements as if in half-speed slow motion, then stopped. "Cleaving, swinging, and thrusting are the three basic movements of blade training. Practice each a thousand times, and then you may sleep."

Mu Xiangli muttered to himself, "Is that all?" cursing inwardly. Yet he knew well that those with ambitions higher than the heavens often possessed destinies as thin as paper; it was better to train honestly.

Seeing that he showed no resentment and began training immediately, Qi Beihang was satisfied. After offering a few pointers on Mu Xiangli's form, he returned to his room.

With no one to supervise him, Mu Xiangli dared not slacken. After all, his current martial arts were tied to his future survival.

Though the saber was not heavy—only about two catties—had it been before his transmigration, swinging it thirty to fifty times would have exhausted him. However, with his current physique, he estimated that swinging it fifty times was quite effortless.

Thinking of the cannon fodder companions from before, Mu Xiangli sighed with emotion. To be cannon fodder, one still needed some strength. If he were weak and helpless, he would likely have ended up in prison or on the execution ground after transmigrating. At this thought, he felt fortunate.

"When will I ever find peace like this?" Mu Xiangli mused as he calculated, already executing his hundredth cleave.

As this strike fell, he felt a flash of light pass over the blade. This sensation was identical to the red light he had seen when Qi Beihang drew his blade earlier that morning—a vague, illusory intuition.

"Could this be..." Mu Xiangli pondered. All of this closely resembled a game mechanic. If the red light was indeed a warning indicator of a powerful foe's attack in a boss battle, then could this sudden flash of light be a notification of increased proficiency?

"Is this reality, or is it a game?"

Mu Xiangli could not help but summon the game menu again: "Open menu! Summon menu! Game menu! ESC! ALT+F4! CTRL+ALT+DEL! End task! Shut down! Damn you all!"

After trying everything, nothing happened. He had no choice but to give up and focus his mind on practicing his blade.

A thousand cleaves, a thousand swings, a thousand thrusts—Mu Xiangli did not slacken in the slightest, completing the training with sheer determination.

Dragging his exhausted body back to the room where he had curled up in the corner yesterday, he found that Qi Beihang had tossed some bedding over.

The lamps in the room were extinguished, and Qi Beihang had already lain down. Clearly, there was no need for Mu Xiangli to report; it was entirely based on self-discipline. Mu Xiangli did not know what hour it was, but feeling that dawn would arrive before he could sleep much, he hastily lay down.

Before sleeping, random thoughts inevitably drifted through his mind. Although no menu appeared externally, could his intuition be a form of reminder? Perhaps he shouldn't be overly cautious. If he treated this as a game and wandered the world, would he not be much happier?

Amidst his contemplation, he fell into a deep sleep. When Mu Xiangli woke, he found the sun high in the sky. A sudden panic seized him, much like oversleeping and being late for school in his childhood.

He rose hurriedly, ignoring the aches racking his body, and guiltily scanned the room and courtyard. Finding no sign of Qi Beihang, he let out a sigh of relief.

After washing his face, Mu Xiangli prepared to practice his blade, so that when Qi Beihang returned, he would see his diligent efforts.

Regrettably, man proposes, God disposes. Just as he stepped out of the room, he ran right into the returning Qi Beihang. "Ah, Master... good morning?"

With a single glance, Qi Beihang saw through his thoughts. "Since you completed all three thousand strikes last night, your oversleeping today can be overlooked. But do not let it happen again."

Mu Xiangli breathed a sigh of relief. "Master, how did you know this disciple did not slack off last night?"

Qi Beihang picked up a branch from the courtyard. "By those words, did you indeed slack off?"

"No, no," Mu Xiangli denied hastily. Looking at the branch in Qi Beihang's hand, his eyelids twitched. Surely he wasn't going to strike his hands?

It turned out he was overthinking. Qi Beihang gripped the branch and said to him, "Techniques and forms are but combinations of basic movements; cultivation methods are the combination of forms and qi. To put it simply, it is very straightforward, yet in practice, it is infinitely complex."

Mu Xiangli nodded. "This disciple understands. The Great Dao is ultimately simple, yet from simplicity arises complexity, encompassing all phenomena."

"Oh?" Seemingly surprised by such an insight, Qi Beihang was somewhat taken aback. "Very well, then I can spare my breath. Today, you shall employ these three movements—cleaving, swinging, and thrusting—to attack me in any combination you wish. If you can strike me or sever the branch in my hand, you shall pass."

Such a condition made it difficult not to perceive it as simple. Furthermore, Mu Xiangli, conceited in his ability to see the red warning light, grew even more confident. "Master, please be careful!"

Qi Beihang raised the branch. "Come at me."

Mu Xiangli rushed forward, betting that Qi Beihang would not use the branch to clash directly with the scimitar in his hand. Swinging his blade downward, he had already planned his next move: if this strike missed, he would immediately retract the blade and swing again, like a chess player who had carefully calculated every retreat.

The first step went exactly as he anticipated. Qi Beihang did not clash with him directly; he merely took half a step back without dodging to the side.

Seeing this, Mu Xiangli immediately abandoned his planned swing and prepared to thrust. However, before he could take a step, the red light surged forward.

Initially, he believed that if he could see it, he could evade it. But reality proved him too naive. Before he could dodge, the branch in Qi Beihang's hand struck the back of his neck. It was not a gentle tap, but a solid strike. Mu Xiangli's head snapped back, and he fell flat on his back.

It was incredibly painful, but his concern was not the pain, but whether his face was injured!

"Master, don't hit the face!" Mu Xiangli cried out.

Qi Beihang snorted in disdain. "Who taught you such logic?"