novelSusiti Chapter 23 Reading Can't Save the Poor
Chapter 23 Reading Can't Save the Poor
Fang Xiaohe walked to his younger brother's side. Although he didn't know martial arts, his keen observation skills, honed from years of studying, immediately revealed the problem: "Your waist isn't working properly. When you turn and twist your hips, you need to engage your waist."
Fang Yingyu looked at her brother in surprise: "Brother, this book looks like you wrote it?"
"Nonsense." Fang Xiaohe smiled wryly. "But the principles of literature and martial arts are interconnected. Just like calligraphy, if you lack wrist strength but force the brushstrokes, you'll only achieve a superficial effect."
At that moment, Fang Xiaohe suddenly realized that his hard work in studying poetry and literature was not entirely useless. The Confucian way and the martial way may have originated from the same source.
He took out his treasured copy of the Analects and compared it with the illustrations on the sword manual, and indeed found a wonderful connection between the two.
"The benevolent love others" versus "No regrets when the sword is drawn"; "Self-discipline and adherence to propriety" versus "Mastery of control"; "A gentleman is not a vessel" versus "No moves are better than moves"... Fang Xiaohe became more and more excited as he compared them, as if he had unlocked his full potential. He picked up a smooth wooden stick and began to practice in the courtyard, integrating Confucian thought into his understanding of swordsmanship. He suddenly felt enlightened, realizing that if the slashing of the sword were replaced with the thrusting of the blade, it would be even more elegant and natural.
"So that's how it is!" Fang Xiaohe almost shouted out loud, then quickly covered his mouth. He looked at his younger brother practicing with his sword, a warm feeling welling up in his heart. It was his brother's opportunity that opened this new door for him.
He stretched and rubbed his sore eyes, yet felt more awake than ever before. The wooden stick became his longsword.
"Repay injustice with justice, and kindness with kindness..." Fang Xiaohe murmured the sentence from the Analects, his wooden stick moving like a dragon in the air, drawing sharp trajectories. He incorporated the Confucian "Doctrine of the Mean" into his swordsmanship, not seeking extremes, but striving for just the right balance.
Ten days or so later, Fang Yingyu went hunting in the mountains, while Fang Xiaohe practiced the sword techniques he had learned with a wooden stick in the woods. "Interesting," a deep voice suddenly came from the tree.
Fang Xiaohe was startled and looked up to see Song Bie standing on a branch, leaning against a big tree with his arms crossed. This master, who had been in seclusion for many years, had been observing for who knows how long, and his eyes were flashing with a complex light.
"Master Song!" Fang Xiaohe hurriedly bowed, but the wooden stick in his hand accidentally fell. Song Bie was Fang Yingyu's master, whom he had met a few times recently.
Song Bie landed lightly, flicking his toes, and the wooden stick flew back into Fang Xiaohe's hand. "Continue," he commanded briefly.
Fang Xiaohe took a deep breath and resumed his stance. This time, he poured all his recent insights into the swordplay—the Confucian concept of "benevolence" was transformed into room for maneuver in his sword techniques; the spirit of "righteousness" was transformed into a balance between offense and defense; and the norms of "propriety" became the precise control of each movement.
The wooden stick made a "whooshing" sound as it cut through the air. Fine beads of sweat appeared on Fang Xiaohe's forehead, but his eyes grew increasingly determined. After completing a set of self-created "sword techniques," he stood still, his chest heaving.
Song remained silent for a long time, finally asking only one question: "I heard you studied very hard, so why are you practicing martial arts now?"
Fang Xiaohe raised his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, his chest still heaving slightly. He didn't look away, but instead stared directly into Song Bie's unfathomable eyes, his voice calm yet carrying a fire-hardened resolve:
"Studying can't save the poor."
He paused, his gaze sweeping past Song Bie, as if he saw countless instances of helplessness and injustice in this world. "In this world, sometimes, fists do work more than reason. Last month, Li the blacksmith at the village entrance was beaten so badly by the Chen family's thugs that he broke his leg just to get his wages. He's been bedridden ever since, and his whole family is suffering from hunger and cold." His voice was filled with suppressed anger, and then he suddenly ripped open the collar of his old shirt, revealing a hideous, unhealed purplish-red whip mark on his chest. "A few days ago, I thought I had read a few books of sages and went to reason with them, trying to explain the law and justice to them—this is what my sages got in return."
Having endured the hardships of his younger brother Fang Yingyu's wrongful imprisonment and the near destruction of his family, and witnessing firsthand the plight of his impoverished neighbors who suffered repeated oppression with no recourse, his heart was already crystal clear: in this world rife with wolves and tigers, empty talk of poetry and philosophy often proves pale and powerless. His humble origins seemed to have sealed his fate for life.
His gaze refocused on Song Bie's face, his eyes burning, and he spoke each word with unwavering conviction: "Therefore, I will speak for those who cannot speak, and give strength to those who are powerless!"
Song Bie's pupils contracted slightly, almost imperceptibly, upon hearing the last sentence. How similar that sentence was to the dying words on the title page of the Canglang Sword Manual: "Speak out for the common people!" It was a resonance that transcended time and space, a sense of chivalry and responsibility deeply rooted in one's very being.
He gave Fang Xiaohe a deep look. This scholar, though seemingly frail, possessed a formidable resilience and decisiveness. Song Bie remained silent for a moment, then suddenly turned to leave. After taking a few steps, he abruptly stopped, not turning back, but uttering a single, deep sentence:
"Tomorrow at this time and place, when I teach your younger brother, you should come along too."
Before he finished speaking, his figure had already vanished into the depths of the forest like a ghost, leaving Fang Xiaohe standing alone in the same spot, tightly gripping the smooth wooden stick in his hand. His heart was surging with unprecedented excitement because of this sudden recognition and the opportunity that was about to come.
That evening, after hearing her brother recount his extraordinary adventure in the forest during the day, Fang Yingyu jumped up from the kang (a heated brick bed) with delight, her eyes wide open: "Brother! This is wonderful news! Master is clearly going to take you as his disciple!"
Fang Xiaohe was far less excited than his younger brother. Instead, his face showed a hint of uncertainty and bewilderment. He rubbed his fingers, which were calloused from years of holding a pen, and said in a low voice, "I... I was just gesturing randomly. How could I dare to call it martial arts? I'm afraid I would make a fool of myself and disgrace Master Song's school."
"No, brother, it's not like that!" Fang Yingyu pressed down on her brother's shoulder, her tone unusually serious. "I've seen the movements you practiced. Although your power and posture aren't quite right yet, there's something very special about them. I can't quite put my finger on it," he thought hard, scratching his head, trying to find the right expression. "It's like... it's like the wooden stick in your hand, no, it's your sword that's speaking."
Fang Xiaohe was taken aback by his younger brother's childish yet accurate description, then couldn't help but chuckle, the slight unease in his heart seemingly dispelled by the laughter. He reached out and habitually ruffled his brother's coarse hair, just as he often did when Fang Yingyu couldn't recognize a difficult character and was scratching his head in frustration when they were little.
Time seemed to rewind, and there he was, holding his younger brother's hand, writing "benevolence," "righteousness," "propriety," and "wisdom" stroke by stroke in the sand. Now, the roles had quietly reversed, and it was his younger brother pulling him along, about to experience a whole new world of power, speed, and will. This strange sense of reincarnation stirred a strange warmth within him.