Chapter 013: Inner Power (Please Bookmark and Recommend)

When Chen Can and Chen Wu left the mortuary, flushed with excitement, Old Wang finally turned back to Yao Qian. He didn’t ask what Yao Qian had almost said, but instead posed a question.

“What is our guiding principle when investigating cases?”

Old Wang’s solemn tone made Yao Qian pause to consider. He knew answers like ‘serving the people’ or ‘righting wrongs’ were the naive replies of simple folk. Their monthly stipend was but a few taels of silver—how could lofty ideals sustain them?

“Money?” he ventured.

Wealth opens doors—officials travel a thousand miles for fortune.

Old Wang shook his head. “Survival,” he replied.

He gazed up at the sky, feeling the insignificance and helplessness of life, then sighed and shared his philosophy.

Yao Qian pondered, finding the logic undeniable, unable to refute it. Money was good, but one needed to be alive to spend it.

This case was especially complex and strange. If the body hadn’t been discovered in broad daylight, stirring public unrest, the yamen would’ve suppressed the matter, not even bothering to hunt for the killer.

Now that it couldn’t be covered up, they would need a scapegoat to close the case.

Thinking it through, Yao Qian had to admit that Chen Can was indeed more suited to the promising career of a constable than he himself.

Chen Shanqi, the practitioner of the Heartbreaking Palm, was a paper tiger despite his fearsome reputation. External martial arts were notorious for damaging the body. Many masters didn’t live past forty. Even those who did saw their bodies weaken, old injuries resurfaced, and illness took its toll—barely half their former strength remained.

Chen Shanqi, now over fifty, was the perfect scapegoat—Chen Can had anticipated this. If they tried to use someone like Yu Hongchuan, who practiced Bone-Grinding Palm, as a scapegoat, they might not even be able to catch him, and could end up risking their own lives.

Yao Qian felt uneasy about the scapegoat business, but said nothing. Ultimately, it all came down to a lack of strength. If he were powerful enough, he could simply kill the murderer outright, regardless of who it was.

Seeing his expression, Old Wang feared Yao Qian couldn’t accept it and continued, “But don’t feel sorry for him. Xiao San was right about one thing—most likely, Chen Shanqi is behind the human trafficking in the southern part of the city.”

“Human trafficking?” Yao Qian asked, puzzled. He’d thought Chen Can was fabricating charges.

“Indeed,” Old Wang replied. “But the old man is clever—I’ve investigated and followed him twice, losing his trail each time in the mountains outside Pingyang. I never saw any of his men return either. It seems he changes his crew after every job.”

Old Wang spoke gravely, his face tinged with doubt.

Yao Qian was still confused, but gave up trying to figure it out.

“Will Xiao San and Xiao Wu be alright?” he asked. Though estranged now, they were once close friends, and he had to feign concern lest Old Wang suspect him.

Old Wang nodded. “I’m glad you care. Don’t worry about them. We may not handle major cases, but Pingyang is rife with chaos. We remain unscathed not just because we’re solitary men.”

Yao Qian realized this was true—he didn’t even know where Old Wang got his information. When he killed Yu Hongchuan that rainy night, it was Old Wang who provided the precise intelligence.

If he’d been alone, just tracking Yu Hongchuan’s movements would’ve taken days, let alone killing him.

He speculated Old Wang might have a hidden network gathering information for him. But he quickly dismissed the thought. Everyone has secrets; probing them only breeds distrust and division. Besides, Old Wang had always been good to them—any hidden resources would only benefit, not harm, their group.

His only real concern was increasing his own strength. Without it, he was just meat on the chopping block—struggling was as futile as a fish blowing bubbles, easily pierced and powerless.

“My swordsmanship has reached a modest level,” he mused inwardly. “Improving further in the short term isn’t realistic—I don’t have the potential for it. It might be better to study another martial art to enhance my survival.”

His first choice was internal cultivation—combining internal and external training for holistic mastery. He had no wish to die before forty.

But internal arts were rare and precious. He’d spent weeks in Pingyang, searching every circle, without hearing a single word about them.

The next best option was hardening arts.

Yet he felt some aversion to hardening arts. The thought of becoming a muscular brute clashed with his vision of himself as a white-robed swordsman—cold, graceful, and deadly.

The aesthetic didn’t match.

But there was no helping it. This world was too dangerous; survival mattered most.

Besides, his sword skills were sufficient for offense—he had no need to learn other offensive external arts.

Hardening arts, however, increased bodily defense, resisted injury, and boosted endurance. Combined with swordsmanship, their synergy would exceed the sum of their parts.

Footwork and agility were also essential, but not urgent for now.

With a short-term goal in mind, Yao Qian turned to Old Wang. “Uncle, do you know of any hardening masters in the city?”

“Hardening masters?” Old Wang pondered before replying.

“There are a few, but if you wish to learn their arts, all but one can be ruled out. Only the Wild Vajra’s Arhat Garment may offer a chance.”

“The Wild Vajra’s Arhat Garment?” Yao Qian murmured.

“Yes. He and Chen Shanqi were peers, though he’s older. Their fortunes, however, couldn’t be more different. I’ve heard he’s been destitute these past few years—perhaps silver could persuade him.”

Old Wang gave him a detailed explanation.

Yao Qian’s eyes lit up. This was indeed a promising choice, and the odds were good. Unless the old man planned to take his martial secrets to the grave, he’d hardly refuse such an offer.

And he mustn’t forget—he was now an official. If he needed to handle an aged, friendless master on the brink of death, it would be effortless.

The notion startled him. The old him would never have considered such a thing; at most, he’d leave empty-handed. Now, his mind was full of ways to achieve his aims, regardless of the means.

Stepping out of the mortuary, the warm sun bathed him, dispelling the lingering chill.

After bidding Old Wang farewell, he set off.

The Wild Vajra lived in the southern slums. Yao Qian headed there directly.

Within half an hour, he arrived at a dilapidated courtyard. Cracks like spiderwebs lined its walls, and the wind whistled through, producing eerie howls. Any ordinary person passing by at night would surely turn pale with fright.

He stepped closer and knocked. No answer. He knocked again, and after a while, an aged voice called out from within.

“Who is it? What business do you have with this old man?”