Days in the sect creaked by like an old cartwheel.
My new "peers"—a pack of boys barely able to wipe their noses, yet convinced they were future grand warriors—spent their days leaping around the courtyard. They saw swordsmanship as an art. To me, it was nothing more than mathematics: Distance. Speed. Weight. And most importantly—making the enemy taste the dirt.
Our head instructor, Elder Zhang, taught us the "Horse Stance" (Mabu). This involved standing motionless with legs wide apart, as if sitting on an invisible stool.
"Keep your back straight, Fen!" the Elder barked, striking my shoulder sharply with his bamboo staff. "Reach for the sky; root yourself deep into the earth!"
I ground my teeth. My eight-year-old body's legs were shaking. In the Roman legion, we marched 40 kilometers a day with 30 kilos of gear. It was hard, but it had a logical purpose—we needed to reach our destination. Here? We just stand. We go nowhere.
"If I root myself into the earth, won't my legs simply rot, Master?" I asked quietly.
Chen, who was standing next to me, snorted with laughter. Chen was ten, the son of the village elder. He already considered himself a general, though he barely knew how to hold the wooden sword in his hand.
"You're an idiot, Li Fen," Chen said, nose in the air. "This is to strengthen the flow of 'Qi' in your legs."
I looked at him. I calculated instantly: If I struck his jaw from below, his tongue would be caught between his teeth. It would bleed profusely, but he wouldn't die. He'd just struggle to speak.
But I held back. I am 8 years old. Eight-year-olds don't break other children's jaws. Not yet.
The afternoon training took a more interesting turn. Sparring. One-on-one combat.
Finally.
Elder Zhang began pairing the children. As expected, he put me against Chen. A victorious smirk played on Chen's face. He was two heads taller than me, his arms were longer, and, I had to admit, he could feel that damned "Qi" thing better than I could.
"Aren't you scared, Fen?" he asked, twirling his wooden sword elegantly. "If you cry, I won't tell your mother."
I gripped my wooden sword. It was styled in the Chinese fashion—thin, light, and long. Not heavy and short like a Roman gladius. I disliked it. This thing was hard to chop with; you could only stab or slice.
"Begin!" the Elder commanded.
Chen moved as if he were on a theater stage.
"The Attack of the Spreading-Winged Eagle!" he yelled out loud.
Seriously, he shouted the name of his attack.
In Rome, if you shouted your intentions to the enemy, the centurion would personally strangle you on the spot. This was the pinnacle of idiocy.
Chen lunged forward, raising his sword above his head, swinging it toward me in a wide arc. It was beautiful. Very beautiful. Like a dance.
But his armpit and ribs were so exposed that you could fit an entire wagon in the gap.
As his "eagle" approached, I simply... took a step forward.
Yes, not backward, but forward. Before his sword could finish cutting the air above and reach me, I was already inside his personal space.
The law of physics is simple: a long weapon is useless at close range.
My wooden sword didn't "dance" in the air like his. I used it Roman style. Since I had no shield, my left hand grabbed his collar, and my right thrust the short wooden shaft straight into his stomach, aiming for the solar plexus.
Not hard. Just precise.
"Ghih..."
Instead of the "eagle's cry," a muffled gasp escaped Chen's lips. His eyes bulged. He doubled over, his raised arm falling uselessly.
I didn't stop. In combat, stopping before the enemy falls is death.
As he was bent over, I placed my foot against the back of his knee—the tendon—and gently nudged him. Chen fell face-first into the dirt.
The whole courtyard fell silent.
Elder Zhang stared, mouth agape. The other children hadn't even understood what had happened. After all, Chen hadn't used any beautiful technique, and I hadn't used any "Dragon Strike."
It lasted three seconds.
Chen lifted his head from the dirt, spat out a mixture of dust and saliva, and cried out tearfully:
"He... he cheated! He didn't use swordsmanship! He just... shoved me!"
Elder Zhang frowned and approached me.
"Li Fen," he said in a serious tone. "What style did you use? That is not the style of our school."
I shrugged. I had to answer with childish simplicity.
"Master, when he raised his hand, his stomach was left wide open. I merely reminded him that he needed to close that area."
The Elder stared at me for a moment. In his eyes was not anger, but surprise and some sort of unanswerable question.
"'When the eagle spreads its wings, its underbelly is exposed'," the Elder murmured to himself. Then he looked at me. "But you struck with the hilt of the sword, not the blade?"
"A wooden sword doesn't cut, Master. Thrusting is faster than striking," I replied. This was the truth. The Roman gladius was mainly designed for thrusting. Chopping is for amateurs. Thrusting is for killers.
The Elder sighed deeply and shook his head.
"Your movements are crude, Li Fen. They lack finesse, they lack beauty. But..." he glanced at Chen lying on the ground, "the effectiveness cannot be denied."
Later that evening, I was again standing in that damned Horse Stance, as punishment. But this time, something was different.
A warmth appeared in my lower abdomen, beneath my navel. At first, I mistook it for the spicy cabbage from dinner. But this was different. It circulated like a tiny flame.
In Rome, we called this "spirit" or "courage." Here, they called it "Qi."
I closed my eyes and imagined that warmth. What if... just what if... I could channel this energy to the tip of my sword? Like the Elder shattering the stone?
What happens if I combine Roman tactics—the testudo formation, the disciplined thrust, and ruthless efficiency—with this "magical" power?
The world has yet to see a Roman legionary imbued with "Qi."
A cold smile spread across my face. Chen ate dirt today; tomorrow, he will eat much more. Because I am just starting to warm up.
"Welcome, new world," I thought, looking at the wooden sword gleaming in the moonlight. "Let's see how long your beautiful dances last against my iron logic."