Chapter Thirty-One: The Eldest Son of the Cao Family

After returning to the camp, Cao Hong and Cao Chun resumed training the soldiers, while Shi A sought out the quartermaster to have a new sword forged. They had barely trained for an hour when Dian Wei arrived at the barracks to find Cao Hong, informing him that Cao Cao wanted to see him at his residence. Cao Hong, after notifying Cao Chun, immediately rode off with Dian Wei toward the county governor’s mansion.

On the way, Cao Hong asked, “Brother Dian, do you know what my elder brother needs me for?”

Dian Wei replied, “The lord likely wishes to discuss the matter of training the eldest son in martial arts.”

Cao Hong recalled how, back in Chenliu County, Cao Cao had asked him to teach his eldest son, Cao Ang, martial skills, and so he nodded in understanding.

Dian Wei continued, “Zi Lian, I am deeply grateful to you.”

Cao Hong was puzzled. “Brother Dian, why do you say such things?”

Dian Wei said, “If it weren’t for someone as close to the lord as you introducing me, I fear I would never have been so highly valued by him.”

Cao Hong laughed, “My elder brother is a man of great vision—even without my recommendation, you would have found favor eventually. It would only have taken more time.”

Dian Wei chuckled, “Regardless, I am indebted to you. If ever you need my help in the future, just say the word!”

Cao Hong’s heart stirred, the phrase ‘forming factions for personal gain’ flashing through his mind. Was Dian Wei already gathering allies? Perhaps it was no bad thing; after all, he was close to Cao Cao and knew of any developments, and his martial prowess made him a reliable support.

He replied with a smile, “Then I shall count on your guidance in days to come.”

As they spoke, the two arrived at Cao Cao’s residence. Cao Cao was waiting in the main hall, and beside him stood a thirteen-year-old youth. Though still young, the boy was well developed, standing nearly 170 centimeters tall—not broad-shouldered, but the muscles beneath his robes betrayed impressive strength.

He had already crossed the threshold into martial arts, refined his raw power, and reached the stage of cultivating essence into energy—a rare achievement for someone so young, though he was still leagues behind the likes of Wulan and Xu Chu.

Dian Wei and Cao Hong entered the main hall and saluted Cao Cao, who invited Cao Hong to be seated while Dian Wei stood behind him, positioning himself behind the youth.

Cao Cao smiled warmly, “Ping’an, go pay your respects to Uncle Zi Lian.”

The youth responded, stepped forward, and respectfully offered a deep bow, declaring, “I am Cao Ang, courtesy name Ping’an, greetings to uncle.”

It was customary in ancient times to give children simple nicknames for ease of calling. Cao Cao’s childhood name was Aman, Cao Hong’s was Ali, and naturally, Cao Ang’s was Ping’an. Since Cao Ang had not yet undergone the coming-of-age ceremony, he had no formal courtesy name.

Cao Hong returned the greeting and studied this eldest son of the Cao family. He had long eyebrows and narrow eyes, resembling Cao Cao, but his nose was sharp, lips red, teeth white, and his face was delicately shaped—far more refined than Cao Cao’s own features, and he would be considered quite handsome in modern times.

Cao Ang’s gaze was clear and innocent, his voice in the awkward throes of adolescence, yet his tone was gentle and composed, evidence of excellent upbringing. After the exchange, Cao Ang returned to stand behind Cao Cao.

Cao Cao spoke, “Zi Lian, from now on, come to my residence every day after noon to teach Ping’an martial arts. Alas, I had hoped to invite virtuous scholars to teach him literature, but men of reputation disdain me, Cao Mengde. For now, he must first excel in martial skills.”

Cao Hong smiled, “Elder brother, you exaggerate. I find Ping’an courteous and well-mannered; he is already worthy of being called learned. As the saying goes, the master leads the way, but cultivation is up to the individual. Relying blindly on famous teachers might foster rigidity. Understanding etiquette and self-study are also worthwhile paths.”

Cao Cao’s eyes brightened, “Well said, Zi Lian—the master leads the way, cultivation is personal! Indeed, there are many heirs at Yingchuan Academy, but how many are renowned? Understanding etiquette and self-study—a wise approach! Ping’an, begin tomorrow by reading ‘Spring and Autumn Annals,’ ‘The Book of Documents,’ and ‘The Book of Songs.’ Do not look to the commentaries of later scholars; after reading, write your own reflections.”

“Yes, father!” Cao Ang replied respectfully.

Cao Cao nodded, then said, “Zi Lian, start teaching Ping’an martial arts today. Ping’an, take your uncle to the training hall.”

Cao Ang acknowledged the order, “Uncle, please.”

Cao Hong nodded and followed him. After they left, Cao Cao stroked his short beard and mused, “Understanding etiquette and self-study... just these six words are enough to defeat those scholars who cling to the commentaries of the ancients. Zi Lian spoke lightly, but seems not to have grasped the essence. Could this be something Xu Deng observed, and Zi Lian merely repeated?”

Cao Cao could not know that Cao Hong, born in the scholarship-sharing modern era, had long internalized such ideas; it was nothing unusual for him. But for Cao Cao—the literary and political genius—this was a novel method of learning, and its subtle influence on such a clever mind could be profound indeed.

In the training hall, Cao Ang held a spear twelve feet long. Its shaft had been soaked in lard, giving it resilience, and the wood was top-grade zhe, requiring three strikes from a tempered saber to break. It was a fine weapon, for a spearman would not allow his shaft to be struck at will, and such toughness was enough to kill enemies.

Cao Hong looked at Cao Ang and asked, “Ping’an, do you mainly practice the Thirteen Forms of Wen Yi’s spear technique?”

Cao Ang nodded, “Uncle, my ability is limited—I only focus on spear and saber techniques.”

“You do not practice mounted archery?” asked Cao Hong.

“My arm strength is insufficient to control the bowstring,” Cao Ang answered, as though lacking this skill was a mark of shame.

Cao Hong smiled, “Show me a set of spear techniques.”

Cao Ang agreed, took his stance, and began with the form “Rainbow at Night, Battle on All Sides.” He raised the spear behind him, using his spine as an axis to generate force, and as he thrust forward, the hall filled with whirling spear shadows and fierce winds, displaying overwhelming momentum.

He advanced three steps, retreated one, attacking high, middle, and low, then swept left and right; his movements were so tight that not a drop could pass, and his form was precise. Cao Hong nodded secretly—truly a product of family tradition. Liao Hua, though older, was far inferior in spear technique; if they fought, even with battle experience, Liao Hua would likely lose to this young master.

After completing the thirteen forms, Cao Ang stood with his spear, calm and steady, not even out of breath—evidence of solid foundations.

Cao Hong smiled, “Ping’an, your spear technique is excellent, but your method of exerting force is off-balance—you rely more on your right arm, making the strength uneven between your arms. This is why you cannot master the bowstring technique.”

The difference between a martial arts master and a grandmaster is the ability to spot weaknesses at a glance and offer correction.

Cao Ang’s eyes widened in anticipation, “Uncle, is it still possible for me to learn the bowstring technique?”