Chapter Thirty-Two: The Supreme Realm

Cao Hong smiled faintly and replied, “Ping’an is still young. It’s not too late to correct these habits now.”

After speaking, Cao Hong stood with his legs slightly apart, lowering himself into a gentle squat. One hand was raised to his brow, the other tucked at his waist. He said, “This is called ‘stance training.’ It is a method to solidify one’s vital energy and strengthen the body, also balancing the circulation of blood throughout. From now on, Ping’an shall stand in this posture for two hours each day. In time, your arms will naturally grow strong and balanced.”

Cao Ang watched Cao Hong’s posture and imitated him with some uncertainty. “Is it really just standing like this?” he asked, his doubt apparent. This was utterly different from any martial arts he had learned before—strange and unfamiliar.

Cao Hong chuckled, saying, “If there’s no effect after twenty days, I will no longer call myself your teacher.”

Hearing this, Cao Ang straightened his face, rose, and bowed respectfully. “Forgive me, Uncle, I did not intend to doubt the martial arts you teach.”

Cao Hong nodded quietly to himself. This Cao Ang, gentle and respectful by nature, was the eldest son and thus well loved by Cao Cao. It was unfortunate that, in history, he died in battle at Wan City after only a few years; otherwise, the throne would never have passed to Cao Pi. Now that he was Cao Ang’s mentor, in some way, his fate was intertwined with the young man’s future...

This thought made Cao Hong briefly consider eliminating that Zhang Xiu, the one responsible for Cao Ang’s death. If only his strength were restored, his skills in assassination and experience in combat would surely surpass any killer of this era.

For now, he could only teach carefully, step by step. With a sigh, Cao Hong smiled and said, “What I teach you comes from the peerless art of Shadow Enchantress Xu Deng. Ping’an, do not squander such precious knowledge.”

“Shadow Enchantress Xu Deng?” Cao Ang’s eyes widened, and he immediately assumed the stance, beginning his training.

Ah, Xu Deng’s reputation is truly unmatched. But it is no wonder—her martial arts are extraordinary. With a mere gesture, she erased the inscription on the Eight-Faced Han Sword, proof that she must have trained her finger strength to a high degree. She cannot be underestimated; fortunately, she is not our enemy, or trouble would be endless.

---

As these thoughts drifted through his mind, Cao Hong helped Cao Ang correct his posture, watching from the side. Before long, Cao Ang was drenched in sweat, his body trembling slightly. Whenever his form faltered, Cao Hong would strike him lightly to correct it, leaving the boy’s face flushed and deeply uncomfortable. It was a bitter ordeal, but at last, he endured the two-hour session until dusk, collapsing to the ground like a heap of exhausted clay, barely able to breathe.

Cao Hong laughed. “Ping’an, not easy, is it?”

Lying weakly on the ground, Cao Ang replied, “Since I began training, I’ve never been so weary.”

Cao Hong laughed heartily. “After midday each day, I’ll come to watch you practice. Once your stance is solid, you’ll move on to other martial arts.” With that, Cao Hong took his leave of Cao Cao and returned to his own residence.

That evening, after supper, Cao Hong lay in bed with Sheng Meizhen, speaking intimately. He said, “Meizhen, today I met your master.” He recounted the meeting with Xu Deng in detail.

Sheng Meizhen was unmoved by Xu Deng’s absence, smiling instead. “Master is always so free-spirited; I’m long accustomed to it. But my junior sister, Wulan, is becoming more formidable. She created her own martial art at four, her talent is unparalleled. Master says Wulan’s future achievements will be limitless, perhaps even greater than hers.”

Cao Hong was surprised. “Your master’s skills are already at their peak. What kind of realm lies beyond that?”

He truly wondered. In his understanding, Xu Deng had already reached the summit of martial arts, beyond the limits of human ability—anything more seemed impossible.

Sheng Meizhen smiled. “I don’t know either. But master says there is indeed a realm beyond her own, mysterious and unfathomable. The teacher of Fei Changfang reached that level; master once met him—a medicine seller who called himself ‘Left Immortal.’”

A medicine seller? Left Immortal? Cao Hong was astonished. If that were true, he would very much like to see such a realm himself, for he too was a master of martial arts.

Yet such ethereal matters were far removed from his present concerns. The urgent task was the alliance in the east, and then how Cao Cao would secure his position and vie for supremacy. These were matters he must worry over; after all, having entered the Cao family, his fortune and life were tied to Cao Cao. Unless absolutely necessary, he would never abandon him.

---

Just then, Cao Hong thought of something else. “Master said she was going to White Horse Temple in Luoyang. Meizhen, do you know why?”

Sheng Meizhen laughed sweetly. “Husband, you’ve asked the right person. Master is lifelong friends with the two founding abbots of White Horse Temple, Kasyapa Tengmo and Zhu Falan. Both are deeply versed in Buddhist teachings, and their Buddhist martial arts differ greatly from those of our land. Master has exchanged ideas with them for many years and gained much. Now, the two masters have grown old, their vitality depleted, and no longer oversee temple affairs. They have asked master to help care for the temple. With the declaration against Dong Zhuo stirring the land, and war soon to engulf Luoyang, I imagine master is going to safeguard White Horse Temple from harm.”

After Shi Huan mentioned White Horse Temple, Cao Hong had made inquiries. The temple was founded in the eleventh year of Yongping under the Eastern Han, or AD 68, making it 131 years old. Kasyapa Tengmo and Zhu Falan, as founding abbots, would now be 151 if they were twenty when the temple was built. To live so long, their martial arts must have reached the pinnacle of spiritual refinement—a profound understanding of the universe and life.

Yet time spares no one. Even one as accomplished as Xu Deng finds her strength waning after one hundred and twenty years. Otherwise, she would be a monster; no matter how great one’s skills or realm, the human limit is one hundred and twenty years. As for longevity, Cao Hong had researched many sects’ records in later times and found none who lived past two hundred—the longest was one hundred ninety-three years. So the two founding abbots of White Horse Temple likely had little time left.

If they were to fight, perhaps they could muster a single thunderous strike, but would have no strength for further attacks. Thus, their request for Xu Deng to watch over the temple was understandable.

The late Eastern Han was a time of immense complexity: court, battlefield, martial world, and local powers all tangled together. Cao Hong felt as if this era was a vast chessboard—one without a player, with only the pieces moving and changing. Unless one attained the legendary realm of the medicine seller Left Immortal, a single misstep could mean utter destruction.

Thus, this age shone with stars, yet was fraught with peril! Someone named Left? A medicine seller? Who could it be? Hearing Sheng Meizhen’s words, Cao Hong’s mind was overloaded with information. Recalling the histories he had read in his past life, he could not connect the surname Left with any medicine seller.

Perhaps, only another meeting with Xu Deng would reveal the answer. Or maybe... Fei Changfang?

Such were Cao Hong’s thoughts.