Chapter 4: Li Qianhu, the Man with the Most Holidays

The sun was already high in the sky when Li Miao finally rose from his bed and stretched languidly. That stretch lasted a good while—almost the time it takes for half a stick of incense to burn—before he exhaled deeply, shivered, and threw on a robe before getting up.

He had worked late into the night and fallen asleep as soon as he returned, with no recollection of how he got home.

Stepping out of his room, he waved at a young girl watering flowers in the courtyard. “Xiao Si, come here.”

Hearing his call, Xiao Si turned to see him smiling on the steps and hurried over, worry etched on her face. “Master, you’re finally awake!”

“It’s nearly past the hour of Chen—nine o’clock. The roll call at the yamen ended an hour ago! If you don’t check in today, your monthly salary will be docked again!”

Li Miao replied nonchalantly, “Let them dock it. I’ll just grab a handful from the treasury one day—it’s enough to feed us.”

He felt no qualms about taking money from the Embroidered Guards’ treasury, since that money was technically his to begin with.

“Master, you always say that, but the money is spent before it even reaches home!” Xiao Si complained, aggrieved.

“Alright, alright.” Li Miao felt a bit embarrassed. He had meant to invite her out for breakfast, but seeing her so earnest, he decided not to tease her further.

“Fine, I’ll go to the yamen now for roll call. I’ll fetch some silver, and instead of keeping it on me, I’ll have your Brother Hai send it straight to you—how about that?” he joked.

Xiao Si’s face flushed instantly. She said nothing, but turned and ran quickly into the house.

“Little lass, can’t keep her anymore,” Li Miao chuckled, then returned to his room, dressed properly, and left at a leisurely pace.

The dynasty at that time was called Da Shuo. In most respects, it resembled the Ming of Li Miao’s former life, though there were subtle differences.

There were similarities: the emperor bore the surname Zhu; the Embroidered Guards existed; eunuchs played politics; and civil officials vied in factional strife.

There were differences, too: it wasn’t as rigid as the Ming, with neighborhoods and markets less strictly divided, allowing Li Miao to amble along, sampling various snacks as he made his way to the yamen.

And, in this world, true martial arts existed.

To cross a river on a single reed, to strike a cow through a mountain wall—such feats were not mere legend but acknowledged reality. Even eternal youth or regrowth of severed limbs were not fantasy, but commonly accepted by those in the martial world.

As for Li Miao, having spent over thirty years in this martial realm, how had his skills developed?

Well—let’s just say he’d made modest progress.

In short, he was at the level where neither blades nor spears could harm him, fire and water held no threat, his appearance did not age, and even the divine could not mar him. He was half a legend of the martial arts world—nothing to boast about.

Why had Li Miao achieved such heights in martial arts?

First, his natural endowment—not just good, but so extraordinary that even Bodhidharma would weep upon hearing of it, and Master Zhang Sanfeng would be stunned at the sight. With such a foundation, even if Li Miao stubbornly practiced a single internal art, he would hardly fall short.

Of course, innate talent sets the floor, but at the pinnacle of mastery, it is insight that sets the ceiling.

Consider Yang Guo, left with only an arm and learning from a mute bird, yet he created the Melancholy Palm. While Hero Guo possessed more supreme skills than brain cells, after half a lifetime wielding the Eighteen Dragon Subduing Palms, he never devised anything new.

Clearly, to reach the level of founding a sect, insight is decisive.

As for Li Miao’s own insight—well, it was quite ordinary. Extremely ordinary.

How ordinary? Imagine a young hero of peerless talent. In his sect, there’s a disciple of average gift. That disciple, upon descending the mountain, meets a bandit chief. The bandit has a low-ranking henchman. Behind the henchman is a lackey who waves flags and shouts. That lackey owns a dog that can shake hands and sit on command—Li Miao’s insight was about the same as that dog’s.

This isn’t an insult; it’s a factual assessment. His “ordinary” wasn’t just “ordinary among martial artists,” nor “ordinary among common folk.”

It was “ordinary among mammals.”

Some might ask: Isn’t insight just intelligence? Was Li Miao’s mind really on par with a dog’s?

Not quite. Insight isn’t the same as intelligence—not in Da Shuo’s martial world, at least. True insight is more akin to “compatibility.” One might grasp one technique easily, yet be utterly dense with another.

Some are natural martial prodigies, compatible with nearly every technique. Li Miao, however, had dismal compatibility with all forms of martial arts.

He had to use a modern mindset to comprehend esoteric, sometimes illogical principles.

This is known as the “barrier of acquired knowledge.”

He could change his beliefs and worldview, but it was near impossible to shake a mindset entrenched by decades of experience. This undermined his ability to understand all martial arts at their core.

Fortunately, he was blessed with a cheat.

It wasn’t some system with written instructions or quests, but more akin to a special physique—a golden finger. Over twenty years, he had painstakingly forced himself to the level of a half-myth in the martial world.

As for the details of this golden finger, that will be told later.

For now, Li Miao meandered, eating as he walked, wandering aimlessly. He dawdled until the sun was at its zenith before arriving at the Embroidered Guards’ command office.

By then, it was almost time for the midday break. The street before the office was deserted; few cared to pass the headquarters of those famed for raiding homes and exterminating families. The two guards at the entrance were enjoying the peace, squinting as they rested.

From a distance, they saw Li Miao in plain clothes, chewing on something, strolling toward the entrance like a man with nothing better to do. The younger guard prepared to question him.

Before he could speak, the older guard leapt forward and hurried to Li Miao’s side, bowing obsequiously.

“You’re here, Commander. Thank you for your hard work last night. The Chief Inspector instructed us to tell you, as soon as we saw you, to go see him right away.”

Li Miao, still chewing, couldn’t reply. He pulled out a string of candies from his pouch and slapped them into the older guard’s hand, patting his shoulder like coaxing a child, and walked inside.

After Li Miao had disappeared, the young guard finally asked, “Brother, which Commander is that? Why is he arriving at this hour, and in plain clothes?”

Within the Embroidered Guards, there were ranks, but also distinctions in command. Only one’s direct superior was addressed by title alone; others were called by surname and title.

Yet the older guard had addressed him plainly as “Commander,” with no surname added.

Moreover, the Guards were strict in discipline—even the two Vice Inspectors led by example. So where had this idle, plain-clothed Commander come from, arriving at noon?

The older guard took out a piece of paper and carefully wrapped the string of candies, then spoke.

“Remember that face. From now on, address him only as ‘Commander.’ Do whatever he asks, and pretend you see nothing, no matter what he does. Understood?”

“He’s the most senior, the most well-connected, the most unorthodox, and the most frequently absent Commander in our entire Embroidered Guards—Li Miao, Commander Li!”