At the end of the Yuan Dynasty, they called me a demonic monk.

The next morning, when the two brothers arrived at the woods, Song Bie was already waiting there. "How much of the 'Canglang Sword Manual' have you read?" Song Bie asked Fang Xiaohe directly.

Fang Xiaohe honestly replied, "All of it, but I only understood about 30%."

Song Bie nodded: "That's enough." He pointed to the ancient ginkgo tree in front of the temple, "Catch ten fallen leaves, in your own way."

He stood under the ginkgo tree and looked up.

A sudden autumn breeze stirred, and golden ginkgo leaves fell like rain. Fang Xiaohe took a deep breath, condensing all the insights he had gained over the past month into this moment. He recalled the Analects' "The superior man attends to the fundamentals," Mencius' "righteous spirit," and the sword manual's "Martial arts for the common people"...

As Fang Xiaohe swung the stick, his moves seemed haphazard yet possessed a unique rhythm. Ten ginkgo leaves were precisely pierced by the tip of the stick, strung along its shaft like golden medals.

A flicker of surprise crossed Song Bie's eyes, but he quickly regained his composure. He turned to Fang Yingyu: "Your brother is also very perceptive."

Fang Yingyu wasn't annoyed at all; instead, she smiled proudly and said, "Of course, my brother is a scholar!"

Song Bie took out another book from his robes and handed it to Fang Xiaohe: "The Canglang Sword Manual, it shares the same origin as the saber manual but flows differently. From today onwards, you two will come here every three days at the hour of Yin (3-5 AM), and I will teach you for one hour."

Fang Xiaohe accepted the "Canglang Sword Manual" with both hands, feeling that it was not just an ordinary martial arts manual, but a weighty trust. He solemnly knelt down: "Disciple Fang Xiaohe greets Master."

Song Bie helped him up, a rare smile appearing on his face: "You two brothers, one wielding a knife, the other a sword, complement each other perfectly. Remember, the way of martial arts is not about killing, but about..."

"To protect." Fang Xiaohe and Fang Yingyu said in unison.

Song Bie nodded, his gaze deep and thoughtful: "The Canglang Sect suffered a great upheaval ten years ago, and now only I remain. I'm accepting you two as disciples today in the hope that the Canglang martial arts will not be lost." He paused, "Especially you, Fang Xiaohe, your path is different from ordinary people; perhaps you can forge a new path."

On the way home, Fang Yingyu excitedly demonstrated the new moves she had learned, while Fang Xiaohe remained silent, Song Bie's words replaying in his mind. He suddenly realized that his decision to abandon literature for martial arts was not a betrayal of the sages' way, but rather a way to put his ideals into practice.

"Brother, what are you thinking about?" Fang Yingyu nudged her brother's shoulder.

Fang Xiaohe gazed at the undulating mountains in the distance: "I'm thinking, when will I be able to truly do something for those oppressed people?"

Fang Yingyu grinned: "Soon, when we've finished our training!"

The two brothers' shadows stretched long in the sunlight, and the road ahead was still long, but they seemed to have found their direction.

Meanwhile, inside the Prime Minister's residence in Dadu, the lights shone brightly, and the warm chambers were deep and secluded. Yan Tiemu'er leaned against the brocade couch, his fingertips idly caressing a warm and translucent jade ruyi, the light flowing quietly between his fingers.

The trusted official lowered his head and reported in a low voice, "Prime Minister, the young prince's carriage has crossed the Yellow River and will arrive in Dadu soon. Shouldn't... the Ministry of Rites begin preparations for the enthronement ceremony according to regulations?"

Yan Tiemuer let out a soft snort, a half-smile playing on his lips: "What's the rush?" He didn't even lift his eyelids, his voice lazy yet carrying an undeniable air of authority. "Of dragon and phoenix offspring, how can we not verify their identity? Everything... we'll discuss it after we enter the capital." He paused slightly, as if suddenly remembering something, and slowly asked, "I heard this lad spent two years in that malaria-ridden land of Guangxi?"

"Yes, Your Excellency. He was previously living in seclusion in Daecheong Island, Goryeo, before moving to Jeonggang." The confidant answered cautiously, carefully choosing his words. "According to local officials, he is quite timid and taciturn, and usually only knows how to stay at home reading, without ever doing anything out of line."

Yan Tiemu'er's lips finally curved into a truly satisfied smile. He slowly nodded. "Cowardice...good. It's much better than his reckless, stubborn old man father."

Deep within Bayan's residence, the night dew was slightly cool, and a bamboo grove cast sparse shadows under the moonlight. Bayan strolled slowly among the bamboo, his fingertips casually brushing against the damp bamboo leaves, a subtle, enigmatic smile playing on his lips.

He casually plucked a bamboo leaf, held it up to the flickering lamplight under the eaves, and carefully examined the crisscrossing veins of the leaf, as if scrutinizing an invisible chessboard.

"That guy from Guangxi," he said without turning around, his voice as light as the night breeze, "where is he now?"

Upon hearing this, Toghon Temür stepped forward and whispered, "Toghon Temür and his party have crossed the Yellow River. Although they have encountered some obstacles along the way, they will arrive in Dadu soon."

Boyan loosened his grip slightly, and the bamboo leaf swirled down, silently disappearing into the soil. "Pass down the order," he said calmly, yet with unquestionable authority, "keep an eye on things along the way, and make sure nothing goes wrong." He paused briefly, glancing sideways at Tuotuo, his gaze unusually deep in the dim light. "Remember, do it secretly."

After a slight hesitation, Tuotuo finally spoke: "Uncle, do you really intend to support Mingzong's son? This person is already thirteen years old, no longer a child. He probably already understands the stakes and grudges, and I'm afraid he... will not be easy to control."

"Control?" Boyan chuckled, turned around, and a sharp glint flashed in his eyes, like the eyes of a falcon in the dark night. "Why control him? Precisely because he is sensible, knows warmth and coldness, and understands gratitude and resentment, he is the best knife imaginable."

He gazed at the pitch-black night sky and slowly said, "A sharp blade... capable of severing the deeply entrenched foundations of the Yan Party."

On the training ground, yellow sand obscured the sun, and banners fluttered in the fierce wind. Tuotuo sat upright on the reviewing platform, his black armor covered by a purple cloak bestowed by the emperor—this commander of the personal guards, who was usually busy with political affairs, was actually here today to assess the martial arts of each battalion, causing his subordinate generals to be secretly alarmed.

While some arrows from the Mongol elite cavalry were accurate, many were repeatedly deflected by the strong winds, causing the copper bells to sway aimlessly. As the Han army arrayed itself, a soldier in a green robe suddenly stepped forward. He stood tall and straight as a pine tree, unwavering in the howling wind. Without haste, he drew his arrow, nocked it, and with lightning speed, ten silver streaks shot through the air, all hitting their targets! The thin rope snapped, the copper bells fell to the ground, and the final arrow precisely cleaved the fletching of the previous arrows, its remaining force striking the bullseye.

His name was Yang Huaijian. Although he was selected for the Imperial Guard's Archery and Horse Division because of his exceptional archery skills and clean background, he was never promoted because he was a Han Chinese and of humble origin.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Yang Huaijian gripped the gleaming bamboo bow in his hand, his calloused fingers silently rubbing against the bowstring. How familiar this scene was—months ago, he too had fired ten arrows in quick succession, each piercing the heart. The cheers of the onlookers had barely begun when the supervising officer's cold laugh interrupted them: "No matter how accurate a Han soldier's shot, he's unworthy of the Iron Cavalry's carved bows."