Chapter 24: Little Zhu's Stool Appearance

Two months later.

Zhu Di, no, the man now known as Zhu Hu, felt as if he had been treated like an iron ingot by a blacksmith’s apprentice, hammered and forged countless times. His once-fitted soldier’s uniform was now stretched taut across his frame, outlining the clearly defined, bulging muscles beneath. As he stood there, his shoulders appeared broader than those of an ordinary soldier, and his entire figure resembled a reinforced tower, coiled and ready to strike.

He looked down at his hands, covered in calluses and fresh wounds, and clenched them; his knuckles popped with a crisp, rhythmic sound. A surge of explosive, unprecedented power coursed through his sinews and veins.

He owed all of this to that fat man.

On the training field, Fan Tong was picking his teeth, lazily watching the latest round of sparring.

"Zhu Hu, get over here."

Zhu Di stepped forward, his breathing steady and calm.

"Boss, what is it?"

Fan Tong pointed to a hapless fellow who was currently wrestling with Bao Nianfeng, pinned into the mud and chewing on grass. "Look at him. Why did he lose?"

Zhu Di focused his gaze and said in a low voice, "His stance was unstable. He left an opening for Brother Bao, and brute force overwhelmed his technique."

"Bullshit!" Fan Tong spat on the ground. "He lost because he was too worried about his dignity! When you’re fighting, you fight; he was still thinking about forms and looking refined. Look at Bao Nianfeng—he doesn't care about your techniques. He just grabs you, sits on you, and even the Heavenly Emperor himself would be choked breathless!"

He turned his head, his small eyes glinting with a mischievous light as he stared at Zhu Di. "I’m going to teach you the real stuff."

"On the battlefield, when you encounter an enemy, don't waste time on flashy tricks. If you can gouge their eyes, don't slap their face; if you can kick them in the crotch, don't aim for the legs. Start by going for the vitals and kill them in one blow. Remember, only the ones who survive have the right to talk about martial virtue. The dead are just a pile of stinking meat."

This incredibly vulgar rhetoric made Zhu Di frown. Raised under the tutelage of famous generals, he had learned grand and righteous military strategies. How could he ever have heard such heretical "twisted logic"?

"Not convinced?" Fan Tong saw through his thoughts and grinned. "Come, spar with me."

The pride of the Prince of Yan was ignited within Zhu Di. He did not hold back, cupping his fists. "I ask for your guidance, Boss!"

Before the words had even faded, Fan Tong’s two-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame lunged forward with speed that defied his physique. There were no forms, no principles; he was like a maddened wild boar, simply and crudely barreling straight toward him.

Zhu Di instinctively turned to the side, intending to use a grappling technique to dissipate the momentum. But Fan Tong ignored the rules of engagement entirely; seeing that he was about to miss, he simply shifted his weight and sat backward, aiming directly for Zhu Di’s feet.

Had that landed, his foot bones would have been crushed to powder.

Zhu Di was startled and leaped backward in a flurry, losing all composure.

"See that?" Fan Tong sat on the ground, making the earth tremble, and pointed at Zhu Di with a laugh. "That fancy stuff of yours is all well and good to look at, but against someone unreasonable like me, it’s worth absolutely nothing."

Zhu Di’s face flushed red, then paled. He had to admit that Fan Tong’s methods were shameless, but they were effective.

From that day on, Fan Tong’s "tutelage" of Zhu Di intensified. He no longer allowed Zhu Di to spar with ordinary soldiers, instead throwing him directly into the group of eighteen "ogre" personal guards.

Bang!

Zhu Di was struck by an old veteran from the mess squad with a shoulder tackle, sent reeling seven or eight steps back, his chest heaving as blood surged. He roared and held nothing back, unleashing the "Yan-Return Cloud-Piercing Hands"—the secret art of the Prince of Yan’s estate. His movements shifted, his palms blurred, and he finally managed to trip the veteran to the ground.

"Huh?" Fan Tong, who was chewing on a blade of grass, stopped.

*Damn! Where did this kid come from? These techniques, this poise—they’re more advanced than the entry-level skills sold in the system shop! I’ve hit the jackpot!*

He squinted, observing Zhu Di carefully.

"Zhu Hu, you’re not bad, kid!" Fan Tong walked over and slapped Zhu Di on the back, making him stagger. "You’ve been hiding quite a bit! You’re a martial arts prodigy!"

Zhu Di felt a chill, fearing his identity had been exposed, but then he heard Fan Tong add, "Since you’re a prodigy, we can't let it go to waste! From today on, your training volume is doubled!"

Zhu Di: "..."

He felt he had been played.

A few days later, Fan Tong dragged a heavy long-handled mace from somewhere and tossed it in front of Zhu Di.

"Your unarmed combat is too delicate, and your swordsmanship is too flowery; it’s not suited for killing in the thick of a melee." Fan Tong pointed to the gruesome weapon. "Try this. You don't need technique for this thing; just swing it around and smash. Forget about armor or shields—one hit, and everything turns into a mess!"

Zhu Di gripped the cold iron handle; it felt heavy in his hand. He tried swinging it a few times, the weapon whistling through the air. The feeling of raw power traveled through the shaft and into his entire body, making his blood boil. Indeed, this was far more satisfying than using a sword.

The changes in the vanguard battalion were visible to the naked eye. Every soldier had grown noticeably more robust; they walked with the stride of dragons and tigers, their eyes filled with a fierce, valiant aura. During daily training, even without the supervision of officers, they obeyed orders strictly—thousands of men moved in perfect unison, their roars sounding like thunder.

This army had been completely branded by Fan Tong—savage, efficient, and filled with a hunger for battle.

Fan Tong himself, however, ran into a small problem. Ordinary warhorses could no longer bear his weight while he was fully armored. After crushing three poor Mongolian horses in succession, Fan Tong finally gave up.

His eyes rolled, and he set his sights on the oxen used by the logistics supply team to pull carts. He picked out the tallest, most robust, and foul-tempered black ox and went down to face it himself.

The entire camp ran out to watch the spectacle. Fan Tong and the black ox put on a thrilling "bullfight" in the open field. The ox went mad, goring with its horns and kicking with its hooves, but Fan Tong’s strength was even greater than the beast’s, and no matter how it struggled, it couldn't shake him off.

In the end, Fan Tong snapped off one of the bull's horns with his bare hands, and the "Bull Demon King" finally surrendered.

Fan Tong triumphantly fitted the ox with a saddle and crudely pierced its nose with a ring, tethering it to become his exclusive mount.

From then on, there was a strange sight in the Beiping camp: a fat general riding a black ox taller than any warhorse, charging through the camp sectors, followed by a group of soldiers as burly as bears.

All of this was seen by Xu Da in the distance. He stood on a hill outside the commander's tent, observing Fan Tong’s camp through a monocular telescope. When he saw the fat man riding the ox and "Zhu Hu," who was now completely transformed while wielding his mace, even his typically composed face couldn't help but reveal a hint of a strange, amused smile.

"This kid really is a genius," Xu Da said softly to himself, lowering the telescope. "I just don't know if, once the Emperor finds out his dignified Prince of Yan has been trained into this shape, he’ll reward him or skin him alive."

Fu Youde, standing behind him, was completely bewildered.

*Prince of Yan? What Prince of Yan?*

Conflict, however, was inevitable.

That day, Fan Tong was leading a team out of camp for patrol when they discovered a group of suspicious-looking hunters in the mountain forest.

Without a word, Fan Tong ordered, "Tie them all up! Bring them back for interrogation!"

Zhu Di stepped forward and said in a low voice, "Boss, they are just ordinary hunters. They haven't violated any military laws; we have no right to arrest people at will."

Deep down, he remained the Prince of the Great Ming who adhered to the law.

Fan Tong, perched on the back of the ox, looked down at him and grinned. "Zhu Hu, did you forget the first lesson I taught you?"

*Little guy, trying to talk rules with me? On the battlefield, suspicion is evidence. Letting one suspicious person go could mean the death of a whole squad of brothers. My men’s lives are precious. Those rules and regulations don't work here. Today, I’m going to break that stubborn nerve of yours!*

He pointed at the hunters, who were tied up and shivering with fear, his voice suddenly turning cold.

"Around here, my word is the law!"

Zhu Di’s fists clenched tightly at his sides. He looked at Fan Tong’s fat face, full of a rogue’s smile, and then at his comrades in the mess squad, who looked on with an expression of habit, even a hint of bloodthirsty excitement.

A strong sense of internal conflict exploded within him.

He was beginning to identify with the power Fan Tong offered, yet he could not accept his vulgarity. He longed for the victories Fan Tong brought, yet he despised his unscrupulous methods.

He gritted his teeth, but in the end, he took a step back.

Fan Tong watched his eyes, which burned with both rage and struggle, and the smile on his face grew even wider.

*Interesting. This kid’s bones are even harder than I thought.*

He looked forward to seeing what kind of sharp, lethal weapon this hard and foul-smelling bone would become once he had completely crushed and reshaped it.