“This is a basic saber technique that a wandering priest imparted to me when I met him by chance in my youth. In the pugilistic world, it can be considered a third-class martial art. But don’t underestimate it because of that. It’s got its strengths. Third-class secret manuals are good enough to make it into the restricted libraries of great sects.
Take it back and read it carefully, including the posture diagrams. Follow them and practice by yourself for now. If you’re sure that you want to learn this technique after browsing through it, come to me afterwards. But regardless of whether you decide to learn it or not, you must remember to return this booklet to me.”
Zhao Dahu handed the small, worn booklet to Lu Sheng with deliberate care, as if entrusting him with something far more valuable than it appeared.
“Alright!” Lu Sheng nodded solemnly. He could tell that this was Zhao Dahu’s treasured inheritance. Though the man offered it freely, Lu Sheng knew that the essence of martial arts could not be learned from mere words on paper. True mastery demanded correction, repetition, and pain—a process no manual could convey.
“Many thanks, Uncle Zhao!” he said, bowing as he accepted the booklet with both hands.
Clutching the Black Tiger Saber Technique booklet, Lu Sheng returned to his bedroom. He shut the door behind him, lit a candle, and placed the booklet under its flickering light. The pages crackled faintly as he opened it.
The Black Tiger Saber Technique—though grand in name—contained merely three moves.336Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡh7h1YResvd
All three were attacks.
No defense. No evasive maneuvers. Only raw offense. The first move: Tiger Kill. The second move: Tiger Might. The third move: Tiger Roar.
Each stroke was simple in execution, yet their true power rested on the practitioner’s mastery of strength and speed—on how precisely one’s body could channel force through movement.
Alongside the diagrams was a mantra—short verses meant to shape the practitioner’s mind, sharpening intent and spirit. It was not merely a chant, but a method of harmonizing thought and motion—of refining the inner world to unleash the full might of the saber.
Stroke techniques adjusted The External, while the mantra refined The Internal—together, they forged the ultimate unity of mind, body, and soul.
The Black Tiger Mantra was divided into three levels, simply named Level One, Level Two, and Level Three. Only by mastering both the mantra and the external stroke techniques described in the booklet could one truly claim full command over the saber art.
Lu Sheng closed the booklet gently, the faint crackle of parchment echoing in the quiet room. He sat still by the table for a long while, his eyes closed, silently memorizing the intricate passages of the Black Tiger Saber Technique, revising each detail in his mind again and again.
Then, he called softly within his heart, “Deep Blue.”
In an instant, a faint hum filled his mind as the Deep Blue Skills Modifier screen appeared before him—its borders gleaming with a tranquil azure light. Rows upon rows of small boxes floated in the air, neatly aligned within the blue frame.
In the first row, first column, a line of text flickered into clarity:
Lu Sheng —
Martial Arts:
Black Tiger Saber Technique: Uninitiated
It was a simple display—bare, unadorned—showing only the technique he had just perused moments ago.
Lu Sheng’s body went rigid. His breath caught. It wasn’t fear that gripped him, but an overwhelming surge of exhilaration.
‘It really… it really isn’t a hallucination!’ he thought, heart pounding.
This world was perilous beyond measure. Once, he had been content to live like a parasite, quietly existing without risk or ambition. But now, it felt as though he had stumbled into a pit of serpents—one wrong move, and he would become nothing more than a footnote in someone else’s tragedy.
Yet amid that danger, a glimmer of hope shone before him.
‘If this modifier truly works…’
Lu Sheng forced himself to calm down, suppressing the tremor in his chest. His mind shifted, recalling the parameters of the Deep Blue system—its rules, its limits, its one and only purpose.
The Deep Blue Skills Modifier possessed a single function: to alter the martial arts skillset of its user.
It could directly elevate a martial art’s level to the pinnacle of mastery—yet it could not alter the practitioner’s familiarity, blood capacity, strength, speed, or internal energy. Those remained beyond its reach.
The only thing the Deep Blue Skills Modifier could alter was the level of martial arts a person had already initiated.
‘The only thing I can modify in this box is the Black Tiger Saber Technique. How do I begin the modification?’ Lu Sheng pondered as he experimented mentally.
Sitting alone in his dimly lit bedroom, his hands absentmindedly flipped through the booklet, yet his true focus rested deep within his mind—on the glowing interface of Deep Blue.
He examined every inch of the modifier’s display, scrutinizing it with unwavering attention. Then, he noticed a small button at the bottom of the frame.
On it, faint words gleamed: Begin Modification.
‘This is it.’
With a silent command of will, he pressed the button as though his thoughts themselves were fingers.
Instantly, the screen flared with dazzling blue light. A wave of control surged through him—an uncanny sensation as if the entire system was now an extension of his own mind.
But he didn’t linger on the feeling. His attention locked onto the Black Tiger Saber Technique.
Its status read: Uninitiated.
The moment he focused, the text flickered—and changed.
Initiated.
A thrill ran through Lu Sheng. He concentrated harder. The status shifted again, faster this time.
Level 1… Level 2… Level 3…
“It’s done!” he exclaimed in joy, his voice trembling with disbelief. The modifier truly worked!
But before he could relax, the text leapt once more—
Level 4!!
“Boom!”
A deafening roar exploded inside his head. Pain tore through him like lightning. His vision spun as his body convulsed violently.
He collapsed against the table, gasping for air. For a long while, only ragged breaths filled the room. Eventually, he managed to lift his head, his vision hazy and dim.
Something warm trickled beneath his nose. The metallic tang of blood reached him as he touched it with trembling fingers—dark red smeared across his skin.
His eyes were unfocused; every inch of his body screamed with pain. His limbs felt hollow, drained of all strength. Even the simple act of standing felt like moving a mountain.
Lifting his trembling arms, Lu Sheng caught sight of his hands—patches of sickly white marred the backs of his palms. His eyelids grew unbearably heavy, his body threatening to collapse under a sudden wave of fatigue.
‘These are… signs of serious blood loss!’ Though he lacked formal medical training, even he knew enough to recognize the danger. His blood had been drained far beyond safe limits.
Barely managing to stay upright, Lu Sheng gathered what little strength he had left to close the Black Tiger Saber Technique booklet and set it aside. Then, his body gave in, and he slumped onto the bed, gasping weakly.
“Little Qiao!”
“Yes, Young Master? What are your instructions?” came the maid’s soft voice from outside the door.
“Go… cook me some red dates porridge, and add ginseng. Use an aged one,” Lu Sheng said hoarsely, each word scraping out from his dry throat.
That was the privilege of being born into wealth. To most families, even ordinary ginseng was a life-saving treasure—aged ginseng was something they might never touch in their lifetimes. Yet for Lu Sheng, it was but a tonic to replenish his strength.
Little Qiao acknowledged the order and hurried off toward the kitchen, her footsteps fading quickly down the corridor.
Lying alone on the bed, Lu Sheng rested motionless. Despite the passage of time, the darkness before his eyes refused to fade, and his limbs felt hollow and powerless.
Yet even through the haze of weakness, he felt something strange stirring within him.
He slowly lifted his arm again, and instinctively—without conscious thought—his fingers curled, forming a saber grip. A flow of precise motion and lethal familiarity rippled through his body. Techniques he had never practiced now felt as natural as breathing.
The Black Tiger Saber Technique—its three devastating strikes and the three levels of its mantra—had engraved themselves into his mind with perfect clarity. He could recall every nuance, every subtle transition, every rhythm of breath. The synergy between the mantra and the saber forms was now as clear to him as sunlight through glass.
“It really worked!?” Lu Sheng murmured, closing his eyes in disbelief, his heart surging with joy.
The experiment had succeeded.
It had consumed his blood, drained his spirit—but in return, he had attained full mastery of the Black Tiger Saber Technique.
Still, one question gnawed at him.
‘The Black Tiger Saber Technique was supposed to have only three levels… so where did this fourth level come from?’
What unsettled him most was the familiarity—the uncanny sense that this mysterious fourth level wasn’t foreign at all.
It felt as though… he had created it himself.
The subtle philosophy and intricate logic woven into the Black Tiger Saber Technique were far beyond what the scholars of this world could conceive. Its structure, its efficiency, the way it channeled energy—it all felt less like ancient martial wisdom and more like the product of modern scientific principles of force and motion.
Though he had once been nothing more than a civil servant, Lu Sheng had at least studied the basics of engineering, sports science, and human biomechanics. The realization sent a faint chill down his spine.
Before he could pursue that thought further, a soft knock came at the door.
“Coincidentally, some blood-restoring porridge was cooked for Third Young Miss, also with red dates as its main ingredient. But Third Young Miss doesn’t want it, so I brought it over for Young Master. This is Lily Red Dates Broth—good for calming the mind and restoring blood. I’ve also added ginseng into it. Do you want it, Young Master?” Little Qiao’s gentle voice drifted in from outside.
“Bring it in,” Lu Sheng replied weakly.
The door creaked open, and Little Qiao stepped inside with a steaming bowl in her hands. But the moment her eyes landed on him, her expression froze. A trace of blood stained his collar, stark against his pale skin.
“Mas… Mas… Mas… Young Master, what happened to you!!?” she gasped, her hands trembling so badly the porridge nearly spilled.
Lu Sheng forced a grimace that resembled a smile. “I’m fine.”
“You still say you’re fine! You’ve even vomited blood!” Little Qiao’s face went white with fright, her voice quivering.
“I really am fine…” Lu Sheng sighed helplessly.
Little Qiao rushed forward, carefully setting the bowl before him. “Come, Young Master, drink some hot porridge first.”
With her help, he lifted the spoon and drank slowly, one mouthful at a time. The warmth spread through his chest, soothing the faint ache behind his ribs. Bit by bit, his breathing steadied, and the haze in his head began to clear.
When the bowl was empty, he leaned back slightly, feeling a trace of strength return. His thoughts drifted once again to the Black Tiger Saber Technique—the countless fragments of understanding and experience that had somehow etched themselves into his mind.
They were not foreign, nor did they feel newly learned. It was as if these insights had always been there, quietly waiting to be remembered. Each stroke, each transition, each breath came naturally, as though they were part of his very instincts.
If not for his current frail state, he would have seized a saber and gone to the practice grounds immediately.
As soon as he finished the porridge, Little Qiao hurriedly excused herself, running to summon the manor’s physician. She couldn’t shake her worry over his condition.
Lu Manor’s resident doctor was an elderly man—thin, stooped, with a pointed goatee that swayed gently as he walked.
Carrying a large wooden medicine chest on his back, the old physician moved briskly into the room. The faint scent of herbs followed him as he set the chest down beside the bed and took a seat.
With practiced calm, he placed two fingers on Lu Sheng’s wrist. Moments passed in silence before the furrows in his brow eased.
“It’s nothing serious—just a loss of blood and overexertion of mental energy,” he said, his tone steady and reassuring. “He simply needs to rest for a few days.”
He reached into his chest, pulled out a sheet of thin paper, and began writing swiftly with his brush. “Take this prescription to the pharmacy. Brew it and feed the Young Master twice a day for ten days—he’ll make a full recovery.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Little Qiao said gratefully.
Lu Sheng exhaled softly. The diagnosis was just as he had expected. Relief washed through him, though his body still felt heavy and numb.
Not long after, the door opened again, and his father, Lu Fang—also known as Lu Quanan—entered with two women in tow.
“What happened?” Lu Fang asked, his voice deep with concern. Behind him stood Lu Sheng’s second and third mothers.
His own mother had passed away from illness years ago, and it was his second mother, Liu Cuiyu, who had raised him since childhood. She was a gentle woman, gracious and fair, who treated Lu Sheng as if he were her own flesh and blood.
“It’s just a little blood loss from practicing martial arts, nothing more,” Lu Sheng explained, offering a weak smile as he reassured them one by one.
As the eldest son, he was destined to inherit the Lu family’s business empire—its wealth, its influence, and its burdens. Naturally, any mishap involving him stirred the entire household into concern.
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