Chapter Eight: The Righteous Society

The air seemed to freeze.

Archim awkwardly broke the heavy silence, turning to Zhao Huaian and stammering, “Master, Black Sheep doesn’t understand. Please don’t blame him.”

Unexpectedly, Zhao Huaian grinned broadly and said, “You want to learn? Then I’ll teach you.”

As soon as the words fell, everyone turned to look at Zhao Huaian. The tribal people, unaware of what was happening, also followed suit.

Zhao Huaian clearly understood everyone’s shock.

The Bajiquan he used was something that, even in later eras, would have taken tens of thousands of coins and systematic training to master. And now, when was this? This was an age where martial prowess ruled. If you possessed a killing skill, it might be an exaggeration to say your wife and children would be protected, but it certainly elevated your social standing.

Moreover, such martial arts couldn’t be learned with money alone because no one would openly teach them—they were passed down strictly within families.

Otherwise, why would there be “military families” or “martial clans”?

So when that Qiang man expressed a desire to learn his martial art, everyone grew serious. This was no mere wishful thinking—it took courage akin to having eaten a leopard’s gall.

Yet Zhao Huaian still decided to teach.

Why?

Because the night before, as he lay awake, he had been turning over the problem in his mind: how to survive in this chaotic age, and how to live better.

Though the Huang Chao Rebellion had marked the beginning of this turmoil, Zhao Huaian understood that by the mid- to late Tang Dynasty, the world had long been in disorder.

Whether within the imperial court, among regional warlords, or in the countryside, the land was rife with danger—dragons and snakes stirring beneath the surface.

For Zhao Huaian to thrive in such times, he needed martial power.

But what use was bravery alone? As last night proved, if he hadn’t taken advantage of a surprise attack, those six Tibetan warriors could have ended his life.

He needed a group of loyal followers.

But recruiting disciples wasn’t easy; it required wealth, authority, and prestige.

What did Zhao Huaian have? A native of Shouzhou, now a stranger in the Shu region, and with the entire Lizhou army wiped out, he was utterly isolated.

Even if he returned to Chengdu, joining the military meant cannon fodder; entering politics was a dead end. Despite Xianyu Yue’s gratitude for saving his life, he would still be nothing more than a servant or guest.

So he needed influence.

If you have men with weapons, even rebellion could be pardoned, and the path ahead would be wider.

The problem was, with no money, no power, and no local ties, how to gather a following?

Only by taking disciples.

In this era, the bond between master and apprentice was already close. Teaching a skill that was rare in the market meant there would be no shortage of students.

With a group of trusted disciples aiding him in the army, everything would be easier.

Besides, he was well-suited to teach.

In his previous life, he had been a martial enthusiast—boxing, Bajiquan, German longsword, heavy armored combat—all systematically studied.

It seemed he had been born in the wrong era. Look, in the Tang Dynasty, wouldn’t he be a true hero instantly?

Though uncertain of the current level of combat skills in the Tang, the techniques he knew were certainly not inferior—after all, these were time-honored fighting arts, refined by many masters over the years. It was unlikely they were worse than those passed down in families.

With this in mind, Zhao Huaian felt great potential.

Very well, teaching martial arts it would be.

Martial arts were knowledge. Teaching one person was teaching; teaching many was teaching too. The more disciples, the greater the influence.

Wasn’t this better than bleeding and dying in the army to build connections?

Indeed, in any age, knowledge-for-pay was a good business.

And he need not fear his disciples outgrowing their master—the honorable ancestors of the Tang had no idea about such commercial schemes.

He had mulled over these thoughts last night, and today, with Black Sheep coming to learn, it was the perfect opportunity to start.

It seemed his first step in entrepreneurship in the Tang Dynasty would begin with this Black Sheep.

...

Zhao Huaian cleared his throat and smiled at Black Sheep, “You want to learn? Then I’ll teach you.”

Perhaps because his words were so unexpected, no one responded at first.

Only when Zhao Huaian repeated himself did they react, though surprisingly, Zhao Liu, Xianyu Yue, Song Yuan, and Ren Tong remained silent.

In contrast, Archim, certain that the Tang warrior before him truly intended to teach, excitedly patted Black Sheep on the shoulder and shared the good news.

Black Sheep was overjoyed, grabbing Zhao Huaian’s leg and trying to lick his shoe.

Zhao Huaian struggled to pull him up and then turned to Archim beside him, saying, “Old Mo, teach Black Sheep to speak Han, and learn martial arts from me. How can he learn if he doesn’t speak Han?”

Archim nodded eagerly and smiled at Zhao Huaian, “Master, Black Sheep is smart. He learns fast.”

Indeed, living in the borderlands between Nanzhao, Tibet, and the Tang, exposure to the Han language was frequent. These tribal people already had some foundation. As long as the Tang people didn’t speak overly formal or obscure language, they could grasp the gist of everyday speech.

Zhao Huaian nodded, then looked at the dark figure of Black Sheep and suddenly said, “Black Sheep, kneel.”

Archim hurriedly helped Black Sheep kneel. Realizing this was the moment of apprenticeship, Black Sheep respectfully kowtowed to Zhao Huaian.

Zhao Huaian sat upright and declared loudly, “Black Sheep, I dare not claim my martial arts are unmatched in the world, but they are rare. I learned them from an old man deep in the mountains. Boxing, saber, wrestling, armored staff—mastering even one is enough to secure your life. Now that you wish to learn from me, I will teach you all.”

The Tang people present held their breath. Among them, Xianyu Yue’s gaze was most complex; he had already guessed Zhao Huaian’s intentions.

It seemed the Shu region was about to witness the rise of a hero named Zhao Huaian.

After boasting to himself, Zhao Huaian thought it was necessary to give their school a name to build a brand.

He had spoken with Lao Liu before and knew that forming societies was popular—from high officials to common folk, everyone loved joining clubs.

There were scripture-copying societies, Dharma societies, poetry clubs by literati, and small trade guilds—rice sellers, cloth merchants, vinegar brewers—all loved these small groups, creating regional monopolies.

Therefore, Zhao Huaian decided to form a society called the “Righteous Society.” Whether gathering disciples or organizing groups, the principle of “righteousness” would be paramount.

After a brief pause, Zhao Huaian continued, “Black Sheep, remember, our society is called the Righteous Society. All members are brothers. There are no other rules, only three commandments.”

“First, loyalty and trust above all. Brothers must be loyal and never betray one another for profit.”

“Second, aid the weak and help the poor. Brothers must have compassion, never bully the lonely, widowed, or elderly; never ignore those suffering from hunger and cold. Those capable must do their utmost to help others in difficulty.”

“Third, righteousness leads all. Brothers shall be as close as family, entrusting life and death, rescuing each other in good fortune and misfortune, supporting one another through hardships.”

Seeing the group moved, Zhao Huaian grew more proud and theatrically raised three fingers toward the sky, chanting:

“Those who harm my brothers shall be killed. Brothers who harm brothers shall be killed.”

Black Sheep understood the first part but was dazed by the latter; fortunately, Archim translated beside him.

Tears streamed down Black Sheep’s face. When Zhao Huaian finished, he wept and uttered a sentence in Han: “Yes, sir!”

It was rare to hear Black Sheep speak Han.

Zhao Huaian nodded and told Archim, “Old Mo, tell Black Sheep he must change his name. From now on, he’s Yang Mao.”

Archim happily conveyed this to Black Sheep.

Black Sheep quietly repeated the name over and over, determined to internalize it.

Zhao Huaian was pleased. Yet Zhao Liu, usually jovial, was silent, holding his suona flute and recalling the bittersweet memories of his father taking him to apprentice in the village.

...

Zhao Huaian had staged the grand scene to set the atmosphere and gauge others’ reactions.

Zhao Liu appeared somewhat aggrieved, while the wealthy Xianyu Yue, evidently clever, seemed to grasp Zhao Huaian’s intentions.

Ren Tong looked eager to try, and Song Yuan smiled as brightly as a peach blossom.

Hmm? Better not look too closely.

To the right, Old Mo seemed homesick, repeatedly calling Zhao Huaian “Master.”

Hmm, not a bad name.

Yang Mao had been moved to tears by now.

The other eight tribal men wore mixed expressions: some excited, some indifferent, some foolishly smiling.

It seemed another spark was needed.

Zhao Huaian fixed his gaze on Ren Tong and decided, “You’re up.”

He cleared his throat and said, “Old Ren, come on, let’s spar.”

Ren Tong didn’t hesitate. He tucked his robe into his belt and stepped forward.

He admired and respected Zhao Huaian and understood this was a chance to perform, so he cooperated willingly.

Zhao Huaian led Ren Tong to an open space and said, “Come, try to throw me down your way.”

Ren Tong and the others were veterans from the Chengdu Rapid Troops. Though not the elite of the Jian’nan Circuit, their combat power was among the best, formed initially to counter the Nanzhao people.

Ren Tong was a renowned fighter from Baxian, a region famous for producing military talents since Han times, with a proud family tradition.

Knowing Zhao Huaian’s skill, Ren Tong didn’t rush to throw him but circled him cautiously.

Zhao Huaian took the initiative, grabbing Ren Tong’s hand just as he tried to grab his belt, then suddenly fell.

Ren Tong was momentarily stunned, then noticed Zhao Huaian’s foot entangled around his leg. Before he knew it, he was thrown to the ground.

As Ren Tong recovered, Zhao Huaian grabbed his left leg in an unusual maneuver.

Ren Tong prepared to pull away, but pain came swiftly, and Zhao Huaian laughed, “If it hurts, tap the ground.”

Ren Tong was tough; this only fired his temper. He gritted his teeth and tried to free his leg.

No matter how he struggled, he couldn’t escape, and the pain intensified.

Yet Ren Tong never begged for mercy.

Finally, Zhao Huaian released the hold, leaving Ren Tong lying on the ground, gasping.

Helping him up, Zhao Huaian gave a thumbs-up and praised, “Old Ren, you’re a real tough guy.”

Ren Tong blushed and stammered to speak, but Zhao Huaian interrupted with a laugh, “I know you want to learn. I’ll teach you.”

Ren Tong smiled sincerely, nodded heavily, and patted his chest, promising to speak up if needed.

Zhao Huaian liked Ren Tong’s straightforward nature, patted his shoulder, and helped him back.

He hadn’t used full strength; after the initial pain, Ren Tong’s leg would soon be fine.

When the two returned, the crowd erupted in cheers.

Zhao Huaian was delighted, eyeing the tribal men like a fitness coach selling memberships: “Boxing and Bajiquan, anyone interested?”