Chapter Fifty-Two: Han the Mighty Tiger

After presenting his identification token, Fang Xiao received his lunch from the kitchen maid.

Three steamed buns, each larger than his face, a fist-sized ball of vegetables, a large bowl of meat soup sprinkled with chopped scallions...

And a generous, steaming piece of roasted meat!

At first, Fang Xiao felt disappointed.

He had paid a full three hundred taels of silver for the premium meal plan.

And yet, this was his first meal? Outrageous!

But when the burly, broad-shouldered kitchen maid finally placed the slab of roast meat on his tray, Fang Xiao immediately realized he might have misjudged the academy.

The main dish was as large as his palm, its exterior roasted to a crisp, golden perfection. The skin was a finger thick, the fat two fingers deep, and the lean meat three fingers across—a flawless ratio.

Not only was its color enticing, but it exuded a rich, mouthwatering aroma that made one's appetite surge with longing.

Just as Fang Xiao was about to sit down and enjoy his meal, he noticed something interesting.

There were many people dining in the refectory. Yet everyone clustered with their own kind, forming clearly separate groups.

The largest number, without question, were the students of the Martial Hall. They had split into several factions.

Fang Xiao also noticed, in a corner, a group of frail-looking, plainly dressed individuals—the students of the Literary Hall.

But not all the scholars came from poor backgrounds; the wealthier ones had their own exclusive circles.

Remembering what he’d observed earlier in the classroom, Fang Xiao felt his head spin. How complicated!

Fortunately, he spotted a small table nearby with only one person seated.

He quickly carried his tray over.

There was a reason this table had only one occupant. The man was built like a black iron tower—tall, brawny, with arms thicker than most people's waists. His square face was covered in a beard, his thick brows and fierce eyes radiated an intimidating presence.

Dining with such a man would be a daunting experience for most.

But Fang Xiao didn’t mind.

As Fang Xiao sat across from him, the black-tower man smiled.

Though it was meant to be courteous, it was still rather unnerving.

Fang Xiao couldn’t help but ask, “Excuse me, are you an instructor at the Martial Hall?”

“No,” the black-tower man replied, shaking his head with an unexpected answer. “I’m a martial student who enrolled just last year.”

Fang Xiao was startled. “So you’re a senior brother?”

He found it strange. Fang Xiao remembered Daoist Pang once saying that the Six Rivers Academy typically only accepted students under eighteen.

Yet this man looked much older!

“My name is Han Dahu,” the black-tower man said, as if sensing Fang Xiao’s doubts. “I’m seventeen this year.”

Seventeen!

Fang Xiao was dumbfounded.

This senior, who entered last year, could easily pass for twenty-seven. Thirty-seven wouldn’t be a stretch.

And yet he was only a year older!

Was that possible?

“I’m not lying,” Han Dahu said, sheepishly scratching his head. “My mother always said I grew up too quickly, but my father told me that for a man, looks don’t matter.”

“Your father’s right,” Fang Xiao agreed.

Han Dahu grinned, a strip of meat stuck between his teeth.

He reminded Fang Xiao, “Junior brother, this wild boar is best eaten hot. Dig in while it’s fresh!”

“Oh!” Fang Xiao snapped to attention and began to eat in earnest.

Nothing else mattered now—eating was paramount.

A bite of meat, a mouthful of bun, a taste of vegetables, a sip of soup!

With the speed of a whirlwind, Fang Xiao polished off his lunch, leaving not a scrap behind.

Truly worthy of the premium meal.

The wild boar roast was undoubtedly the highlight—plenty of meat, bursting with flavor.

He ate so greedily that the juices ran down his chin, nearly swallowing his own tongue in delight!

There was even a faint medicinal taste in the meat; once in his belly, it radiated a comforting warmth. Clearly, it was highly nourishing.

The steamed buns were soft and glutinous, the vegetables crisp and refreshing, the original soup rich and hearty—each a distinct delight.

Well worth the price!

Just as Fang Xiao finished his meal, Han Dahu spoke again: “Junior brother, the wild boar contains medicinal essence. Sit for a while to digest, then head to the martial training grounds. That way you’ll absorb all the benefits!”

He had finished even faster than Fang Xiao; his plate was spotless.

“Thank you for the advice, senior brother,” Fang Xiao said gratefully. “My name is Fang Xiao, a new Martial Hall student.”

He felt that this hulking, fierce-looking senior was actually a good man.

Han Dahu chuckled. “I know.”

Fang Xiao hesitated a moment before asking, “Senior brother, are only martial and literary students allowed to eat here?”

He had wondered about this, but as a newcomer, he was unfamiliar with the academy’s specifics and hadn’t noticed any Daoist students.

“That’s right,” Han Dahu replied. “Daoist students dine upstairs. They take the back staircase.”

So that’s how it was!

Fang Xiao finally understood the saying, “Poor scholars, wealthy warriors, revered Daoists.”

Those who practiced the Dao literally dined above both the martial and literary students.

He couldn’t help but sigh, “The difference is so great.”

“Indeed,” Han Dahu said seriously. “The saying ‘the Dao is a cut above’ refers to the Daoist students—they truly are above us.”

“We martial students, they say, ‘martial is approachable.’”

“Approachable?” Fang Xiao understood “the Dao is a cut above,” but what did “martial is approachable” mean?

Han Dahu explained, “It means martial students are, at least, considered human.”

Fang Xiao drew a sharp breath. “And the scholars?”

Han Dahu replied, his voice deep and resonant, “A scholar is worth less than a dog.”

Fang Xiao was left speechless.

The Dao is a cut above, martial is approachable, scholars are worth less than dogs!

How much more pointed than the phrase, “Poor scholars, wealthy warriors, revered Daoists.”

It bothered Fang Xiao deeply to hear that even within the academy, students were ranked in such a rigid hierarchy.

He felt everyone should be equal—like soldiers, scientists, workers, and farmers.

Instinctively, Fang Xiao pressed lightly against his chest, feeling the heat in his palm.

He knew such thoughts were naïve.

But for now, Fang Xiao was a martial student—at least he counted as a person.

Otherwise...

Would he not even be considered human?

Han Dahu went on to explain the specific distinctions among cultivators, warriors, and scholars.

For instance, in the county yamen of Six Rivers, the magistrate held a seventh-rank official title in the imperial court—a Daoist, a high-level cultivator.

Below him, the county constable was an eighth-rank military official—a martial graduate, at the level of opening the meridians.

The chief clerks, who were scholars, were mere scribes without rank, though they still needed to have passed the literary examinations.

The disparity was enormous!

As the saying went, ten years of bitter study could not compare to being a lackey in a noble house.

But such was the world. It had never changed in a thousand years.

“Junior brother, it’s about time,” Han Dahu said, rising to his feet. “Let’s go train in the martial yard and not let the wild boar’s medicinal properties go to waste!”

Fang Xiao hurried after his senior brother, leaving the refectory behind.

And so they headed for the Martial Hall training grounds.