Sorry, I Already Have a Master

Fang Jueming?

The stern-faced middle-aged man pondered upon hearing the name, then asked thoughtfully: "The Fang family of Ancient Martial Arts' Flash Fist?"

Fang Jueming lowered his head, hesitated for a moment, and replied in a trembling voice: "Yes."

The middle-aged man fell into brief contemplation.

He had heard of the Fang family—among the ancient martial arts clans, they could hardly be considered true practitioners anymore.

Not long ago, the current head of the Fang family had his neck snapped by an assassin, turning the family into a laughingstock within the martial arts circle.

After all, not just anyone could call themselves a martial artist. Such people only dragged down the prestige of the craft.

Flash Fist—a technique that once shook the martial world—now barely survived with just two or three remaining moves. What right did it have to still be called an ancient martial art?

The middle-aged man glanced indifferently at the punch marks on the sandbag and said coolly: "You were hired to clean the dojo, not to practice here."

Martial artists were different from ordinary people, so the sandbags were filled with a special substance called "heavy sand."

Yet, under Fang Jueming's relentless strikes, the entire sandbag was on the verge of splitting apart.

The man had observed—Fang Jueming's punches weren't overwhelmingly powerful. It only proved one thing: he had been training nonstop, hammering the sandbag without rest.

Fang Jueming's expression darkened as he said firmly: "Headmaster, my training won’t interfere with my duties. I’ll even work without pay—just don’t send me away."

The headmaster’s expression shifted slightly when he noticed Fang Jueming’s hands.

Blood seeped faintly from his knuckles, where old scabs had barely healed.

Those who practiced ancient martial arts were meticulous about protecting their bodies, and this young man clearly took it seriously. Yet despite that, he had trained until his hands were covered in wounds.

The headmaster’s tone softened as he said leisurely: "Starting tomorrow, you’ll train with Da Wu and the others."

Fang Jueming froze at those words.

Da Wu and his group were the dojo’s disciples. Training with them meant…

Fang Jueming muttered blankly: "Headmaster…"

The headmaster waved a hand and said earnestly: "From now on, call me 'Master.' I see potential in you."

The headmaster’s name was Wu Tong.

Those who knew him would recognize his other title—Cold-Faced Axe Fist!

His fighting style was fierce and unrelenting, like a heavy axe, making him nearly impossible to counter.

With this brutal technique, Wu Tong had once dominated the martial world!

Hearing Wu Tong’s offer to take him as a disciple, Fang Jueming hesitated, then clenched his teeth and bowed respectfully: "I’m honored by your kindness, Headmaster. But… I already have a master."

"A master?"

Wu Tong frowned slightly.

Countless people would scramble to become his disciple, yet this kid had the audacity to refuse?

"Do you know who I am?" Wu Tong asked calmly.

"Cold-Faced Axe Fist. I’ve heard of your reputation since I was a child."

Fang Jueming didn’t hide his knowledge and answered solemnly.

Wu Tong’s lips twitched.

He understood—once a master, always a father.

In the traditions of ancient martial arts, a disciple was to honor their master as they would their own parent, with unwavering loyalty.

But in this era where ancient martial arts were fading, there were still those who clung to these old customs.

Wu Tong said indifferently: "Very well. Then we won’t use the title of master and disciple. Rest early—training starts at eight tomorrow. The fees will be deducted from your wages."

"Yes, Headmaster!"

Fang Jueming’s refined face flushed with excitement.

He had succeeded. He never imagined he’d actually get the chance to train under Cold-Faced Axe Fist himself!

It felt like a dream.

"Hey, Fang, you owe me for this! You’re taking me to the movies."

A girl in a school uniform, her hair in twin braids, sucked on a colorful lollipop as she grinned at Fang Jueming from behind.

"Wu Shuangshuang? What are you doing here?"

Fang Jueming turned to her, scratching his head awkwardly and avoiding her gaze as he stammered: "D-don’t you have class today?"

"Did you train your brain into mush? It’s the weekend already!"

Wu Shuangshuang tapped his head with her delicate fingers and smirked. "So? Big sis here pulled some strings, and Dad agreed to take you in. Pretty impressive, huh?"

"You’re younger than me."

Fang Jueming corrected her seriously before suddenly freezing. "Wait… the Headmaster is your father?"

Wu Shuangshuang: "…"

"You idiot! Did you really think it was your sincerity that moved him?"

She rolled her eyes.

Still, she was surprised her father had agreed. Wu Tong hadn’t taken a disciple in ten years—those in the dojo were merely students.

"Dad finally considered taking a disciple after all this time, and you turned him down."

Wu Shuangshuang’s big eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Seriously, I want to know—just what kind of person is your master?"

Fang Jueming’s expression turned solemn. "He’s incredible. Unbelievably strong."

"Ma’am, I was here first!"

An Yi pushed a shopping cart piled high with discounted bread.

"Just because you were first doesn’t mean you can hog all the clearance bread! Where’s the justice in that?" The middle-aged woman across from him glared indignantly.

"My wife has a big appetite. Got a problem with that?"

"Is your wife 300 pounds?! Who eats this much? Listen here, kid—if you don’t hand over some of that bread, I’m lying right here!"

"Tch. Playing the old lady card? Go ahead, lie down then."

Thud!

"Ma’am, please get up. The floor’s cold."

Outside the supermarket.

An Yi and Shen Muxuan munched on their bread.

After chugging a bottle of water, An Yi turned to her: "Full yet?"

"Mostly."

Shen Muxuan nodded. "Should we keep looking?"

"Wandering around blindly won’t help. Let’s go see someone."

An Yi tossed the empty bottle into a trash bin over ten meters away without missing a beat.

Late July. The scorching sun baked the earth mercilessly.

The bricks at the construction site burned to the touch.

Ding Renfeng’s once-luxurious cigar had downgraded to a five-yuan pack of cheap cigarettes.

"Bro Feng, let’s find another job. This construction gig is killing us."

Yao Ji wiped sweat from his brow, exhausted.

They’d been at this grueling site for two weeks now. Some of their old crew had refused to give up their lawless ways, continuing their life of crime.

Others, like them, had gritted their teeth and taken up honest labor.

"Idiot, this job pays 400 a day! Where else you gonna earn that kind of cash?"

Ding Renfeng took a drag and shot Yao Ji a look.

Yao Ji sulked. Back in the day, a quick pickpocketing run on the bus could net him three or four grand.

"Hey, longhair! Someone’s looking for you!" the foreman shouted.

Yao Ji bristled. "The hell you callin’—"

Ding Renfeng stopped him with a hand and flicked away his cigarette. "Coming."