Clan Rise: Starting as a Grandfather Chapter 3 - 3 2 Becoming a Widower I Can Also Remarry

Yang Zhenshan went back to his chamber and perched on the kang's side, rubbing his scalp hard.

He truly struggled with a home teeming with kids and grandkids.

In particular, hearing his oldest grandson yell “Grandpa” left him totally at a loss.

Sigh~~

Yang Zhenshan released a deep breath. At this point, it looked like he had no alternative; despite the unease, he'd need to adjust gradually.

Rather than moping around here, it made more sense to plan for the upcoming days.

He unlocked the wooden trunk near the kang's top and pulled out a tinier box.

Within that tiny box lay two silver pins for hair, a pair of silver bangles, and thirteen taels worth of broken silver bits.

Then, Yang Zhenshan grabbed a clay pot from the kang's corner, stuffed full of copper coins.

Upon tallying it up, excluding the jewels, the total came to roughly fifteen taels.

For a household this large, such a meager stash of silver proved woefully insufficient.

Luckily, the clan still held twenty mu of fields, and with autumn now upon them, the reaping season approached soon.

Through the next year, the family ought to scrape by somehow.

Regarding what lay ahead, that hinged on destiny.

A farmer's ability to fill his belly rested entirely on the weather; favorable rains and winds might yield plenty, yet a calamity spelled certain famine.

Having come to terms with his situation, Yang Zhenshan turned his thoughts to future survival.

In line with those transmigration tales, maybe he should craft glass, soap, guns, and launch a revolt to claim the throne?

Yet, after pondering it, he just rolled his eyes in frustration.

Those stories were pure fiction.

He recalled that sand formed the base for glass, but the process? Nothing but doubts filled his head.

Lard supposedly mixed into soap, but beyond that? More doubts piled up.

Guns? He hadn't the foggiest idea; even firecrackers would stump him, let alone real weapons.

Plenty of folks from his era grasped basics of powder and guns, but basics didn't equate to crafting them.

Besides, this realm boasted Martial Artists—superhuman figures who soared through the air and battled armies alone.

Primitive powder arms meant nothing against such experts, save for advancing to proper black powder and modern guns with bullets. Short of that, staying a law-abiding folk was wiser—safer from slaughter.

The former owner had been a Martial Artist, starting at fifteen, which explained his army stint.

Tragically, a fierce clash left the original severely wounded, sealing off his Martial path forever.

“Martial Artist!”

Recalling the original's Martial skills, Yang Zhenshan balled his hand into a fist.

Though this frame seemed frail with lurking wounds, its underlying power outmatched ordinary men's.

Still, resuming Martial training demanded first mending those injuries and restoring his life force.

That wouldn't happen for a mere ten or twenty taels of silver; else, the original would've sought help ages ago.

Musing on those injuries, Yang Zhenshan abruptly paused.

Spiritual Spring Water: It mends wounds effectively, and steady intake boosts body and aptitude.

A strange bit of knowledge popped into his thoughts, followed by a vivid image unfolding before him.

A stone basin, transparent liquid, bottomless void.

This matched a recurring dream vision.

“Spiritual Spring Water!”

Yang Zhenshan caught on instantly and hurried from the room to fetch a porcelain dish.

He dipped his forefinger into it, concentrated, and watched water stream from his digit to fill the dish.

Before long, a dish brimming with pure liquid sat there.

Was this safe to swallow?

Yang Zhenshan eyed the pristine water skeptically.

The shadowy stone basin now stood barren, yet fresh drops trickled from its depths.

Thus, the Spiritual Spring Water renewed itself bit by bit!

After a brief waver, Yang Zhenshan lifted the bowl and gulped it down.

Refreshing and sugary, as the liquid hit his gut, warmth flooded his veins. His aching left shoulder eased considerably, and an all-new ease washed over him.

“It actually does something?”

Yang Zhenshan shifted about, sensing real relief from before, though raising his left arm still twinged.

The Spiritual Spring Water proved effective for his wounds, yet a single serving fell short.

Yang Zhenshan's gaze sparked with excitement.

Should he cure those injuries, restarting Martial Arts became feasible, and building on the original's base, achieving Martial Artist status should flow naturally.

Even better, his form could reclaim its prime vigor.

Sure, a decade older, but peak recovery meant he remained a sturdy youth.

At thirty-eight, youth still defined him!

Grandfather or not, he stayed vigorous, far from decrepit.

This realization lifted Yang Zhenshan's mood alongside his body.

Ten extra years mattered little, provided he avoided frailty and kept his vitality roaring—that sufficed.

With mild concentration, the dark basin reemerged, its slow-seeping water at the base offering promise.

Slow pace didn't deter; hope alone fueled him.

Stowing the silver away, Yang Zhenshan strolled out, hands clasped behind.

“Grandfather!”

The oldest grandson, frolicking in the yard, spotted him and dashed up with a gleeful cry.

Now, facing his grandson, Yang Zhenshan's reluctance faded.

The kid looked sturdy and cute, truly charming.

Yang Zhenshan scooped him up smoothly; though one bowl of Spiritual Spring Water hadn't fully fixed the wounds, it allowed this effortless lift.

From memories, the original rarely carried the boy—not from reluctance, but shoulder agony.

“Grandpa, show me the Spear Technique!”

The grandson beamed in Yang Zhenshan's arms, face alight with delight.

Yang Zhenshan glanced at his youngest, Yang Yunxue, in the yard, the ten-year-old twirling a spear.

The Yang clan's inherited Spear Technique.

Though no arcane secret, it stemmed from real combat wisdom.

Moves struck swift and firm, free of excess, guided by seamless flow.

Every one of the Yangs' five offspring had trained in Martial Arts and basic letters.

The Martial legacy came from ancestors, while reading came courtesy of the original's spouse.

It might seem they excelled in arts and arms, but truthfully, none shone as scholars or warriors.

Martial practice yielded no true Martial Artists among them, and their literacy just covered word recognition—not scholarly depth.

Typically, the eldest, Yang Mingcheng, and second, Yang Mingzhi, handled fields, lagging in Martial drills.

The fourth, Yang Minghao, apprenticed at a county forge and likely skipped Martial work too.

Presently, just the youngest, Yang Yunxue, stuck to daily Martial routines.

Observing his daughter wield the spear with vigor, Yang Zhenshan yearned to try.

Youthful lads dream of martial glory.

Yang Zhenshan's such dream had crumbled, but here, amid genuine Martial Artists, it stirred anew.

“Grandpa will demonstrate the Spear Technique for you, how's that?” Yang Zhenshan smiled faintly at his grandson.

“Yes!” The grandson cheered, slapping his palms.

Yang Zhenshan set the boy down, headed to the sleeping quarters, and soon emerged with an iron spear.

The weapon measured nearly two meters, tipped with a seven-inch blade, weighing four jin, its sides blunt as buckwheat grain.

Drawing on the original's recollections, Yang Zhenshan jabbed the spear like a viper's lunge, then danced fluidly, sweeping it broadly and boldly, every strike unleashed fully, whirling sharply to stun. The point quivered, flashing icy sparks. In a six-foot span, the spear's glow blanketed all.

In war, one poured everything out, no restraint, lest the foe strike fatally first.

Hence, the core of the Yang clan's Spear Technique lay in total commitment per action, no holding back.

Each stab courted life or death, ignoring what followed.

Watching Yang Zhenshan drill the spear, Yang Yunxue halted, eyes wide with shock and joy.

“Dad's drilling the spear once more?” Yang Yunxue's young voice, at ten, rang soft and sweet.

“Grandpa's incredible!” The oldest grandson, Yang Chengye, applauded happily.

Doors on east and west swung wide, as the first son's wife, Ms. Wang, and second son's wife, the Li girl, emerged with their young ones, staring at Yang Zhenshan in wonder.

The original hadn't touched the spear in ages. Since his wife's passing, grief had sapped his drive for it.

In that, the original showed true affection.

Sensing all eyes on him, Yang Zhenshan swelled with pride, his spear strikes growing fiercer.

Yet bliss can flip to woe.

After a mighty thrust, Yang Zhenshan tripped.

Pain, pain, pain~~

His left shoulder throbbed like a pinched nerve, almost knocking Yang Zhenshan unconscious as he staggered.

“Dad, you alright?” Yang Yunxue rushed to steady him, voice laced with worry.

Gazing at his daughter's anxious features, Yang Zhenshan's heart warmed.

Though he'd inherited her simply, her care felt utterly real.

“I'm okay!”

“Just can't drill the spear right now!” Yang Zhenshan added, tinged with regret.

The thrill of spear work enchanted, but his body's deep-seated wounds barred full exertion yet.

He yearned for the Spiritual Spring Water to hasten its cure on his injuries.

“Dad, maybe call a doctor to check?” The first daughter-in-law, Ms. Wang, approached with the oldest granddaughter in arms, inquiring.

Though mother to two, Ms. Wang was merely twenty.

Post the original wife's death, she managed the home.

Like a mother to the eldest, her burden with this big clan weighed heavy.

“No, rest will mend me!”

Yang Zhenshan flushed a bit awkwardly.

Sons and daughters were straightforward, but daughters-in-law stirred oddness in him.

He'd dated a few times back home, never wed.

No spouse, much less in-law daughters.

On second thought, Yang Zhenshan pitied himself.

This wouldn't stand; he needed a partner.

Widower or not, remarriage awaited.

Soon enough, he'd secure a new mother for them all.