The Almighty Martial Arts System

By the time the battlefield quieted, the sky had shifted from sunset to full darkness. Outside the window, the world was silent except for the occasional bark of a distant dog.

Fresh from the shower, Jiang Fei stroked his chin with satisfaction, grinning at the sight on the bed: Bai Ruoxi, her curves barely concealed by the sheets, her face buried under a pillow.

“What’re you laughing at, you idiot?! Go cook already—I’m starving!” came her muffled, indignant voice. Today had been… thoroughly humiliating. Jiang Fei had subjected her to every imaginable “tactic,” and even now, her cheeks burned at the memory.

“Relax, Bai meimei. Tonight, your husband will whip up a feast to reward your… dedication to the revolution,” Jiang Fei teased, hastily throwing on clothes before heading downstairs to prepare their long-overdue dinner.

It was physical labor, after all. Though he’d acted like an inexhaustible beast, his stomach had been growling for hours.

“A healthy body fuels the revolution,” he mused. If I don’t eat, how am I supposed to fight another round later?

Only after Jiang Fei’s footsteps faded did Bai Ruoxi finally lift her head, her face flushed with lingering embarrassment. She sat there for a while, cradling her warm cheeks, lost in thought. When her legs finally felt steady enough, she slipped out of bed and rummaged through Jiang Fei’s closet for one of his oversized shirts to wear.

…

About thirty minutes later, Bai Ruoxi ventured downstairs, leaning over the second-floor railing to survey the villa’s layout. The decor pleased her—understated yet refined, a far cry from the gaudy mansions she’d seen abroad. Even without Rice Village’s breathtaking backdrop, this place held its own.

“But… another woman has lived here long-term,” she realized with a frown. Lin Moli, Jiang Fei’s hospital partner, had her own room here—and apparently used it often.

The thought soured her mood briefly, but the aroma wafting from the kitchen quickly overrode it. Starving after their “workout,” Bai Ruoxi followed the scent like a moth to flame.

“What’re you making? It smells amazing,” she asked, peering over Jiang Fei’s shoulder.

She wasn’t a glutton like Lin Moli, but the fragrance was irresistible. Even Ye Yuanyuan, the icy heiress of the Ye family, had surrendered to Jiang Fei’s cooking—how could Bai Ruoxi resist?

Jiang Fei drizzled glossy red sauce over a braised pork knuckle (Dongpo肘子) and handed her chopsticks. “Try it. Let’s see if my ‘culinary genius’ lives up to the hype.”

Bai Ruoxi swallowed hard, too hungry to argue. She stabbed a piece of melt-in-your-mouth skin, dipped it in the sauce, and—

“Ah—! Hot, hot!” She fanned her mouth but refused to spit it out. Instead, her eyes widened in shock. “This is unreal! The skin’s rich but not greasy, the meat’s tender—Jiang Fei, did you actually spend six months training as a chef?!”

She reached for another bite, but Jiang Fei confiscated her chopsticks. “Who was it that said ‘as long as it’s edible’ earlier? Set the table. Dinner’s ready.”

Grumbling, Bai Ruoxi obeyed, though her gaze lingered on the pork knuckle like a lovesick puppy.

…

Jiang Fei soon emerged with an array of dishes—then vanished again, returning with candles, wineglasses, and a bottle of half-fermented red from his cellar. With a flick of the switch, the room plunged into romantic darkness, the candlelight casting flickering shadows.

“Well? Romantic enough for you?” he asked, pouring the wine.

Bai Ruoxi’s eyes glittered in the dim light. For once, her pragmatic resolve wavered. She almost wished she’d worn a gown instead of Jiang Fei’s borrowed shirt.

Most women are slaves to atmosphere, she conceded. Even me.

Jiang Fei raised his glass, his voice uncharacteristically tender. “To the honor of dining with you tonight—and the greater honor of holding your hand for the rest of my life. I must’ve done something right in a past life.”

It wasn’t steak-and-champagne sophistication, but the sentiment hit its mark. Bai Ruoxi, ever the rational powerhouse, felt her throat tighten.

“Holding your hand is my greatest fortune,” she whispered, clinking her glass against his.

…

The next 48 hours were a blur of “reconnecting.” Aside from a brief tour of Rice Village’s scenic wonders, they barely left the villa—or the bed.

It was a throwback to their college days, when a young Jiang Fei had tricked Bai Ruoxi into skipping class for a “movie date” that ended in a cheap motel. Back then, they’d burned through a week’s worth of passion. Now, after six months apart, they made up for lost time with equal fervor.

On the third day, Bai Ruoxi’s vacation ended. Work called her back to Beijing—but this time, Jiang Fei would join her for a TCM conference hosted by Cui Xiu Ping.

As they packed their luggage and booked flights, it felt less like a separation and more like an adventure.

Some women thrived as carefree socialites; others, like Bai Ruoxi, needed purpose. Forcing her into domesticity would’ve been a crime. Jiang Fei knew better than to clip her wings.

“Besides,” he thought, watching her hum as she folded clothes, “Beijing’s just another battlefield. And we fight better together.”