Chapter 33: The More You Read, the Thinner the Book Becomes

When a person reads endlessly about the same subject, you’ll notice something strange: the more books you read, the more similar they become. As you go through the adjectives one by one, you realize—they’re all describing the same thing, or at least the same quality of that thing.

In short: at first, reading makes your knowledge grow thicker. But past a certain point, it starts getting thinner.

Wang Xiaoqiang didn’t get tangled in all those winding words. Instead, he approached it like a kid pointing at pictures and telling stories. And when the images overlapped in his mind, he finally understood what these books were really saying. He began mentally replaying those movements over and over—so much so that even in sleep, his dreams were filled with them.

At 4:20 a.m., he snapped awake, stepped out of the car, stretched like a cat, then shouted toward the building: “Everyone—up! All of you!” His voice cut through fog and clouds, jolting everyone from their beds. One little kid refused to move, relying on the fact that everyone spoiled him. Xiaoqiang walked in, scooped up a bowl of water, and dumped it straight on the boy’s face. The kid startled awake, ready to cry and make a scene—but then saw Xiaoqiang coming back with another bowl. He yelped, scrambled off the bed, and bolted outside. Everyone stared as if they’d seen a ghost. For the first time, they saw Xiaoqiang being strict with kids.

“From now on,” Xiaoqiang called out, “if anyone isn’t standing here before 4:30, I’ll pour water on you to wake you up.” He turned to his father. “Dad, follow my method—lead them through training.” Then he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Mist began rising slowly around him. Xiaoqiang sat cross-legged, started his cultivation. That familiar clarity flooded back instantly. He focused, replaying every motion of the old Daoist monk in his mind. The more times he repeated the form, the more closely his movements matched the rogue monk’s. His inner energy flowed smoother, rounder—like a perfect circle forming inside him.

After several rounds, Xiaoqiang sensed the mist beginning to fade. He picked up his twin blades again—still using the Nine Ghosts Draw Sword technique. But this time was different. As he swung the blades, he noticed something strange: the energy drawn into his body seemed to extend beyond his limbs, flowing along the blades themselves—out from the edges, returning along the backs. The awkwardness vanished. His movements grew fluid, natural.

Xiaoqiang had been deeply influenced by wuxia novels. He firmly believed in the principle: *One force defeats ten thousand techniques.* So he kept increasing his weight, chasing the dream of becoming a hero like Xiang Yu—lifting mountains, commanding the world. Just imagining the spectacle made his heart race. At the same time, he had no legendary inheritance. But he trusted another truth: *No weapon is unbreakable, but speed can shatter anything.* If he could keep pushing his speed higher, he could defeat any enemy effortlessly. Combine strength and speed perfectly, and he could lead his family to safety in the apocalypse.

Finally, the mist cleared. All sensations faded. Xiaoqiang ended his practice and came down the stairs.

Huang Tingting and the siblings stared in disbelief. It felt like they’d somehow traveled back to ancient times—morning martial arts practice, right there in the present. After breakfast, the three resumed yesterday’s routine. Only this time, whenever they reached a destination, Xiaoqiang didn’t get out. He stayed on top of the car, reading. Old Wang shrugged—it was just another weird habit of his son. But over time, he realized there was always a reason behind it. Eventually, he stopped worrying.

That morning, they visited seven security stations and three jewelry stores. Only three security posts and one jewelry shop still had usable supplies. Xiaoqiang decided not to return to Happiness Town for lunch. They’d just eat some crackers and ham sausages in the car and keep searching.

Around 4 p.m., they returned to Happiness Town, hauling down eight vertical gun cabinets, one horizontal cabinet, a pile of gold, and three gold bar safes. After stashing everything inside, they drove everyone to the shooting range.

This time, Xiaoqiang didn’t touch the guns. He sat on a tree stump, reading. On the stump, still lay the pistol and five magazines. The sniper ammo had dropped from five to three. He ignored the distant *bang-bang* of gunfire all around.

Xue Bin finished his handgun rounds, then fired three sniper shots—two 8-rings, one 9-ring. He scowled, eyebrows knotted tight. Not satisfied.

Xiaoqiang pulled two books from his pocket—one on sniper shooting techniques, the other on sniper component breakdown. The texts were simple, free of complex jargon. Xue Bin struggled with many characters, so Yingzi translated for him. Soon, the shooting session ended. Everyone returned to the orphanage.

A strange sight unfolded: Xiaoqiang and Xue Bin both sitting on the steps, reading. Yingzi occasionally translating between them. To Huang Tingting and the others, the whole orphanage felt eerie. These people acted nothing like ordinary folks.

After dinner, Old Wang and Zhou Dafu took turns opening safes. Xiaoqiang and Xue Bin stayed in the car, reading. This sudden shift to quiet rhythm left the women slightly off-kilter.

Around 8 p.m., a horn sounded outside. Xiaoqiang looked up—Zhang Youcai arrived.

“Qiangzi, your stuff’s ready. Unload it in the storage room.”

“Boss Zhang’s here! Put everything in the cold storage unit.”

“Mom, you girls help out—layer fish fillets, layer ice. Do it like this for all of them.”

Then Xiaoqiang noticed a small head peeking from the passenger seat. “Let the kid come down and play,” he said to Zhang Youcai. “There are plenty of kids here—good company.”

Zhang’s son rarely had friends. Seeing so many kids his age, he lit up with excitement. Within minutes, the children were laughing and chasing each other through the yard.

Once the truck was unloaded, Zhang Youcai carried his son back to the fish pond. He felt guilty—his son spent most days alone. Maybe… he should leave him at the orphanage? He’d talk to his wife about it later.

Sometimes, you realize: when you’re constantly rushing around, doing things, time drags. But when you sit still and read, time flies.

At 4:20 a.m., Xiaoqiang stood at the door once more. This time, everyone woke up early—no one missed it. Old Wang stayed as supervisor. Xiaoqiang climbed back onto the rooftop, starting today’s training.

As the saying goes: *Strike a thousand times, and meaning reveals itself.* Xiaoqiang had never studied martial arts. No one taught him swordplay. But he stayed focused. He kept repeating those clumsy-looking movements, over and over. With time, they became smoother, more natural.