Chapter 2253

Chetvine Plaza was one of the most famous places in the city. It was not a place where retirees gathered for recreational workouts, or kids came to play. Instead, it was a massive outdoor training ground with complete facilities, surrounded by watchtowers and surveillance systems managed by the powerful military department.

Any martial arts student from across the nation of Holtrien could enter Chetvine Plaza for free and enjoy all the training equipment, while also finding martial arts instructors. After all, the saying was true: learning martial arts would cost a fortune. Learning martial arts was indeed expensive, and in later stages, even money could not cover the costs as one needed to consume rare treasures and family fortunes.

For instance, an advanced martial technique or fighting style was not something you could simply buy with money. Everyone knew that Silverthorn Monastery’s Titan’s Palm was incredibly powerful. Still, if you went to Silverthorn Monastery claiming you were wealthy and offering a billion dollars to buy their Titan’s Palm, the abbot would politely and gracefully refuse you.

He might even say, “You’re too attached to material things. We don’t care about money, and sacred techniques are not lightly shared.”

With just those light words, you would be turned away. Yet, if you were arrogant and insisted you were destined to learn Titan’s Palm, ignoring the abbot’s counsel, things would escalate quickly.

The abbot stepped back, and the head monk of the Warrior Hall, a burly, scarred man with a bald head, appeared and pointed at the monastery gates. “Leave.”

As a spoiled scion, you would immediately get upset and threaten him, saying you could have people shut down Silverthorn Monastery’s gates and that the million-dollar donation you were planning was now off the table.

The head monk would calmly say, “Since you refuse to listen, I will have to be rude.”

And in the next instant, he would kick you straight through the gates, knocking out your teeth in one strike. Humiliated, you might stand outside raging, cursing the monks as penniless nobodies.

But just then, a Rolls-Royce Ghost would glide out from inside the monastery. As the window rolled down, you would see the abbot’s kindly face smiling at you. “Your million-dollar offering is of no interest to us. If you don’t wish to donate, take it back. Silverthorn Monastery does not lack money.”

You would be left dumbfounded.

The abbot, once rumored to have grown up poor, chopping wood and eating scraps, was now stepping out of a luxury car. With a glass of red wine in hand, he swirled it slowly and chuckled, “A million? You think that’s a lot? How pathetic. We monks lack many things, but money isn’t one of them. Titan’s Palm? Even if you offered 100 billion, it’s not for sale.”

The abbot would then pull out an imported cigar, hold it between his fingers, and start puffing away.

Exaggerated or not, the point was clear. Martial arts were arts of combat, and the teachings were never passed down lightly. Each sect guarded its techniques fiercely, and rivalry made progress nearly impossible for ordinary practitioners.

That was why having the backing of a great sect or a powerful family was so valuable. It was also why Chetvine Plaza had become such a phenomenon: it opened a new door for martial artists everywhere, offering a direct path toward success.