Sun Yong's gaze swept across the faces of the Martial Arts Hall disciples. He nodded slightly and said, "Xu Hong, have two new disciples joined the hall today?"
Senior Disciple Xu Hong hurriedly nodded. "Yes, Master. One person joined yesterday, and two today. A total of three people have joined the Martial Arts Hall in the last two days."
Sun Yong hummed faintly in acknowledgment and continued, "Since new disciples have joined, I'll say a few words."
His voice wasn't loud, but it rolled through the ears of every disciple present like a clap of thunder.
"What are martial arts? What truly defines them?" Sun Yong's gaze swept from the tense faces of the new disciples back to the composed expressions of the older ones, his tone suddenly turning sharp. "Is it flashy moves? Fancy-sounding names? It is none of those!"
"Remember well—any technique that lets you take your opponent's blow, break your opponent's bones, and fight your way out of a life-or-death battle alive—that is a good martial art!"
The moment he finished speaking, Sun Yong moved.
Everyone saw only a blur; no one could see how he moved. Then, with a muffled BOOM, his right fist landed on a large bluestone slab.
As stone fragments flew, his fist left an imprint half an inch deep in the stone. Cracks spiderwebbed out for ten feet—it was the opening stance of the Mountain-Shattering Fist.
"Watch closely!"
Sun Yong withdrew his fist and struck out again, the force of the blow making the air whistle.
At times, his fist fell like a heavy hammer, the force making the nearby disciples' clothes whip about.
At others, it was like a fierce tiger pouncing on its prey, his fist moving so fast it left only an afterimage.
Each punch that landed on the stone slabs or wooden posts was met with a splintering crack, the simple moves concealing a deadly ferocity.
"Xu Hong, take the new disciples to temper their qi and blood. Have them practice the horse stance and the basic forms. The rest of you older disciples, train hard and break through to the Mingjin Realm as soon as you can. Remember, you learn to fight to survive, but more importantly, to win."
Sun Yong retracted his fist and stood still, stone dust trickling from between his knuckles.
"Yes, your disciples will remember."
The next moment, every disciple, including Senior Disciple Xu Hong, bowed in unison to thank their master for his instruction.
The few new disciples who had just joined the Martial Arts Hall were a beat slow to react, but they quickly copied their seniors and bowed as well.
A smile touched Sun Yong's lips. He clearly appreciated the gesture. He nodded and said, "Alright, get to your training. If you have any problems, ask your Senior Disciple. If he can't solve them, then come to me."
Yang Jing had been listening intently.
He knew too little about this world.
Although he had inherited the memories of this body's previous owner, that person hadn't been particularly knowledgeable.
But what Yang Jing cared about most was what the martial arts of this world were actually like.
'Are they the martial arts of ancient legends, where masters could leap over rooftops and scale walls? Or the miraculous Cultivation Techniques from novels, with their devastating power? Or perhaps something more like what was called "national martial arts"?'
Yang Jing had originally thought it might be more like national martial arts. In his past life, he'd read in an ancient text that the realms of national martial arts also included terms like the Mingjin Realm and the Hidden Strength Realm.
But the Hall Master's words just now had deeply shaken and inspired him.
"What defines a martial art?" Yang Jing murmured, his eyes gradually brightening. "Any technique that lets you take your opponent's blow, break your opponent's bones, and fight your way out of a life-or-death battle alive... *that* is a good martial art!"
Although the memories he inherited contained similar words from Sun Yong, there was a world of difference between a dead memory and hearing the words from the man himself!
'Perhaps I've been thinking about martial arts too narrowly, too rigidly. They shouldn't be set in stone; they should be flexible. Whatever defeats the enemy and keeps you alive—that's a good martial art.'
Yang Jing thought silently.
With his hands behind his back, Sun Yong returned to the inner courtyard.
The disciples in the front yard resumed their training, tempering their qi and blood and practicing the Mountain-Shattering Fist.
Senior Disciple Xu Hong took personal charge of teaching the handful of new disciples.
Yang Jing returned to his usual training spot and resumed practicing the Mountain-Shattering Fist, each punch accompanied by a sharp shout and the whoosh of displaced air.
Although he was still a long way from mastering the Mingjin Realm, his long-term, frenzied training had made him much stronger than an ordinary person.
In a fight, he could take on three to five average men by himself. If he played his cards right, he might even do better.
He trained until the sky grew dark and everyone else had left. Muscles aching, Yang Jing walked over to a square stool by the wall to rest for a moment before putting on his outer clothes and leaving the Martial Arts Hall.
Walking along the streets of Chengping Square, Yang Jing had a thought.
The next moment, a panel appeared before his eyes:
[Mountain-Shattering Fist: Initiate (78/200)]
After a full day of training, he had finally raised his Mountain-Shattering Fist proficiency by two points, bringing him one step closer to the next stage of mastery.
He left Chengping Square and headed south along Vermilion Bird Avenue until he reached the West Market.
Although the sky had darkened, the West Market was still bustling. Gauze lanterns hung from the eaves of the shops lining the street, casting a warm glow that spread across the bluestone path. The light made the wine banners and cloth pennants on either side sway gently.
Yang Jing stopped in front of a butcher's stall, one of its door panels still ajar. Pork belly and ribs, glistening with fat, hung from iron hooks above the block. A wooden basin next to it was piled high with chopped pork offal. The metallic smell of blood mingled with the smoky, lively scents of the market.
Yang Jing clutched the half-string of large coins left in his sleeve. His eyes scanned the various cuts of meat before finally settling on a pile in the corner that was slightly darker in color. It was horse meat, its grain coarser than pork, its edges already turning a bit dark. It was clearly a day old.
Martial arts training consumed a great deal of qi and blood. Ordinary brown rice and grains weren't enough to make up for the deficit. Only meat, or even more valuable medicinal herbs, could replenish his energy and nourish his muscles and bones after a hard day's training.
He had tried several kinds of meat recently. Pork was mild; it filled his stomach but did little for his qi and blood. Beef was potent, but far too expensive. The silver coins he had weren't nearly enough to afford it regularly.
Then, a few days ago, he had tried horse meat by chance. He discovered its properties were potent, almost aggressive, but perfectly suited for his training. When stewed and eaten, he could feel a deep energy sink from his throat straight to his Dantian. The next day, his punches would feel stronger, and his training progress would be visibly faster.
"Shopkeeper, how much for the horse meat?" Yang Jing asked.
The Shopkeeper was wiping down his greasy block with a cloth. He looked up at the sound of Yang Jing's voice and smiled. "It's what's left from today. I'll give you a good price: fifty large coins a jin."
That was nearly half the price of fresh meat during the day.
"Give me two jin," Yang Jing said, relieved internally but putting on a look of resignation. "The price went up again? It was forty-seven large coins just a few days ago."
'War had broken out in Caozhou to the west, and there were rumors of rebels in Yizhou to the east. With Jizhou caught in the middle, everything was affected. Inflation and currency devaluation were just part of the problem.'
The Shopkeeper deftly cut the meat, weighed it, tied it up with a piece of straw rope, and handed it over.
Yang Jing took the package. It felt cool in his hand and had a faint, raw scent.
Yang Jing paid the money, the stash of large coins in his sleeve dwindling further.
The primary currency of the Great Qi Dynasty was the silver tael, but its value was too high for common folk. Daily transactions were usually conducted with large coins, with one tael of silver being equivalent to seven hundred large coins.
Yang Jing didn't linger. He turned and quickly disappeared into the deepening night, continuing south along Vermilion Bird Avenue.
Sun's Martial Arts Hall was in Chengping Square, which, while still part of the Outer City, was very close to the Inner City. In contrast, Yang Jing lived in Datong Square, right on the farthest edge of the city.
As a martial artist, Yang Jing was in excellent physical condition and walked quickly.
Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at his rented room in Datong Square.
It was a simple courtyard flanked by two rows of single-story buildings. Each row had five rooms. Yang Jing's was the second room from the east in the northern row.
Back in his room, Yang Jing immediately began to stew the meat.
The room was cramped. A small earthen stove sat in one corner, its flames licking the bottom of a clay pot and making a soft GURGLING sound.
Yang Jing had already placed the large chunks of horse meat in the pot and covered them with water. Other than a small pinch of salt at the bottom, there were no other seasonings.
Yang Jing sat by the stove, his eyes fixed on the bubbling water.
The horse meat wasn't fresh, but as it stewed, the strong raw smell that was hard to mask gradually faded. In its place, a rich, mellow aroma began to waft from the clay pot.
Once the meat was tender, Yang Jing immediately put out the fire. He let the pot cool for a moment before picking it up directly. Forgoing a bowl and chopsticks, he reached in, fished out a piece, blew on it to cool it down, and stuffed it into his mouth.
It didn't have much flavor—just a hint of salt and the natural texture of the meat itself.
Every so often, he could hear movement outside his door.
Yang Jing knew it was the other tenants in the courtyard. Drawn by the smell of meat from his room, they were pacing back and forth, trying to get another whiff.
Yang Jing paid them no mind. He ate with intense focus, even licking the pot clean of every last drop of broth.
He set the pot down but didn't wash it right away.
He felt a solid warmth unfurling in his belly, slowly spreading through his blood to his limbs. This was the unique potency of horse meat. It wasn't a superficial energy like that from other meats; it sank deep into the core of his muscles, like a gentle fire slowly simmering his very bones.
A moment later, he rose to his feet. He sank into his stance, gathered his breath, and slowly clenched his fists.
With a low grunt, he began the opening form of the Mountain-Shattering Fist, his punches slicing through the air with a sharp whistle.
As he moved through the powerful forms, the force of his punches made the paper on his window rattle. Inside him, the warm current generated by the horse meat seemed to be drawn out by his movements, and it began to surge violently.
Yang Jing trained for over two hours more before the deep fatigue in his body forced him to stop.
With a thought, the panel appeared before his eyes once more:
[Mountain-Shattering Fist: Initiate (79/200)]
Seeing his proficiency had increased again, Yang Jing couldn't help but grin.