Chapter 19: Cherishing Talent

Martial artists often challenge the taboos of the world, and where taboos exist, the entertainment industry is never far behind. In this world, the entertainment sector is highly developed; whether in the shadows or the light, if you possess power, there is nothing you cannot achieve. Zhao Rui did not need to guess where Yang Fan was taking him.

He had spent the better part of the afternoon at the martial arts gym, waiting in vain for someone to spar with him. It wasn't until evening that a man in his twenties finally "selected" him. This young man was a free-fighter—or, as it is commonly known, an underground boxer. He frequented the gym to hone his combat skills.

When Zhao Rui heard the man was an underground boxer, his scalp tingled. These people fought for their lives in the ring. Although this was merely training, a slight lapse in control could lead to injuries that were no laughing matter. He had come here behind his family's back; any visible signs of injury would be impossible to hide. He initially wanted to decline, but then a thought crossed his mind: what is the essence of martial arts if it lacks the reality of combat? A flower in a greenhouse can never withstand the bitterness of the elements. Here was a ready-made opportunity to learn and experience combat up close without having to step into an illegal underground ring. It was a golden chance. Zhao Rui steeled himself and stepped onto the mat.

"My punches carry weight. If you can't take it, just raise your hand," the man said. A faint red scar ran diagonally across his forehead, making his expression look somewhat menacing. His lean frame was defined by sharp muscle, as if all the fat had been stripped away, and several similar scars marred his chest beneath his protruding nipples. This image was a far cry from the classmates Zhao Rui saw every day. Even in his previous life, he had never encountered a man with so many scars.

"Understood," Zhao Rui replied. He crossed his palms and assumed the starting stance of the Taihang Thirteen Palms: "Thousand Crags Locking the Clouds."

Seeing Zhao Rui prepared, the youth shifted his weight, suddenly stomping his feet and lunging forward like a tiger descending a mountain. Zhao Rui dared not meet the force head-on; he pivoted, his feet dancing in the air as he retreated. The opponent was like a shark smelling blood; seeing Zhao Rui back away, he pressed the attack with increasing ferocity.

Zhao Rui blocked with his palms, his arms instantly going numb. The man looked thin, but his strength was immense. Zhao Rui staggered, his feet scrambling to regain his balance. The scarred youth did not let up; he clenched his left fist, striking out like a booming war drum. The force of his punch whistled through the air.

Zhao Rui transformed his palm into a claw, reaching out like the gnarled roots of an ancient pine to hook the opponent’s shoulder point, intending to lock the joint the moment the man dodged. This was the second form of the Taihang Thirteen Palms: "Ten Thousand Valleys Listening to Pine." Their exchange was as violent as a thunderclap, swift and fierce.

"Well fought!" the scarred youth roared. He thrust his hips and pushed his elbows, unleashing a barrage of Arhat Boxing that shattered Zhao Rui’s joint-locking technique.

The students training nearby, hearing the sound of fists and palms cutting through the air, had gathered around. Upon recognizing the scarred youth, they were stunned. They hurried to ask the coach who the sparring partner was.

When they learned it was a new recruit, they exchanged knowing glances, their eyes turning playful as they watched the match. "Brother Hong isn't someone just anyone can handle. I bet he lasts ten minutes!"

"I heard he's a high schooler. Probably five minutes, tops."

Zhao Rui paid no mind to the chatter; he had no time for it. He was entirely focused on countering every move from the scarred youth. *This isn't working,* he thought. *Without internal energy to support the Taihang Thirteen Palms, it’s hard to hold out for long relying solely on the Ethereal Divine Art.* After blocking for a few minutes, his arms felt numb, as if they no longer belonged to him. If this continued, he would show a weakness in a minute or two and be struck.

With that thought, Zhao Rui changed his tactics mid-air. He swirled his internal energy in his palms, rolling like a sea of clouds, and struck directly at the man’s vital points. The scarred man reacted quickly, choosing not to dodge but to meet Zhao Rui's palms with his own fists. Zhao Rui did not collide with him directly; upon contact, he vaulted into the air, twisting three times with such speed that he left trails of afterimages. Every time he landed, he threw out feinting strikes, finally turning his third palm into a solid blow aimed at the man's chest point, retreating before the afterimages had even faded.

The scarred youth, caught off guard by the unorthodox rhythm, faltered for a moment and took a hit. Unfortunately, Zhao Rui dared not commit to a full-force attack, and his energy was insufficient to do more than make the man sway.

"Not bad!" The scarred youth, far from being angry, grinned with a cruel glint in his eye and charged again.

"Six minutes, seven minutes! ... Ah, what a pity!" The crowd gasped as the scarred youth seized an opening and struck Zhao Rui in the back.

Zhao Rui staggered, settling into a low, stable stance. Seeing the next punch coming, he used a "wing-hand" to stick to the opponent's arm, his waist and stance rotating like a millstone to divert the enemy's force from the centerline. He leveraged that momentum to press down with a "plowing hand," nullifying the attack. Suddenly, he unleashed a burst of short-range power from beneath his elbow, like the creation of the universe from chaos, and struck the scarred youth’s left shoulder. They broke apart instantly, both reeling.

"Good! Impressive!" The scarred youth looked at Zhao Rui with profound eyes and frowned. "Your kung fu is too messy. Greed for quantity over quality is not a good thing."

"As long as it works," Zhao Rui replied with a faint smile. His style was different; he had mastered every technique he learned. Once he polished them further or opened all his meridians, he would be able to draw upon them effortlessly.

"Ten minutes! This new guy is tough. He must be a top student from some school—I wonder which one?"

"I think I need to learn a couple more styles for emergencies. A surprise attack is my style!"

"Forget it. You haven't even mastered one; if you try another, you'll end up tearing a ligament!"

The commotion from the crowd annoyed the scarred youth. He glared at the young students and snapped, "Get lost!" The students flinched, but none dared to retort; they scattered with various expressions.

The coach offered an awkward smile and stepped onto the mat, positioning himself between Zhao Rui and the youth. "Alright, let's stop here. Take a break."

Although the fight had lasted only ten minutes, it was the most harrowing experience of Zhao Rui’s life. Every move was lethal, and the assault was so relentless he had no chance to catch his breath. If his internal energy hadn't increased by three years' worth recently, his circulation would have surely stalled.

"Brother Hong, I need a rest. My internal energy is depleted." Zhao Rui dropped his cold, stoic demeanor, revealing the shyness and modesty of a teenager.

Brother Hong was taken aback, only then realizing that the man before him was just a student who had recently graduated from high school. "Go ahead and rest."

Zhao Rui hurried off the mat and gulped down a functional energy drink. In a world where science and martial arts coexisted, the laws of physics remained the same as in his previous life, provided no internal energy was involved. But once this mysterious energy—akin to dark matter—was introduced, the rules changed entirely. Zhao Rui sat, focused his breathing, and began to replenish his exhausted reserves.

Brother Hong walked to the break area, lit a cigarette, and puffed away. The coach didn't stop him, and no one else dared to say a word. After five or six minutes, Hong returned to the mat, leaned against a pillar, and said casually, "You're young, but your power is not weak. Any interest in underground fighting?"

Zhao Rui opened his eyes. "I'm still in school."

"School? Bullshit. How much money can that make?" Hong spat. "In this world, only power and money matter. Forget it, you wouldn't understand." A self-deprecating smirk touched his lips. He beckoned to Zhao Rui and said, "Continue!"

Zhao Rui stood up, his eyes igniting with the spirit of battle.

...

An hour later, Zhao Rui rubbed his swollen shoulder as he followed the coach into the therapy room.

"This is the best bruise-relief ointment in the city. It works fast," the coach said while applying the plaster. "Why the long face? You fought well. Which gym are you affiliated with? Why not join ours?"

"I saw you use the Cloud Hand palm," the coach continued. "Are you a student of 'Big-Headed Li'?"

Zhao Rui nodded. "You know my master?"

"In the old district, who doesn't? Old..." The coach stopped himself, realizing it was inappropriate to badmouth a master in front of his student. Zhao Rui didn't bother to ask; he knew exactly what kind of person Big-Headed Li was. But one day as a teacher, a lifetime as a father; a disciple should simply listen and say little.

"Hong Fei's internal energy is not far off from mine, and he has vast combat experience. To have lasted that long against him is already quite impressive." The coach felt a sense of regret; he admired the talent, but Zhao Rui already had a master, was heading to university, and was on the path of a professional martial artist.