Chapter Seventy-Nine: Ancient Fist Techniques

The second time he visited the Demon-Slaying Division's Library, He Chang'an skimmed through all the martial arts manuals at the fastest speed possible, finally settling on an old “Ancient Fist Technique” that had been tossed into a dusty corner.

The cover bore but two words: Ancient Fist Technique.

Not only did it have a grand name, but it also cost only a hundred merit points—making it quite satisfactory.

The reason for choosing this “Ancient Fist Technique” was purely because he liked the name—simple and straightforward. There was also another, less honorable reason: this ancient fist technique bore a certain resemblance to the “Heaven-Supporting Demon-Subduing Art”...

Ever since acquiring that “Demon Clan Technique,” He Chang'an had been uneasy, not daring to practice it openly for fear of being immediately labeled as one who had strayed into demonic ways.

Back beneath the Demon-Suppressing Tower, He Chang'an spent a long time poring over the slim volume of some twenty or thirty pages.

It truly was “ancient.” Many of the mysterious apertures and meridian paths described in this fist technique differed from the contemporary martial discipline systems.

Of course, these were only subtle differences—nothing as outrageous as the “Heaven-Supporting Demon-Subduing Art,” which, when cultivated to its peak, would transform the practitioner into twelve different demonic forms.

He Chang'an noticed that the apertures mentioned in this “Ancient Fist Technique” numbered as many as three thousand six hundred and fifty!

The “Qi-Consuming Formula” referenced a mere one hundred and eight; the “Heaven-Supporting Demon-Subduing Art” had more, seven hundred and twenty.

“No wonder it’s gathering dust in a corner—this technique is a real trap...”

“Could this be another fake manual?”

For martial artists, tempering the body begins with opening the mysterious apertures, then refining each through medicinal baths and forging, until each becomes as indestructible as diamond.

It was reminiscent of the legendary “Hundred Meridians Hundred Refines Sutra”—with every aperture in the body cultivated into a treasure, one’s body would become truly invincible.

“Well, I suppose it will at least temper my mind.”

In the end, He Chang'an began to practice the “Ancient Fist Technique,” facing the candlelight in his room, throwing out limp, awkward punches.

Naturally, there was no power in them; even the flame did not flicker.

...

In the third month of spring, in Chang'an City, sprouts of green had already pushed through the sun-warmed earth at the foot of the Imperial City.

Near the Great Northern San Pass, the world was still trapped in ice and snow, the wind bone-chilling, with heavy snows falling at intervals and encircling the surrounding hundred thousand mountains.

A hundred miles beyond the pass, the land was desolate, the only movement a small black dot on the snow.

Drawing closer, it turned out to be a thin, ragged man.

He was grievously wounded, his face pale gold, blood seeping from the corner of his lips to stain the snow in bright crimson blossoms, vivid as peach flowers.

Staggering to the gates of the pass, he looked up to see atop the wind-lashed gatehouse a tattered scarlet banner, emblazoned with the massive character for “Tang.” A faint smile finally appeared on his face.

He quickened his steps, stumbling toward the great gate.

“Urgent military news!” he shouted, waving frantically, his voice hoarse: “One hundred thousand vanguard troops from the Ghost Tribe will reach the Great San Pass in three days!”

He cried out three times before collapsing headlong into the snow.

A border soldier leaned out from the parapet, peering closely before shouting, “He’s one of ours!” Chaos ensued as they hastily lowered a rope, and an elderly border soldier in his fifties was sent down in a bamboo basket.

The old soldier hurried to the man, prodded him with his long knife, then called back to the pass, “He’s one of ours—a scout from the Swallow Camp!”

Scooping the man into his arms, he rushed to the wall, carefully placed him in the basket, and signaled for seven or eight soldiers to haul the basket up.

Then they tossed down a rope.

The old soldier tied it around his waist and, with the help of those above, climbed up like an old white-headed monkey.

“Urgent military news: one hundred thousand Ghost Tribe vanguard, arriving in three days...” the half-unconscious man kept murmuring.

Atop the Great San Pass, the border soldiers stared north, their frostbitten faces marked with scars. There was no sorrow, nor fear or despair—only a blazing fighting spirit deep in their eyes.

Years of war had forged their hearts as hard as iron.

North of the pass, snow stretched endlessly. Now and then, the howls of ghosts and wolves drifted faintly on the wind. Two snow eagles, each with wings spanning thirty feet, soared into the sky.

...

In Chang'an City, atop the Demon-Slaying Division's Demon-Suppressing Tower, a gentle spring breeze blew.

Lord Zheng held a jade slip, his brows furrowed, fingers tapping lightly on the stone table, his gaze deep and contemplative.

Zheng Hongxiu worked her embroidery, focused and meticulous, every stitch precise.

Zhang Yichao sprawled on a stone bench, grinning foolishly at the “projection” on the stone wall, swigging wine from a bowl and splattering his beard, chin, and robe.

“Heh, so this is the Ancient Fist Technique? Looks more like turtle punches.”

“That rascal’s got patience—a whole hour of those turtle punches and still going.”

At Zhang Yichao’s commentary, Zheng Hongxiu finally lost patience. Glancing at the wall projection, she said offhandedly, “If you lack patience, why’d you watch him for an hour?”

Zhang Yichao burst out laughing, gesturing at the slow, limp He Chang'an on the wall, saying, “What a ridiculous technique—probably wouldn’t even please the girls in the brothel...”

“But the kid’s got guts—he’s picked a manual no one’s ever practiced before.”

With a cold look, Zheng Hongxiu put down her embroidery as if to rise.

Zhang Yichao stiffened, shrank his neck, and started edging toward the door, grinning awkwardly. “Still, He Chang'an has a tenacious heart. If he keeps at it, maybe he really will open all three thousand six hundred and fifty apertures…”

“I’d better go practice!”

Seeing Zheng Hongxiu’s darkening expression, Zhang Yichao tried to slip away.

Zheng Hongxiu finally stood, stretching her wrists and back, her joints cracking like beans, her aura surging.

“Hongxiu, what would you like to eat? Peach-shaped cakes or Sweet Drunken Maid? I recall there’s a shop in Rouge Alley—how about—”

Zhang Yichao edged toward the door, face bitter, clearly daunted.

He wasn’t just a little daunted; he was truly afraid.

After all, though both were third-rank martial artists, Zheng Hongxiu was also a sword cultivator—the Demon-Slaying Division’s undisputed second strongest, just below Lord Zheng.

“All right, enough fooling around, the two of you,” Lord Zheng suddenly said. “There’s trouble in the northern frontier.”

With that simple statement, Zheng Hongxiu and Zhang Yichao snapped to attention, both looking to Lord Zheng.

“Yichao, return to the northwest frontier and keep an eye on the movements of the Buddhist Kingdom and the Demon Clan. If the Buddhist Kingdom seeks aid, make sure they show sincerity. Since they preach causality, let them explain why all things arise and perish according to cause and effect.”

Zhang Yichao bowed in acceptance.

As for Lord Zheng’s talk of reasoning and causality, Zhang Yichao paid it no mind; his job was to fight, to drive back all invaders, killing or maiming as needed.

Reasoning was Lord Zheng’s business, and none of his concern.

“Hongxiu, you’ll go to the northern frontier,” Lord Zheng continued, his expression grave. “The north has suffered years of drought, and this past winter saw heavy snows that killed countless cattle and sheep. The Ghost Tribe must be desperate; this attack on the Tang might be a do-or-die, all-out assault.”

As he spoke, Lord Zheng slowly stood, gazing north with furrowed brow, grave concern etched on his face. “You’ll hold the north. I’ll find you some help.”

“Foster Father, I will not fail!” Hongxiu bowed low, then hesitated, asking, “But with Luo Daqi and the others sent to garrison the southern frontier and eastern coast, who... is left to help?”

“I’ll lend you He Chang'an. How about that?” Lord Zheng suddenly smiled, glancing teasingly at her. “Aren’t you always protective? He Chang'an is under your charge—you’d better watch over him.”

“That useless brat... what good is he?” Zheng Hongxiu frowned, her face full of disdain.