Chapter Eighty-Four: A Solitary Journey Through the Martial World (II)

He quickened his punches, rousing the blood and energy throughout his body. Yet after less than three breaths, he spat out a mouthful of fresh blood with a gasp and nearly collapsed on the spot.

Staggering forward two steps, he barely managed to steady himself.

Silently, he began circulating his internal energy, regulating his breath for a long time before finally calming the surging power within his blood and qi.

“As expected, one must build a solid foundation before reaping rewards...” He Chang’an shook his head with a bitter smile. Wiping away the blood at the corner of his mouth, he took out a piece of sheepskin, sat down slowly, swallowed a qi-nourishing pill, and carefully contemplated this set of “Ancient Fist Techniques.”

...

The next day, before dawn had fully broken, He Chang’an was already awake. He made a silent vow that, from now on, no matter what, he would never sleep in again. He wanted to see for himself whether persistent, long-term practice of this ancient fist technique would yield results.

The old scholar had said, “Read a book a hundred times and its meaning will appear.” If a hundred recitations aren’t enough, then a thousand, ten thousand, a million—until the truth becomes clear. That is true enlightenment.

The old scholar’s use of the word “penetrate” was subtle indeed.

He Chang’an refused to believe that if he practiced a fist technique a million times, he would still fail to grasp its essence or open the mysterious acupuncture points within. If that day ever came, then—and only then—would he consider giving up.

There’s a saying: if you don’t strive, how can you prove you’re useless...

After a simple wash, He Chang’an packed all his belongings into his storage pouch, traveled light, and set out toward Dragon Gate Waterfall.

As he walked, the eastern sky grew pale. The morning breeze brushed his face, and the sunlight danced on the river’s surface, filling his chest with a sense of openness.

He walked silently along the right bank of the river, pondering the Heaven-Supporting Demon-Subduing Technique, the Ancient Fist Techniques, the Breath-Feeding Method, and that gluttonous “Little Black Rod” in his spirit sea, unaware that the distant roar of the waterfall was already audible.

Even though he was still several miles from Dragon Gate Waterfall, the sound was already so powerful—just as he had expected.

“From afar, a waterfall hangs before the river, as if the Milky Way plunges from the Ninth Heaven.” Li Taibai’s poem described Mount Lu’s waterfall, but the one before him was Dragon Gate Waterfall. He wondered which of the two was more imposing...

As he drew closer, the roar grew ever louder. The surrounding area for miles was shrouded in dense, white mist—a single breath of it felt cool and refreshing.

He Chang’an’s spirits lifted, and he quickened his pace.

Within this mist, there was even a trace of spiritual energy—an unexpected pleasure.

It should be known that Great Tang had stood for a millennium, yet its national strength was never particularly robust. Surrounded on all sides by powerful enemies, with monsters and ghosts running rampant within its borders, only the “mountain dwellers” could enjoy the few renowned mountains and rivers.

Everywhere beyond Chang’an, all he saw was devastation and ruin. Along his journey north, he’d witnessed it with his own eyes—mountains thick with miasma and poison, beasts running wild. Even a seventh-rank martial artist wouldn’t dare venture in lightly...

...

After the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, He Chang’an finally arrived before the Dragon Gate Waterfall. At a glance, his heart trembled.

Li Taibai’s “a torrent plunges three thousand feet” described Mount Lu’s waterfall as three thousand feet high—about three hundred zhang. But this Dragon Gate Waterfall before him was easily a thousand zhang or more!

He Chang’an stood alone, letting the thunderous roar engulf him, quietly savoring the grandeur and mystery of this masterpiece of nature.

His heart stirred, his qi and blood churned; even his internal organs began to tremble. He faced the might of Dragon Gate Waterfall, and, at last, merged with its power.

The gloom within was swept away.

He breathed deeply, unable to suppress the urge to throw back his head and howl at the sky, as if only then could he truly express his feelings.

The old scholar had been right: “Read ten thousand books, write like a god.” To see the mountains and rivers of Great Tang, to hear its roaring waterfalls—reflecting on his own shallowness and impatience—was truly beneficial.

Hiding in Chang’an all day, even with a “cheat” allowing him to absorb vast amounts of yin energy, cultivation and enlightenment were no mere matter of arithmetic...

Familiar now with the pulsing energies around Dragon Gate Waterfall, He Chang’an set his stance and slowly threw a punch.

Light in movement, heavy in intent.

He focused on the meaning, not the force, of his punch—the intent behind it was proud and unyielding.

After completing a set of the ancient fist technique, He Chang’an felt a clarity throughout body and mind. Every pore seemed to brim with spiritual energy, stirring the power of blood and qi within.

After a short rest, he resumed his stance and threw another punch.

This punch was even slower, even heavier—like a massive boulder, silent yet full of hidden mystery.

Punch after punch, He Chang’an moved ever more slowly. Though the set of “Ancient Fist Techniques” contained fewer than a hundred forms, he took over an hour to complete it.

At last, he finished, drenched in sweat and carrying an unpleasant odor.

Glancing down, he saw his clothes were filthy—sweat mixed with the impurities expelled from his body.

Seeing no one around, he quickly changed into a fresh set, found a small river bay downstream of the waterfall, washed his dirty clothes clean, and draped them over a rock.

At ease, he sat down, took out some water and dried lamb, and ate slowly, full of joy.

Just from practicing this one set, though the mysterious point in his right arm remained unopened, he felt much clearer in body and mind, with a noticeable increase in physical strength.

“It seems, in cultivation, the intent comes before the punch. Does that mean the intent comes before the sword as well?”

After eating his fill, He Chang’an rose, returned to the spot where he had trained, and slowly drew the bamboo sword from his waist to practice a set of Tai Chi Sword.

Again, he focused on intent, not force—lifting the heavy as if it were light.

Yet this time, the Tai Chi Sword did not bring the same sense of clarity. Instead, he felt a faint frustration in his chest.

He Chang’an stopped at once.

He tied the bamboo sword back at his waist, intending to practice another set of “Ancient Fist Techniques,” when suddenly he heard people approaching.

Three of them, judging by their footsteps, all trained fighters.

He quietly returned to the boulder where his clothes dried, sat down calmly, and took out a compendium of characters, reading slowly in the warm sunlight.

...

“Look, there’s a scholar over there.” A clear, curious voice rang out. “Grandfather, come see—there’s a scholar here, and he’s quite handsome.”

He Chang’an didn’t move, turning a page with deliberate seriousness.

A scholar? Hardly. He was just putting on an act—so the young lady wouldn’t mock him...

“Xiaohui, how many times have I told you? When walking the martial world, don’t comment on others so freely!” An elderly voice, full of vigor—a seasoned martial artist, no doubt.

“Oh, I only said he’s a scholar, nothing wrong with that...” The girl called Xiaohui giggled, skipped lightly over, and perched on a rock opposite He Chang’an, her bright clear eyes smiling as she asked, “Isn’t that right, scholar?”

Her skin was fairer than snow, eyebrows delicate as painted, almond eyes sparkling with laughter—a rosy-cheeked girl of about eleven or twelve.

“Ahem, this child!” A burly old man walked over, bowing repeatedly. “Young man, forgive us. My granddaughter is brash and careless; if she’s been impolite, I beg your pardon.”

He Chang’an stood and returned the courtesy with a smile. “No harm done, no harm at all. Children speak their minds—it’s refreshing.”

As he spoke, he turned to the little girl and grinned, winking at her.

The old man laughed heartily, stroking his beard and shaking his head with helpless affection.

But the little girl was having none of it. Puffing out her cheeks, she stood on tiptoe, straightened her back, and protested indignantly, “How annoying! Don’t make faces—I’m not little!”

“All are little...” He Chang’an replied with a gentle smile, cupping his hands in apology. “Young lady, I misspoke.”

“That’s better!” Xiaohui shot He Chang’an a triumphant look and grinned. “Scholar, what’s your name?”

“My name is He Chang’an. And you—” He hadn’t finished when a sudden premonition struck—a cold, venomous killing intent locked onto him.

He dropped low just as a steel arrow whistled past, grazing his scalp...