Chapter Eleven: Breaking Through the Physical Refinement Barrier

The stream murmured softly, its ripples mirrored upon the granite rocks. Birds, two or three at a time, chirped cheerily and occasionally alighted on the grassy bank. Not far away, a handful of youths were laughing and frolicking together.

Among this group, the oldest was Tan Yu, who was no more than ten years old—a playful age, after all. Thanks to Zheng Bao’er’s evident talent and the kindly guidance of Jiang Shuiyuan, the children quickly became fast friends.

“I wonder how Senior Brother manages it. He stood in the stance for nearly half an hour today, while I still can’t muster any strength at all,” said Shrimp-Head with envy. His talent was modest to begin with, and his timid nature and lack of worldly sense meant no one ever bothered to instruct him. So, when practicing the second stance, he could never grasp its essence.

“I heard Senior Brother’s skill comes from the guidance of Eighth Brother,” an odd voice piped up.

Though all the apprentices at the Martial Hall were children of the poor, their skin tanned dark by the sun, Wang Shennu’s complexion was truly black as coal. Lingnan, being coastal, was home to many wealthy Cantonese families who bought Africans for gatekeeping, calling them “black slaves”—prodigiously strong, able to carry hundreds of pounds, skin dark as ink, lips red, teeth white, hair curled and yellow. Those who could submerge themselves in the sea for a day or two were called “Kunlun slaves.”

Wang Shennu was a true descendant of such Kunlun slaves. Though innately powerful, he was the weakest at stance training, just like Shrimp-Head—both lingered at the bottom of the ranks.

Such lowly apprentices, if they failed to develop strength within a year or two, would not be kept by the martial hall.

“Eighth Brother? He hasn’t even mastered the stance himself—” muttered Shrimp-Head, a conflicted look passing through his eyes.

Meanwhile, the two strongest among the five—proud Ma Yuan and Tan Yu—were also in conversation, their words already carrying the measured calm of adults.

“Tan Yu, you must be close to mastering the hard stance by now, aren’t you?” Ma Yuan asked casually.

“Yes, it’s been a year, nearly there. In a few days, I’m planning to apply to the instructor,” Tan Yu replied with a smile.

“Most of the older apprentices need at least a year and a half to draw out strength. You’re already doing well.”

“Still, I can’t quite match you, Ma Yuan—you managed it in just half a year. You seem close as well.”

“I’ll definitely surpass you in the hard stance,” Ma Yuan said, brimming with confidence, though his expression soon fell. “But no matter how well we do, that Ninth Brother will catch up in three months at this rate.”

“Perhaps that’s precisely why Master Lin accepted him—Senior Brother truly is a genius,” Tan Yu said, eyes full of admiration at the mention of Master Lin.

“That’s not certain. Isn’t there that strange Eighth Brother? How long can he hold the stance?” Ma Yuan said, though a twinge of guilt crept into his heart. Among the five, his talent in boxing was the greatest, so he could faintly sense that when Kou Li stood in the stance, he exuded an aura much like the divine child at Mazu’s temple.

It was just that his duration was far too short.

“But these days, Eighth Brother hasn’t come to the training grounds. Senior Brother said he’s training alone,” Tan Yu said with a hint of puzzlement. Stance work was the foundation of boxing, but the more fundamental the practice, the more it required constant guidance, for the body changed with each breath, and the slightest misstep could break one’s strength. Even Zheng Bao’er would sometimes err in his posture.

The theory was easy, but true skill was hard to attain. Could it be that Eighth Brother was confident enough to never make a single mistake in his stance?

What a peculiar man, both boys thought at once.

“Senior Brother, what are you daydreaming about? That big green-shelled shrimp got away again!” Jiang Shuiyuan’s shout rang out from nearby.

He was tired—truly tired. Why had it ended up with him accompanying this fellow, who was always so absent-minded? He turned over several schemes in his mind, but could come up with no mischief to play. He felt utterly dejected.

In the old days, newcomers who weren’t valued could easily be plotted against, but now that Zheng Bao’er had shown his talent, even the usually hot-tempered chief instructor would greet him with a smiling “little junior brother.” Who dared try anything now?

In the world of martial arts, seniority trumps all—by a wide margin. Besides, he was only an apprentice, not even a registered disciple.

Zheng Bao’er wasn’t daydreaming. He was watching the distant sea, where the endless water rose and fell, eventually forming the shape of a lotus. That lotus inexplicably drew him in.

Suddenly, a soft exclamation sounded from above.

The next moment, a string of agate prayer beads hung around Zheng Bao’er’s neck.

……

Kou Li was filled with regret. Had he known the medicinal power of the Bone-Broth Soup was so potent, he wouldn’t have let the opportunity pass by so easily. He should have used it to break through another two body barriers—ideally the shoulder blades—the earlier the better, for the sooner they were opened, the greater the power of the tiger pounce.

Just like his right hand now.

Even without standing in the stance, he could feel the increased dexterity in his palm, as if his blood, flesh, and bones had all been renewed.

How fascinating—the illusions of streams in his meditation each represented something, and the sand and pebbles in the water must be the impurities within his body that hindered martial progress. Apprentices started with stance work to rid themselves of these very things. With his ability to perceive such details, even without years of childhood training, he could, through diligence, extract every impurity—so that as time went on, his aptitude would only grow, perhaps even surpassing those so-called prodigies.

As for the pain and torment involved, Kou Li had always ignored such things. The broad, easy road was not for men like him; the thorny path had its own wonders.

“So it’s Eighth Brother. What brings you to the back yard today?” a strange smile appeared on the face of a large, ugly man. Kou Li recognized him as Sixth Brother, Lu Zhixiong, one of the nine senior disciples.

They hadn’t interacted much, but even so, Kou Li couldn’t help but twitch his lips at the sight of him—for Lu was truly hideous.

His face was coal-black, his eyes bulged like a fish, his mouth stretched like a pomfret, and his nose, crow’s feet, forehead, and neck were lined with hundreds of wrinkles. Get close enough and a salty, fishy odor would assault you.

Even one without trypophobia would feel a chill. When Zheng Bao’er first saw him, he burst into tears, claiming that he’d dreamt of demons and monsters ever since.

“Sixth Brother, I’m here to see First Brother,” Kou Li forced a smile.

“Perfect, let’s go together.”

The martial hall covered nearly ten acres. Apart from the front training yard, it included the dining hall, storerooms, reception rooms, and several workshops—tile, wood, leather—where local laborers were employed. Since the hall didn’t rely on tuition for income, it had to be self-sufficient. In this, martial artists were no different from ordinary folk.

In front of the woodshop, a pile of skinned logs lay sorted. The trees in this world tended to be especially large, and with careful workmanship could serve as keels for ships. Fourth Brother, Luo Dunzi, was checking the accounts with the craftsmen.

True to his name, Luo Dunzi was short and stout, with an honest, simple face and a forthright demeanor. Perhaps for this reason, Master Lin had entrusted him with the logistics. When he saw the two, Luo Dunzi gave a big, silly grin in greeting.

Ahead was a modest white courtyard—the residence of First Brother, Lin Xianshi. Even before they entered, the roar of wind and waves resounded, accompanied by the muffled thudding of leather drums, each beat striking straight at their hearts, stirring up a surge of blood and passion.

This emotional turmoil, however, was caused by changes within the body itself.

Without a word, Kou Li immediately adopted the child stance, steadying his breath and blood. An ordinary person might have suffered massive internal bleeding here.

Lu Zhixiong’s face changed dramatically. With a sharp, animalistic cry, he seemed to transform into a monstrous fish and burst through the door.

Though the bodily changes he now experienced were much like those from the Bone-Broth Soup, Kou Li dared not purge impurities at this moment—for before, he’d consumed medicine, but now, he feared he’d be burning his own life force.

Only after the storm of wind and drumbeats had lasted a full incense stick’s time did Kou Li let out a long breath and enter. The flagstones were stamped all over with half-inch-deep footprints, while each wall bore a palmprint at its center, surrounded by webs of cracks radiating out several feet.

Standing within were Luo Yanzong and Lu Zhixiong. Luo Yanzong wore a faint smile, an air of unique composure about him, while Lu Zhixiong’s face was a mask of shock. Realizing that Luo had not left his quarters for days, he blurted out, “Brother, you’ve succeeded in refining your body!”

“If not for Eighth Brother’s timely awakening, who knows when I would have made this breakthrough. I owe you a great debt,” Luo Yanzong said gratefully.

Kou Li drew a deep breath. According to what he’d heard, once one succeeded in body refinement, a person’s potential was unlocked—their blood and qi flourished, bones and sinews grew strong, their strength, agility, and speed became tenfold that of ordinary men, their stamina nearly inexhaustible, and they could unleash force with every movement, lifting cauldrons, splintering trees, and shattering stone—uncovering the unique powers hidden within the human form.

Kou Li had always been skeptical of such dramatic leaps, but witnessing the scene before him, he could doubt no longer: martial arts truly could break through to the extraordinary. Perhaps it was not merely boxing, but something akin to the internal alchemy found in Daoist texts.

Yet that was a question he would have to explore himself.

“You’re here just in time, brothers,” Luo Yanzong said cheerfully, “I happen to have some White Ridge Waterfall Robes—the tea leaves grown in the snow pools of White Ridge. You must both try some today.”

With light-hearted conversation, he led them inside, though his gait was unsteady. Kou Li noticed this with surprise, said nothing, and followed.