Chapter 37: The God of Fists

In the old days, martial arts were called “techniques,” so practicing martial arts was also referred to as practicing techniques. In truth, the term “techniques” referred to eight forms—those of the animal mimicry styles. The bear form trains the flesh, the tiger form trains the bones, the leopard form trains strength, the snake form trains breath, the crane form trains essence, the horse form trains blood, the monkey form trains the membranes, and the dragon form trains the spirit. Because the Eight Animal Boxing is the oldest tradition, each form possesses a remarkable power to transform the human body.

“The bear form trains flesh, the leopard form trains strength—so that’s how it is,” Kou Li mused, his eyes closed in deep thought within the small Tiger Boxing gym. He recalled that fateful battle: the giant from the Five Animals Hall who resisted his claw strikes with just his back, and the woman with her uncanny movement and terrifying power, both were beyond ordinary.

Bear form is an internal strengthening method, fortifying all the muscles—its foundation is the kidneys, supplementing the body through them. The leopard form strengthens the twelve major tendons, ultimately returning to the liver, which is the root of explosive force. Strengthening the liver compensates for women’s inherent lack of power. Then what does the tiger form transform? Kou Li pondered as he flowed through a set of Tiger Boxing forms, each move tracing a path; eventually, these paths merged into a proud, fierce tiger—full of courage, but lacking spirit.

“No spirit—that Soul-Chasing Wolf once said, ‘just a dead tiger; what waves can dead tigers stir?’” Kou Li used visualization to comprehend the intent of the boxing, his spine slowly writhing, vertebrae inching upward. The giant tiger before him also stretched, assuming a hunting posture, fierce but puppet-like.

“As expected, a dead tiger lacks vitality, lacks life.” Suddenly, inspiration struck Kou Li: what the Tiger Boxing lacked was the active post stance and breathing method. A dead tiger does not breathe.

Breathing, naturally, uses the lungs. The tiger’s roar shakes the forest, wind surges with the tiger—thus, tiger form trains the bones, but its root is the lungs!

“The tiger’s breath—how I feel when practicing boxing,” Kou Li finally understood the essence he had unknowingly mastered, which allowed him to merge with the tiger in combat, subconsciously using tiger breath in place of human breath.

“And the source of tiger breathing is the lungs!” In his visualization, the skin and flesh of the great tiger became transparent, its bones disassembled and reassembled. Suspended in the front of its spine was a bloody, tangled mass, split in two but brimming with vitality.

Kou Li instinctively performed the tiger-striking move—a reversal capable of breaking every Tiger Boxing form. He stepped forward, twisted his shoulder and wrist, and with a gentle pluck, bypassed every route of the tiger’s body, extracting the lungs intact.

The lungs, the canopy of the internal organs. Unlike the heart, which pulses with the symbol of life, the lungs crawl and undulate, constantly drawing in clean air and expelling the foul, renewing and sustaining the body’s operation—like a gentle, nurturing mother, quietly providing support from behind.

Yet the tiger’s lungs are different: their movement is imbued with a wild, fierce frequency unique to beasts…

In his visualization, the stream began to change—calm water now swirled with fist-sized eddies. These whirlpools, spinning ceaselessly, gradually accelerated the water, and as they surged, the current battered the banks of bone and flesh.

Such small-scale impacts further hardened their structure.

When Kou Li “awoke,” dusk had already fallen. Unknowingly, he had practiced all day, and immediately felt the changes in his body.

His breathing was strong and powerful, drawing in twice as much air. The surplus air flowed through the upper, middle, and lower lobes of his lungs, diffusing into the organs, invigorating spirit and vitality, and imparting an indescribable wildness.

Even in his actions, a dangerous aura was perceptible.

This must be the “tiger nature” Master Lin Xian spoke of!

Suddenly, Kou Li felt an itch at the wound on the back of his hand. Upon inspection, it was already scabbing. No wonder practitioners of ancient boxing often seem inhuman—the continual transformation of the body through animal mimicry yields uncanny results.

Just then, Shrimp Head rushed in, panting with excitement. “Eighth Brother, Brother Bao is awake!”

When Kou Li arrived, he found most of the gym’s disciples gathered, faces alight with happiness. Especially Jiang, who kept making faces.

“I used to be the youngest, but now you are, so from now on, I’ll be looking out for you—hehehe!”

Zheng Bao’er seemed bewildered, shrinking into the corner of the bed. But upon seeing Kou Li, he exclaimed with joy, “Brother Kou, you’re back!”

Kou Li’s lips curled in a smile. “I’ve been back for a while. You, on the other hand, slept plenty.”

Bao’er’s expression quickly turned anxious and uneasy. He whispered, “Brother Kou, I didn’t fight—everyone else beat me.”

“…”

Master Lin Xian shook his head with a wry smile. “No bruises inside or out, unlikely to have any lasting effects. Bao’er, Eighth Brother already avenged you. Let’s leave this behind—no need to mention it again.”

Having spoken, Master Lin began ushering people out. “The youngest is still recuperating. Except for Eighth Brother, everyone else, disperse. There’ll be other chances to meet.”

When only Kou Li remained, Lin Xian patted his shoulder and whispered, “Yan Zong told me about you. Focus on training here. As long as you’re at Guanchao, no one will trouble you.”

“Thank you, Master Lin.” Kou Li relaxed a bit. This seemingly ordinary middle-aged boxing master always inspired trust.

Time returned to normal. Kou Li’s injuries healed rapidly—within three to five days, he would be fully recovered. During this, he felt his lungs growing stronger, and his spine often tingled as if sprouting anew.

“Swish, swish—swish, swish—”

Kou Li kept watching Zheng Bao’er until Bao’er shyly raised his head, a grain of rice at the corner of his mouth. He picked the meat from his bowl and placed it in Kou Li’s, whispering, “Brother Kou, you eat too.”

Kou Li, speechless, returned his own meat to Bao’er’s bowl and asked, “Bao’er, did you feel anything, or gain any skill, during your sleep?”

Zheng Bao’er pondered with his chubby, round face. “No.”

“Really none?”

“None, I slept so soundly.”

That struck Kou Li as odd. In his “microscopic” state, he clearly saw Bao’er enveloped by two swastika seals; yet upon waking, Bao’er had no memory. What trick were the immortals playing?

“Finish eating, then go practice stances. After sleeping, you must work hard.”

“Yes!”

“Brother Kou, Brother Bao, you’re here.”

“Brother Bao is awake—so glad!”

“Brother Bao, you look fatter.”

“You’re lying!” Zheng Xiaobao replied sternly.

Surprisingly, not only was Zheng Xiaobao popular, but Kou Li, who had just beaten up a dozen apprentices, was also well-liked.

“That’s because of what you did, Brother. Everyone fears those Xu family boys—they’re always ganging up to bully others,” Shrimp Head explained, revealing the truth.

Of the five-member group, Ma Yuan and Tan Yu were still recovering, Jiang Shuiyuan had apparently gone home, so today only Shrimp Head and the descendant of the Kunlun slave stood for practice.

Seeing Shrimp Head’s eager gaze, Kou Li considered, “Show me your stance first. And you, too.”

Seeing their awkward postures—after half a year’s effort—Kou Li had to admit, martial arts truly require talent; perhaps in bone structure, flexibility, or something else.

But neither possessed it.

Kou Li placed his hand on their shoulders, activating his “microscopic” ability. In his visualization, what should have been a single stream was scattered into puddles everywhere, unable to merge.

“Relax your abdomen, take half a breath.”

“Grip the ground with your toes, don’t loosen.”

“Imagine a string suspended from your crown—keep this tension.”

“Draw in your abdomen, coordinate your blood and breath…”

With Kou Li’s guidance, Shrimp Head gradually improved his stance, correcting flaws never before addressed—no one else could sense his body’s changes.

In his visualization, each correction brought the puddles closer together—progress visible to the naked eye. Excited, Shrimp Head’s stance collapsed midway.

He grew anxious—would Brother Kou be angry, after investing so much effort?

“Try again,” Kou Li frowned, understanding now: the stance requires coordination of bones, muscles, and blood. What Shrimp Head lacked was this ability.

After a while, Kou Li discovered something intriguing. The Kunlun slave descendant, though only occasionally corrected, never repeated an error. Though Kou Li’s focus was on Shrimp Head, the other’s progress was equally swift.

Was this descendant a hidden genius?

When both had exhausted their strength, Kou Li said, “From now on, every morning at this hour, I’ll instruct you for the duration of one incense stick.”

“Thank you, Eighth Brother!” Shrimp Head rejoiced. Even a short half hour brought obvious progress; perhaps within ten days he could finally achieve proper stance.

“Kunlun slave, you come too,” Kou Li added.

The descendant hesitated, then scratched his head and smiled sheepishly, to Shrimp Head’s chagrin—how did this guy earn Brother Kou’s attention?

“You haven’t mastered your own stance, yet find time to instruct others. Practice more,” Yue Wu appeared from nowhere, coldly. He tossed over a bundle of medicine bags. “Boil for half an hour, take half internally, apply half externally.”

He left without another word.

“What’s Brother Yue up to?” Zheng Bao’er asked, curious.

Kou Li pondered, “Probably wants to do good deeds without leaving his name.”