The So-Called Martial Arts

November 26, 2013, 8:13 AM.

Changkong City, the courtyard of a dojo.

A young man and an old man bowed to each other with meticulous seriousness, following the etiquette of ancient martial arts.

The old man was tall, his white dogi barely containing a body of unparalleled ferocity. Even approaching seventy, his every breath was like a sleeping mighty lion; even in slumber, his muscles naturally adjusted to the most advantageous posture for exertion.

This was a physique truly forged by the relentless tempering of time.

The old man had practiced martial arts since childhood. Sixty years of meticulous refinement, twenty thousand days and nights without slackening, had finally forged this body.

The young man opposite him was not yet an adult. In fact, two weeks prior, he knew nothing of martial arts. Even his physical strength was only average. Though it had improved in the past two weeks, compared to the old man, he should have been like a frail child, utterly defenseless.

Yet, these two individuals, with such an obvious and vast disparity between them, were now adhering to the dojo's ancient martial etiquette, preparing for a solemn and grand battle.

No audience, no witnesses. In this large dojo, with only the two of them remaining, these two, who should have been so mismatched, treated each other with their entire focus.

In silence. With a breath, the old man easily adjusted his muscles to a state of imminent action. He closed his five fingers, gripping the wooden sword at his waist.

Su Qing'an remained silent, his mind lake still, his body relaxed yet instantly taut. He was adjusting the flow of power within his body. Without needing to chant the Sword Heart Technique, he brought his relatively unrefined physique into a complete combat state with just his breathing.

Even those who had practiced martial arts for years would require the mental tempering of life-or-death combat, along with a certain innate talent, to achieve this level of ease and fluidity.

Yet, the young man before him, who had no foundation in martial arts two weeks ago, had achieved it so simply.

If a martial arts master were present to witness this, they would, to some extent, understand the old man's seriousness at this moment. Because regardless of how the young man had achieved it, if he could enter this state, then he was, by all accounts, a true martial artist.

And to duel a martial artist with one's entire focus was a fundamental respect for oneself and the opponent.

The old man moved. Without warning, he drew his wooden sword, pointing it directly at the young man's sword-wielding wrist. In an instant, it was as if a storm had swept through, thunder cracking.

At that moment, Su Qing'an again saw the image of the awakened mighty lion roaring to the heavens, awe-inspiring. But his expression was unchanged, his mind lake as placid as a deep well, unwavering. In a flash, he abandoned drawing his sword. His left hand shot out, with extreme force, extreme gentleness, and uncanny precision, striking the side of the old man's wooden sword as it swung down like lightning.

"Bang!" The sound of palm meeting wooden sword, and the sound of the old man flying backward, landing on his feet.

The old man was nearly 1.9 meters tall and weighed over 100 kilograms. Yet, the scene before them was the work of the seemingly frail young man, who stood 1.78 meters and weighed less than 70 kilograms.

In that instant, Su Qing'an had redirected the old man's immense, powerful force. By delving deeper into the state of stillness, he had integrated and controlled his entire body's power, exerting 100% of his strength. However, some force was inevitably dispersed through his palm, and as a consequence, his wrist was dislocated.

Intense pain surged through his nerves with absolute clarity under the state of stillness that controlled his entire body's muscles, but the young man remained unfazed.

The moment the old man lost his balance, Su Qing'an stepped forward and charged.

As he leaned forward, he shook his hand. Every fiber in his left arm tensed, channeling power to his wrist. "Crack," with a crisp sound of bones rejoining, the dislocated wrist was reset by the integrated force.

He drew his right hand's sword! Pressing the advantage, expanding every sliver of superiority, moving one step closer to victory.

Not only the old man, but Su Qing'an was even more wholeheartedly devoted to this duel, valuing it even more, wanting to win even more!

But the instant the young man drew his sword, the old man threw his wooden sword away. He discarded it without hesitation, as if he were shedding not a weapon vital for combat, but a useless burden.

He brought down the incoming wooden sword in the span of a breath, or even less, but that was enough. Su Qing'an's leaping body could no longer retreat, and the old man had already adjusted his stance, adopting a fist posture passed down from ancient lands.

In close combat, the length of the wooden sword was no longer an advantage but a disadvantage. In an instant, the situation reversed again. The young man was caught in a dilemma, unable to advance or retreat.

Then, Su Qing'an, unfazed, flung his wooden sword away.

He didn't have time to adopt a fist stance, but that didn't mean he was at a disadvantage.

The vigilant old man swatted away the wooden sword aimed at his eyes with a wave of his hand, and then, he threw a punch!

The old man's limbs became like explosive whips in an instant, tearing through the air with a whistling sound.

Their fists and feet met. Whether it was knife-hands, elbows, punches, or kicks, they used everything at their disposal.

This was the martial arts that the old man had integrated from his lifetime of learning, now displayed simultaneously by both of them.

Five minutes later, the old man's iron fist rested against the young man's temple, his power perfectly blended and natural, controlled with effortless ease.

Su Qing'an's fist was still a finger's width from the old man's forehead. The gust from his punch ruffled the old man's white hair, his power similarly dispersed without force.

The two were like a mirrored reflection of each other, transforming stillness into motion, motion into stillness. Every movement was filled with harmonious, natural beauty.

This was martial arts. Su Qing'an felt genuine respect and gratitude towards the old man before him. Without such a good teacher, he could never have been reborn in just two weeks.

"Hahahaha, Qing'an, let's call this a draw this time," the old man said, looking at the young man with a hearty laugh.

"Master Chen, please don't tease me. I'm still far behind you," Su Qing'an replied with a helpless smile, shaking his head.

He genuinely believed there was still an insurmountable gap between them, a chasm created by years and combat experience that sheer talent couldn't immediately bridge.

Yet, the desire to win during the fight, the feeling that he could even defeat the old man before him, was absolutely not fake.

This was what it meant to be a martial artist. No matter what mountain stood before them, even knowing the vast difference, they would not speak of defeat before the fight ended.

A martial artist's competitive spirit was even a part of martial arts itself. The desire to fight, to determine superiority, was inherently the essence of martial arts.

Therefore, neither Su Qing'an nor the old man held back during the fight. Except for the final punch, every punch and kick in between was delivered with their entire being.