The So-Called Martial Artist

November 26, 2013, 8:13 a.m.

In the courtyard of a dojo in Changkong City.

An old man and a young man bowed to each other with meticulous solemnity. It was a ritual passed down through ancient martial arts.

The old man was tall and powerfully built. Beneath his white martial-arts uniform was a formidable frame. Though he was nearly seventy, every breath he took made him seem like a sleeping male lion. Even in slumber, his muscles naturally adjusted themselves into the posture best suited for exerting force.

This was the true form of a body tempered through the accumulation of years.

The old man had practiced martial arts since childhood. Sixty years of careful honing, twenty thousand days and nights without respite, had forged this body.

The boy facing him, however, was not yet an adult. Two weeks ago, he had not known the first thing about martial arts. Even his physical strength was merely average for an ordinary person. Though he had improved over those two weeks, compared to the old man, he should have been as helpless as a frail child.

Yet these two people, whose immense difference was obvious at a glance, were now following the ancient martial etiquette of this dojo as they prepared for a solemn and dignified battle.

There were no spectators and no witnesses. In this vast dojo, with only the two of them remaining, the two people who should have been worlds apart devoted themselves wholeheartedly to one another.

In the silence, the old man easily adjusted his muscles into a state ready to unleash force. His five fingers closed around the wooden sword at his waist.

Su Qing'an said nothing. His Mind Lake was still as water. His entire body relaxed, then tensed in an instant. He adjusted the flow of force through his body. Without even silently reciting the Sword Heart Technique, he entered a complete combat state through his breathing alone, despite his body having undergone little tempering.

Even someone who had practiced martial arts for many years would need the spiritual tempering of life-and-death battles, along with a certain degree of talent, to accomplish this so effortlessly.

Yet the boy who had not even possessed the foundations of martial arts two weeks ago had done it with ease.

If a martial arts master had been watching, they would have been able to understand the old man's seriousness to some extent at this moment. Regardless of how the boy had achieved it, the fact that he could enter this state meant that he was already a true martial artist.

And when facing a martial artist, wholehearted commitment was the most basic respect one could show oneself and one's opponent.

The old man moved. Without warning, he drew his wooden sword and thrust it straight at the wrist of the hand holding Su Qing'an's blade. In an instant, it was as though a storm had swept through and thunder had exploded.

At that moment, Su Qing'an seemed to see the sleeping lion wake and roar at the heavens, shaking the soul. But his face remained expressionless, his ancient-well-like composure unmoved. In the blink of an eye, he abandoned drawing his sword and extended his left hand. With supreme force, supreme gentleness, and extraordinary precision, he struck the side of the wooden sword as it slashed down like light and lightning.

Bang! It was the sound of palm meeting wooden sword—and also the sound of the old man flying backward before landing once more.

The old man stood nearly one meter ninety tall and weighed two hundred pounds. Yet the scene before them had been caused by a seemingly frail boy who stood one meter seventy-eight and weighed less than one hundred forty pounds.

In that instant, Su Qing'an redirected the old man's incomparably fierce force. Using the deeper State of Still Water to integrate and control the force throughout his body, he had unleashed one hundred percent of his strength. Even so, some of that force inevitably dispersed into his palm. The price was that the wrist of his striking hand had dislocated.

Under the State of Still Water, which controlled every muscle in his body, the intense pain surged into his nerves with startling clarity. Yet the boy did not waver.

The instant the old man's balance was lost, Su Qing'an stepped forward and charged.

As he leaned forward, he shook his hand. Every fiber in his left arm tensed, channeling the dispersed force into his wrist. With a crisp crack as the bones slid back into place, the dislocation was forcibly corrected.

He drew his sword with his right hand! He would press his advantage, widen every sliver of superiority, and move one step closer to victory.

Su Qing'an was even more wholehearted about this duel than the old man. He took it more seriously, and more than anything, he wanted to win!

But the instant the boy drew his sword, the old man threw away the wooden blade in his hand without hesitation. He abandoned it as though it were not the weapon he relied on in battle, but a useless burden.

It took him only one breath, or less, to knock aside the wooden sword flying toward him. That was enough. Su Qing'an's body was already in midair and could not turn back, while the old man had adjusted his stance and assumed a boxing posture passed down from an ancient nation to the present day.

In close combat, the wooden sword's length was no longer an advantage but a liability. The situation reversed once more in an instant, leaving the boy in a dilemma with no way forward or back.

Then Su Qing'an threw away his wooden sword without the slightest hesitation.

He had no time to assume a boxing stance, but that did not mean he had fallen into a disadvantageous position.

The old man, fully prepared, swept aside the wooden sword aimed at his eyes. Then he threw a punch!

The old man's four limbs erupted like long whips, tearing through the howling wind as they came at him.

The two exchanged blows with fists and feet. Palm strikes, elbow strikes, punches, kicks—nothing was held back.

This was the martial art formed from everything the old man had learned throughout his life, yet at this moment, it manifested simultaneously through both of them.

Five minutes later, the old man's iron fist rested against the boy's temple, its force perfectly unified and natural, released and withdrawn at will.

Su Qing'an's fist stopped a finger's breadth from the old man's forehead. The wind from it lifted the old man's white hair, while its force had likewise dispersed.

The two were like mirrors reflecting one another, turning stillness into motion and motion into stillness. Every movement they made was filled with the harmonious beauty of nature.

This was martial arts. Su Qing'an was filled with genuine respect and gratitude toward the old man before him. Without such a fine teacher, it would have been impossible for him to undergo such a transformation in just two weeks.

"Hahahaha, Qing'an, let's call this one a draw." The old man looked at the boy before him and laughed happily.

"Master Chen, please don't tease me. I'm still far from being your equal." Su Qing'an shook his head and smiled helplessly.

He sincerely believed that an impassable gulf still separated him from the old man. It was a gap created by years and combat experience, not something that extraordinary talent could immediately make up for.

But his desire to defeat the old man during the battle—even his feeling that he could truly win—had not been an act either.

That was what it meant to be a martial artist. No matter what kind of mountain stood before them, even if they knew the disparity between them, they would never lightly admit defeat before the battle ended.

A martial artist's competitive spirit was itself part of martial arts. Striving for victory and fighting fiercely to determine who was stronger were the very essence of martial arts.

That was why neither Su Qing'an nor the old man held back during the battle. Apart from the final punch, every blow and kick throughout the fight had been delivered wholeheartedly.