The fight had ended in a daze. Chen Jinyang's side hadn't suffered much damage: a few mercenaries had taken some tumbles, a few shields had been broken, and Chen Jinyang had only bruised his left foot. It left him baffled. Damn it! Why was it always my left foot that got hurt? My poor big, black-furred foot! Was it made of glass or something?
Leaving Chen Jinyang to lament his misfortune, the four hotheaded youngsters who had meddled while traveling by night had paid dearly for it! The Drow Drizzt had fallen behind to look after the unconscious little Elf Aelf, while the Halfling "Bruenor," Regis, had been too cowardly to step forward. The unluckiest was the barbarian Wulfgar. Not only had Chen Jinyang nearly snapped his fingers, but he'd also been caught in the collateral damage from the dwarf king's "Flying Axe to the Face." Chen Jinyang, whose murderous intent had been roused, had nearly slapped him into an idiot. They'd managed to save him in time, but his dazed, muddled mind wouldn't clear for three to five days. Whether his already limited intelligence had suffered permanent damage remained to be seen. The worst off was the irascible dwarf king, Bruenor Battlehammer. Chen Jinyang had kicked his beloved steel shield to pieces, broken both his hands, and cracked several of his ribs. "It takes a hundred days to heal bones and tendons." He wouldn't recover fully for three or four months, unless they used an unconventional treatment.
"I'm Drizzt Do'Urden, a ranger of Mielikki and a student of Montolio Debrouchee! These are my best friends: Regis, first citizen of Bryn Shander, one of the Ten-Towns of Icewind Dale; the barbarian Wulfgar, son of Beorniga of the Elk Tribe; and Bruenor, chief of the Battlehammer dwarves of Icewind Dale. We're searching for Bruenor's homeland—Mithral Hall!" The dark Elf Drizzt gestured toward his companions as he introduced them to the group. Of course, he was speaking mainly to Chen Jinyang. In this world, great strength was always the most direct way to earn respect.
After lowering his guard, Gosa asked in confusion, "Mithral Hall? Never heard of it! I've been roaming the North for more than ten years, and I've never heard anyone mention the place!" If even old mercenary Gosa didn't know of it, then Chen Jinyang, who barely understood the common knowledge of this world, certainly hadn't heard of it.
Chen Jinyang asked, "Why were you traveling at night?" Even someone as ignorant of the world as he was knew how dangerous it was to travel after dark in the North. He couldn't tell whether these guys were foolhardy or clueless.
Regis, who was beside them wolfing down the leftover bread and stew from dinner, mumbled a complaint. "It's all that stinking dwarf Bruenor's fault! He insisted on traveling at night because he was in a hurry to get to the Harpell family in Longsaddle! Well, look at us now! He's so badly hurt that there's no point hurrying anymore!" The dwarf, worried that his injuries would delay their journey, angrily cursed the talkative Halfling.
After learning about Drizzt's group, Chen Jinyang turned to the Elf girl sitting beside him, drawn in by the commotion. "Alafil, do you have any healing potions left?" "Hey! You awful William! Do you think healing potions grow everywhere like cabbages? That was my last one! You wasted it! Don't think I'll forgive you unless you give me Mishaer's helmet!" The little Elf immediately jumped up and shook her little fists. She was no longer frightened as she had been when she first saw the Drow. Her violent reaction when she'd woken up for the second time had badly hurt the Drow, who was rather sensitive.
"You can head to the temple in Mirabar. The Clerics at the Temple of Tyr can heal the dwarf king's injuries quickly. Mirabar is only two days away." Though Gosa still harbored misgivings about the Drow, he nevertheless offered his advice.
Chen Jinyang also invited them. "We're a caravan carrying grain from Longsaddle to Mirabar. You can travel with us." Drizzt, the only one among the four adventuring companions who could make decisions, accepted. He brought the horses they'd hidden nearby into the camp. As for the dwarf king, who was the only one to object, everyone ignored him.
Once morning came, the caravan continued on its way. Chen Jinyang asked the skilled swordsman beside him about combat techniques. He took Drizzt's magic scimitar and examined it, comparing it in his mind with the blades he'd used before. It was undoubtedly a good sword: sturdy, sharp, light, and well balanced. Its material was far superior to the alloy blades from his previous life, and it also carried some strange power. But for a true master swordsman, it wasn't suitable. The reason was simple: it had no distinctive qualities of its own. Its smith hadn't understood the wielder's particular needs, but had instead used precious materials to make an ordinary, all-purpose scimitar and imbued it with a special ability. Chen Jinyang gazed at the scimitar called Icingdeath with regret. What a waste of such fine forging material.
After a night's rest, Chen Jinyang's left foot no longer hurt, though he still couldn't walk properly. Even so, he sparred with the Drow a few times. Drizzt was almost always on the attack while Chen Jinyang held his ground and defended. From this, he gained a general understanding of the Drow's fighting techniques. Taking the mercenaries' fighting styles into account, Drizzt was undoubtedly one of the world's top swordsmen, at least in Chen Jinyang's estimation.
Chen Jinyang realized that the martial arts of this world followed an unorthodox path. It was a little like the training of "the Old Man of a Hundred Defeats" from martial arts novels: there were no fixed moves. You first mastered the fundamentals of wielding a weapon, then looked for your own weaknesses in every fight, learned from your opponent's strengths, and adjusted the angles and methods of your attacks. You fought with the help of rich experience and improvised techniques. It wasn't that this way of training was bad. Without fixed moves, there was no need to worry about opponents studying and countering them. If you mastered the art, you could become a monstrously powerful fighter. "The highest level of skill is to have no skill"—Dugu Qiubai was the archetypal master of this training system.
But reaching that supreme level was incredibly difficult. Talent, perseverance, and opportunity were all essential. Throughout history, scarcely anyone had managed it—not even in fictional novels. The rest either gave up or were cut down by someone else, let alone in the real world.
Drizzt was undoubtedly nearing the edge of this realm. At the very least, his way of wielding a scimitar had touched upon it. Chen Jinyang didn't know how he'd reached this point, but if the Drow wanted to advance further, the methods of this world alone would never be enough. It was as impossible as an ordinary mortal trying to kindle a divine spark and become a god through sheer strength alone.
In Chen Jinyang's view, this Drow swordsman had at least three major flaws that stood in the way of advancing his swordsmanship to the master level. First, the blade was a domineering weapon that relied on momentum and strength. This Drow's physical strength was too low to bring out the full force of his swordsmanship. If he could increase his strength a little, his fighting ability would double. Given his agility, Chen Jinyang thought he'd be better off training with a sword.
Second, his lower body was unstable, and his footwork was lacking. Drizzt was fast, but he couldn't make full use of his speed in combat. He could manage in a one-on-one fight, but if he faced several opponents moving at roughly the same speed, he'd have to give ground even if his swordsmanship was far superior.
The third flaw lay in his power-generation technique. "When strength falls short, skill prevails." In Chinese martial arts, this didn't just mean techniques and moves; it also included methods of channeling and exerting force. If two people could both lift a hundred-kilogram object, an ordinary person throwing a punch with all his strength might generate an impact of fifty kilograms, while a boxer who understood how to apply force could inflict damage equivalent to a hundred and fifty kilograms. When Drizzt attacked, he generally relied on his arm strength to swing his scimitar. Sometimes he also used a charge, a turn, or his body weight to increase the force of his blows, but these ways of borrowing power were limited by the terrain and timing. If Chen Jinyang and Drizzt used the same blade to fight a dragon, and their physical abilities were identical, Drizzt might cut a foot-long gash with a single strike. If Chen Jinyang put all his strength into a blow, he'd leave the dragon bleeding profusely.
After their few sparring matches, Chen Jinyang had mostly stayed on the defensive. But each time he attacked, he interrupted Drizzt's rhythm at the most uncomfortable moment, and the Drow couldn't keep hold of his scimitar. Drizzt, who had always been proud of his superb combat skills, was deeply shaken. Regis and the others watching from the side were even more dumbfounded.
So Chinese martial arts were powerful! But where did their strength lie?
Chinese martial arts consisted of training and fighting. Training strengthened the body; fighting killed the enemy. Neither could be neglected. Training toughened the skin and flesh, strengthened the sinews and bones, and improved physical ability. Fighting focused on real combat, striking vital points and breaking through defenses; killing an enemy was as easy as smashing rotten wood. The saying "cultivate both inside and out" didn't just mean combining internal and external martial arts. It also meant combining the hardware of physical strength with the software of skill and experience to reach the ideal state of strengthening oneself and defeating one's enemy.
As the saying went, "A flurry of punches can beat a seasoned master." In reality, a martial artist was constrained by society and didn't dare truly kill an ordinary person, so he could be beaten to death by a wild flurry of punches. But if he truly fought without restraint, an unorthodox fighter could never defeat a proper practitioner without reaching a certain level. Otherwise, the "Old Man of a Hundred Defeats" wouldn't be called that; he'd have changed his name to the "Old Man of a Hundred Victories."
The people of Faerûn mainly fought monsters, and these nearly endless creatures mostly relied on their physical advantages. So, apart from the lowly assassins who specifically targeted other humans, most warriors didn't need deeply refined skills. A few simple, practical tricks for exploiting monsters' weaknesses, along with plenty of experience, were enough.
On Earth, meanwhile, nearly all the different creatures that could be killed in the wild had already been wiped out. Humans could only slaughter their own kind. They killed one-on-one, killed one against many, and eventually gathered in great numbers to slaughter one another. That was war. To survive the killing, people had to be stronger and better at killing than everyone else. So humanity studied the fighting styles of creatures that were naturally stronger, learning from their strengths. Thus martial arts came into being: "Master the arts of letters and arms, and sell them to an emperor." Those who practiced martial arts were stronger than ordinary people and better at killing. That was how they distinguished themselves on the battlefield, caught the emperor's eye, and earned titles and prosperous lives for their families.
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