Eighteen Years of Hibernation

The morning mist had yet to fully disperse when dull thuds were already echoing through the back courtyard of the dilapidated martial arts hall on the outskirts of Southern Capital.

A bare-chested youth stood before a wooden post wrapped in hemp rope, driving one fist into it after another. His movements were not fast. Every punch drew power from his waist, and each impact against the rope produced a muffled thump, thump. There were no flashy techniques; even the angle of his punches had followed the same trajectory for over a decade. Sweat dripped from his chin, darkening a small patch of dirt by his feet before fresh drops quickly covered it.

The eastern horizon had only just begun to whiten when morning light slanted through a gap in the courtyard wall, illuminating the fresh and old scrapes crisscrossing his back. So many marks overlapped that it was impossible to tell which had been left yesterday and which last month.

His name was Lin Chen. In this life, his name was Lin Chen.

The sound of an early delivery truck's engine rose from the distant street, growing louder before gradually fading away. He did not stop. He kept punching at the same rhythm until a cough came from beyond the courtyard wall.

"Chen, that's enough."

Uncle Chen, the martial arts hall's master, stood at the back gate with a bowl of porridge in hand. A pair of chopsticks rested on the rim, water droplets still hanging from their tips. He wore a faded old jacket, and his grizzled hair stuck up messily in the morning breeze.

Lin Chen withdrew his fist and let out a breath before the wooden post. He rolled his shoulders, his bones giving a faint crack, then walked over and took the porridge. Squatting on the steps, he began to eat. The porridge was scalding hot, so he blew on it twice before drinking. He picked up strips of pickled radish with his chopsticks and chewed slowly.

Uncle Chen sat down on a stone stool nearby and tapped his dry tobacco pipe against the sole of his shoe. "Registration closes this afternoon. Have you made up your mind?"

"Mm." Lin Chen drained the last of the porridge. "I'll go take a look."

Uncle Chen lit his pipe and took a drag, smoke slowly spilling from his nostrils. "Young people your age are all looking for work in the city. For the past ten years, all you've done is train your fists. Nothing else, but at least you've built yourself a sturdy body."

Lin Chen set the empty bowl on the edge of the step. "I've trained for ten years. It's time I went out and saw the world."

Uncle Chen did not reply, only took a few more puffs. Smoke rose slowly in the morning light before the wind tore it apart. The bustle of the morning market drifted over from afar, vegetable vendors calling loudly enough to be heard across several streets.

"I'll cover your registration fee," Uncle Chen said, getting to his feet and tucking the pipe behind his waist. "Don't go thinking about winning some ranking. If you lose, come back. The hall's roof has been leaking lately. Help me fix it when you return."

Lin Chen stood and took down the old martial arts uniform hanging over the wall. He put it on and tied the belt. The uniform had been washed pale, and the fabric at the shoulders had worn so thin that the skin beneath showed through.

"Got it."

When he walked out of the courtyard, Uncle Chen had already returned to the front hall. Hunched over, he was wiping the old signboard outside the entrance. Its lettering had faded badly, and only the four words "Chen Martial Arts Hall" could barely be made out, written in an old-fashioned style. A peddler carrying a shoulder pole passed by, glanced back at the hall, then lowered his head and continued on.

The registration booth had been set up in a temporary shed beside the martial arts tournament venue. By the time Lin Chen arrived, a line of more than twenty people had already formed at the entrance. There were all sorts in it: young men in brand-new training uniforms with slicked-back hair, burly tattooed men bare to the waist, and even a short fellow who had arrived on roller skates, constantly gliding back and forth as his wheels rasped across the ground.

Lin Chen stood around the middle of the line. The people before and behind him were all about a head taller than he was.

The bald giant in front turned and sized him up. "Hey, kid, you here to register too? You even old enough?"

"I'm an adult."

The man grinned, revealing a front tooth edged in silver. "This isn't some street brawl. The guy who made the top thirty-two last year could punch straight through a sandbag. Your arms are thin as bamboo poles. If you last ten seconds up there, count yourself lucky."

Lin Chen did not respond. The people ahead shuffled forward a few steps, and he followed. The shed's canvas roof swelled and collapsed in the wind, rustling loudly.

When it was his turn, a bald old man with glasses sat behind the registration desk, scribbling on forms with a pen nearly out of ink. Without looking up, he said, "Name. School."

"Lin Chen. No school."

The old man's pen paused. Only then did he raise his eyelids to look at him. "No school? Then you're an independent martial artist. Fill this out."

He handed over a form and a pen. Lin Chen took them and awkwardly filled in his name and basic information. At the field for school, he wrote "None" in the blank space, then put the pen down.

The old man took back the form, gave it a quick glance, and pointed toward the corridor behind him. "Basic testing in the next room. You can only compete if you pass. Next."

Lin Chen entered the adjoining room. Inside were a strength tester, a speed-testing track, and a crystal ball used to sense one's aura. A middle-aged man in tournament staff uniform sat in the corner, spinning a pen in his hand. When he saw Lin Chen enter, he pointed at the strength tester. "Throw a punch. Full force."

Lin Chen stepped before the machine, drew back his fist, and struck. A crisp sound rang out as his knuckles hit the sensor surface. The needle trembled, then stopped slightly above the middle range.

The staff member glanced at it. "Not bad." He pointed at the speed track. "Run a lap."

Lin Chen ran the length of the track. The numbers on the speed meter flickered before settling. Neither fast nor slow. The staff member made two notes in his notebook, then pointed to the crystal ball. "Put your hand on it. Don't exert yourself."

Lin Chen placed his palm against the crystal ball's surface. A faint glow slowly lit within it, stabilizing at a dim shade of white. It neither flickered violently nor suddenly brightened.

The staff member looked once, then closed his notebook. "Physical condition passes. Aura is stable. You may compete. Your preliminary-round opponent is Iwata Go, one of last year's top eight. Ring Three, nine tomorrow morning. Don't be late."

Lin Chen withdrew his hand. "Understood."

As he left the testing room, the next registrant happened to be entering from outside the shed. The man wore an open leather jacket, exposing a knife scar running diagonally from his collarbone to his abdomen. As they passed each other, the scarred man glanced at Lin Chen before quickly looking away.

The line outside the shed was still moving. Someone crouched by the wall eating a steamed bun, while someone else fixed their hair in a small mirror. Wind blew in from the end of the street, lifting a few dead leaves from the ground. They rolled twice along the base of the wall before stopping beneath the faded flag at the registration entrance.

Lin Chen threaded through the crowd and headed back the way he had come.

Most of the breakfast stalls along the street had already packed up. Only an old man selling soy milk was still clearing away bowls and chopsticks. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the dying embers in his iron stove, its gray-white haze torn apart by the wind as if blending into the morning light. When Lin Chen passed the stall, the old man looked up at him once, then lowered his head and continued packing.

When he returned to the martial arts hall, Uncle Chen was dozing in a bamboo chair at the entrance to the front hall. His tobacco pipe rested across his knees, and a short section of ash had accumulated at its end. As Lin Chen passed by, Uncle Chen did not open his eyes. He merely asked vaguely, "You registered?"

"I did."

Uncle Chen shifted position, lifted the pipe, and tapped it against the chair leg. A small pile of ash fell to the ground. "Finish tomorrow morning's match and come back. I'm buying roof tiles in the afternoon."