Ever since Wang Yang had begun learning martial arts from Chen Qing Shan, he had practiced breathing and chopping punches every day without fail. He had crossed the threshold, at least, and understood the importance of breath.
It was like staying in a room with a mountain view: drawing back the curtains, opening the window, and looking out over the misty woods and tranquil expanse, one would involuntarily release a long breath. In an open space, the breath could stretch most freely. Once it did, the chest and diaphragm were no longer stifled, stagnant foul air could disperse, and fresh air entered to nourish the organs, allowing the internal breath to circulate with gradually fewer obstructions.
Practicing boxing worked the same way. The arms extended and drew back, each advance and retreat matching the body's rhythm of exhalation and inhalation. After a round of forms, the breath grew finer and longer, deeper and more far-reaching, while the spirit slowly filled with vigor. If the opposite happened, the practice was wrong.
With the right method, not only did the breath through the nose grow longer, but every part of the body was drawn into motion. Eventually, one would feel a current of breath swelling and coursing within; the body's entire qi mechanism opened and closed like a fish's gills. This was what martial arts called "an unceasing river."
By now, Wang Yang could guide his qi to both flanks, but when it passed from his flanks toward the front of his chest, it became blocked, like wind passing through a gorge only to strike a cliff. Unable to flow freely, it could only turn back.
When he asked Xiao Shan, she did not know what to do either. Perhaps her foundation was so deep from training since childhood that everything flowed