Lian Youming walked at an unhurried pace.
His steps looked ordinary, but had anyone measured his stride, they would have found that every step covered exactly the same distance.
His hands hung naturally at his sides. He showed neither arrogance nor oppressive killing intent, utterly unlike the high-spirited rising talent everyone had imagined.
But he was steady.
Every step landed like a stake driven into the ground, each footfall rooted, as immovable as Mount Tai.
Yet he moved lightly, without a sound.
As had been said before, without a circle, there could be no fist.
Xingyi turned spearwork into fistwork, expanding a point into a circle. Bagua Palm traced arcs with the feet and turned the waist, forming circles. Taiji Fist drew circles; its force and momentum were circular, its fists and palms circular.
The circle was not a shape, but an intent.
It was the perfection of the martial way that everyone sought.
It represented the utmost control over oneself.
And Lian Youming could now draw his own circle.
Perfection meant that at every moment, the body followed the will. Every breath, every movement, every posture-with the first stir of thought, the physical body could express it in an almost perfect manner.
Absolute control over force and momentum, perfect command of oneself.
Of course, nothing in the world was perfect, nor was any person. All they could pursue was an ever-closer approach to perfection, seeking to travel farther along the long road of the martial way.
But just as he reached the eaves and was about to enter the hall, a sparrow suddenly dropped from the roof, as though startled by his presence.
Without even looking, Lian Youming extended his left hand, hollowed his palm slightly, and caught the little bird with a deft motion.
The sparrow fluttered its