activa-t Chapter 7 A Sound That's Priceless
Chapter 7 A Sound That's Priceless
After seeing Sun Youfu off, Zhou Xing stood in the courtyard lost in thought.
There were visitors every day for the past three days, sometimes one, sometimes two.
Besides Gong Ruomei, who comes every day, Xingyi Guo Zhen, Bagua Cheng Yi'an, and even the inheritors of Yanqingquan and Taizuquan from Tianjin come to exchange skills.
Most of these boxers are straightforward, revealing their true skills in a sparring match, stopping short of a decisive exchange, and sharing their boxing techniques without reservation.
Boxing techniques are divided into training methods and fighting methods.
Zhou Xingping usually followed Ip Man to practice and strengthen his foundation. When he sparred with other boxers, he would carefully observe and learn their fighting techniques to gain experience.
When the boxers get into the mood, they sometimes spar with him and offer some pointers.
The oiliness of Bagua, the ruthlessness of Chuojiao, the fierceness of Xingyi, the cunning of Fanzi... these impressions were deeply engraved in his mind with each observation.
His understanding of boxing has improved by leaps and bounds.
The ginseng that Gong Er sent was also very potent. Combined with the inn's food supplements that he bought with silver dollars, he was exhausted from training the day before, but was full of energy the next day.
The breath in his dantian grew stronger day by day, transforming from an initial warm current into a surging heat wave.
The chill in my right shoulder was forced to retreat step by step, but the closer it got to my heart, the fiercer the resistance became.
That night, the moonlight was as clear as water, and the ground was covered with mercury.
Zhou Xing didn't sleep. He stood in the courtyard, lost in thought. The martial arts techniques he had learned and seen over the past few days kept flashing through his mind and merging with his own experiences.
The seventh day, before dawn.
Zhou took action, assuming the "Two-Character Peg Sheep Stance" and preparing his Little Idea. From the starting stance to the ending stance, from spreading his hands to delivering the "Sun-Character Clash" punch.
again and again.
His movements became increasingly fluid, and his strength became increasingly penetrating.
The heat in his dantian was already as hot as boiling water. The last trace of coldness in his right shoulder stubbornly lingered three inches outside his heart, like an icicle stuck there.
At the hour of Yin (3-5 AM), Ip Man pushed open the door and came out.
At dawn, Gong Ruomei arrived.
At Chen Shi (7-9 AM), Guo Zhen, Cheng Yi'an, and several boxers who had visited in the past few days all arrived unexpectedly.
There were seven or eight people standing in the courtyard, none of them speaking, just quietly watching Zhou Xing practice his boxing.
Zhou Xing was completely unaware.
He was immersed in a strange state.
Under the power of listening, he could clearly "hear" the surge of his blood and qi, and the contraction and relaxation of every muscle.
As he unleashed the final move, the "Sun-shaped Fist," a sudden inspiration struck him.
Before the fist was retracted, the waist had already turned;
Before exerting force, the intention precedes it.
A surge of scalding heat exploded from the dantian, rushed straight up the spine, passed through the Jianjing acupoint, penetrated the Quchi acupoint, and reached the fist!
"Snapped!"
The force of the punch tore through the air, producing a sharp whistling sound.
The chill on his right shoulder vanished instantly, as if exposed to the blazing sun, emitting a piercing shriek that only Zhou Xing could hear.
Almost simultaneously, his entire body crackled and popped like firecrackers on New Year's Eve!
Seven sounds in a row, each one clearer than the last!
Pull your fist back and stand still.
A breath of stale air was slowly exhaled, condensing into a white ribbon in the morning light, lingering for a long time.
The courtyard was deathly silent.
Cheng Yi'an gripped his beard tightly, pulling out several strands without even noticing:
"A single sound is worth a thousand pieces of gold. Muscles and bones resonate in unison, seven sounds in one strike… Is this supposed to be seven days?"
Guo Zhen's eyes widened, and he muttered:
"It took Grandmaster Guo Yunshen 108 days to master Ming Jin..."
Gong Ruomei stood still, her hands clenched slightly in her sleeves, her bright eyes shining.
Ah Liang's mouth was so open it could fit an egg, and the charcoal stove he was carrying fell to the ground, sparking a few embers.
Ip Man slowly clapped his hands, a satisfied smile appearing on his face:
"Okay, okay, okay."
Zhou Xing felt boundless joy and exhilaration. Was this the Ming Jin?
With strong bones and muscles, qi flowing throughout the body, and power emanating from the extremities, every punch and kick possesses the force to shatter stone.
It took him a while to regain his composure, turn around, look at everyone, and solemnly clasp his hands in a fist and palm salute.
"Thank you all for your guidance these past few days; I have benefited greatly from it."
His voice is clear and resonant, with a strong and powerful tone.
The crowd snapped out of their daze and returned the greeting. Their eyes no longer held the initial scrutiny or disdain, but only awe and admiration.
He broke through the barrier in seven days and his initial strength was formed.
If this news gets out, the entire martial arts community in Tianjin will be shaken to its core.
The morning light fully illuminated the courtyard.
The calls of breakfast vendors drifted from afar, signaling the start of a new day.
After exchanging pleasantries, Zhou Xing took his leave, went back to his room, and fell asleep immediately.
I slept from dawn until noon, and from noon until the lamps were lit. I only ate one meal in between, lunch, and when I opened my eyes, the room was pitch black.
He lay there without moving, listening for a while. He could hear the shopkeeper chopping wood in the courtyard, and carriages passing by in the distance.
The chill in my right shoulder completely dissipated, and I felt warm and cozy inside, like I was soaking in warm wine.
He got up, splashed water on his face, and changed into a police uniform.
He pulled the Colt M1903 from the wicker trunk, ejected the magazine—seven yellow bullets—and loaded them one by one, cocking it with a "click," then tucked it into his waistband.
Without turning on the lights, I pushed open the door and went out.
The shopkeeper was chopping wood at the kitchen door when he saw him and paused in surprise:
"Mr. Zhou, why are you going out so late?"
"I need to take care of something; I'm going to do a population census."
Zhou Xing looked up at the sky and sighed, "What a dark and windy night."
The shopkeeper watched his departing figure, shook his head, and with a "crack," chopped the dry firewood with his axe.
After leaving Yuelai Inn, Zhou Xing did not return to the foreign concession, but instead headed southeast.
We were heading to the place Sun Youfu had mentioned yesterday, the Tzu Chi Ancient Books Restoration Institute, nestled between the Japanese and British concessions, near the Haihe River.
The streetlights are sparse in this area, casting very long shadows.
The further east you go, the more Western-style buildings appear, with pointed roofs and arched windows, standing darkly. There's a fishy smell in the air, mixed with the smell of coal smoke.
The repair site is located at the end of a quiet little street.
The storefront is small, with gray brick walls, a black lacquered wooden door, and a wooden plaque with the three characters "Ciji Hall" engraved on it, the paint of which has peeled off.
The lights inside were on, casting a dim, yellowish glow.
Zhou Xing didn't go through the main entrance. He went around to the side and walked close to the wall.
The wall was over ten feet high, with broken glass stuck in the top.
He took two steps back, inhaled, and exerted force with his waist and legs, pushing off the wall three times in quick succession, his hands already reaching the top of the wall. With the completion of his internal energy cultivation, his body felt half as light.
It flipped over and landed silently.
In front of me was a small courtyard, piled with broken tables and chairs and discarded cardboard boxes. The main room was lit, and a figure was projected onto the window paper, bent over writing something.
Zhou Xing crouched in the shadows, listening quietly.
The only sounds in the room were the scratching of pens on paper and the occasional cough.
He waited for the time it takes for an incense stick to burn before the man got up and blew out the lamp. Then came the sound of the door opening and footsteps moving away.
Zhou Xing followed.
Behind it was a storage room filled with old bookshelves and broken scrolls.
The man walked to the innermost part of the room, moved aside a blue-and-white porcelain vase that was about half his height, revealing a trapdoor on the wall. He lifted the trapdoor and crawled inside.
Almost at the same moment Zhou Xing closed the panel, he darted forward and pressed his ear against the wall. Inside were stairs leading downhill, and the footsteps faded into the distance.
He waited five breaths, then gently lifted the flap.
A damp, musty smell wafted up, mixed with the scent of incense and herbs.
Below was a narrow brick passageway, barely wide enough for one person, with oil lamps hanging on the walls, their flames flickering eerily.
Zhou Xing stepped inside and gently closed the panel.
There were stone steps beneath my feet. After descending a dozen or so steps and turning a corner, I could clearly hear the footsteps of the person in front of me. His breathing was heavy and his steps were unsteady, unlike those of a master.
He pressed himself against the man like a shadow, and could almost smell the sweat on the back of his neck.
But with his full strength, each step he took was perfectly in sync with his opponent's, the two sounds as one. The wind stirred by his clothes was even lighter than his breath.
At the end of the passageway is a wooden door.
The man pushed the door open and went in. Zhou Xing slid in sideways before the door closed.
Suddenly, everything became clear.
It was a basement that had been converted into a hall.
The walls were whitewashed and covered with yellow talisman paper, on which distorted patterns were drawn with cinnabar.
In the center is a shrine, but it does not enshrine Buddhist or Taoist deities; instead, it enshrines a ghost or deity with a blue face, fangs, and five heads and eight arms.
There was an incense burner in front, with black incense sticks burning and producing gray smoke.
On the altar of the shrine, there was a bloody human head with a terrified expression, as if it had just been taken down.