Quickly conquer the martial arts world, and let your fists dominate the heavens!

evening.

The sky was overcast, the sun had already set behind the western mountains, and its afterglow shone through the gaps in the clouds, turning the horizon into a dark orange band.

Chen Zhan stood on a barren piece of land.

All around were low shacks, crammed together in dense clusters, made of all sorts of materials, including planks, sheet metal, and tarpaulins, crookedly built one after another, with only a narrow alleyway in between that was so narrow you could only squeeze through sideways.

Clothes were hanging on the roof, colorful and vibrant, swaying in the wind.

The air was filled with the smoke of charcoal fires, the sour smell of swill, the acrid smell of kerosene lamps, and an indescribable musty smell, as if everything had been trapped together for too long and couldn't dissipate.

There were voices in the distance, noisy, and he could understand what they were saying; it was Cantonese.

He didn't know where he was or what era it was.

This time, the crossover didn't provide a specific timeline or location, only the setting of "the Republic of China in modern times".

However, judging from these buildings, the timeline should be quite late, and it's written in Cantonese.
Chen Zhan had a rough idea of ​​what was going on, so he walked into the shantytown area.

He was wearing a coarse cloth outfit, a front-opening style with frog buttons, the hem extending past his knees. The material was rough and stiff, stained with dried blood and sweat.

This outfit wouldn't have stood out on the streets of Beijing in the late Qing Dynasty, but it's quite different in this shantytown.

Fortunately, this place has all kinds of people.

He walked for a while when he came towards him two shirtless men carrying a log deeper into the alley, sweat dripping down their shoulders.

The two men glanced at him, their gaze lingering on his clothes for a moment, but they didn't ask any further questions and continued walking with the logs on their shoulders.

An old woman with a hunched back sat at the entrance of the shed, picking vegetables. A broken bamboo basket was in front of her. Her hands moved very slowly, and she didn't even lift her eyelids.

Several children ran barefoot through the alley, shouting Cantonese in a shrill voice. They darted past Chen Zhan, nearly bumping into his legs, and none of them stopped to look at him.

The people here have no interest in strangers; they live their own lives and care about their own fate.

Chen Zhan walked and looked around.

The alleys between the shacks were narrow and dark, with overhead wires strung haphazardly. In some places, wooden planks served as bridges, connecting the shacks on one side to the shacks on the other.

There were papers pasted on the wall, some handwritten and some printed, all in traditional Chinese characters. He recognized most of them, but the content was a bit strange, with many words he had never seen before.

A notice was pasted on a corner of the wall. The paper was yellowed and the edges were curled up. It was printed with English and Chinese. The Chinese part read "Hong Kong Government Notice". Below it were densely packed small characters. He did not stop to read it carefully.

Hong Kong.

As expected, judging from the shantytown, the people's speech, the density of buildings, and their clothing, this place is most likely Hong Kong.

Continuing on, we passed a newsstand set up under a crooked wooden pole, covered by an oilcloth, with several stacks of newspapers and magazines weighed down by stones underneath.

Chen Zhan's gaze swept over and landed on the date on the top newspaper.

The 35th year of the Republic of China.

He did some mental calculations.

The first year of the Republic of China was 1912, plus thirty-five years, it became 1946.

The newspaper is from last year; it's been sitting here unsold and covered in dust.

That should be around 1946 or 1947.

Fifty years have passed since 1895, the year he murdered the old witch.

Fifteen years have passed since he left after causing a ruckus in Tokyo.

Chen Zhan stood in front of the newsstand, looking at the yellowed newspaper.
fifteen years.

When he left, the Chinese Alliance had just been established, Ye Ningzhen was still in the Golden Pavilion, and everything was moving forward.

Fifteen years have passed, where are these people now?
He squatted down and flipped through the stacks of newspapers lying on the newsstand.

The top one is an old newspaper from last year, and there are a few more below, with more recent dates. One of them is last month's "Overseas Chinese Daily," and the paper is still relatively new, not yellowed much.

There was no one watching over the newsstand, and snoring could be heard coming from the shed next door; the owner was probably asleep.

Chen Zhan took out a small piece of silver from his pocket.

Copper coins were also available, but in Hong Kong in 1946, nobody recognized them.

But silver is silver, and it's valuable in any era.

He placed the loose silver coins under the stone at the newsstand, picked up the copy of the Overseas Chinese Daily and another copy of the Ta Kung Pao below, stood up, leaned against the wall of the alley, and opened the newspapers by the dim light from the telephone pole above.

The front page of the Overseas Chinese Daily featured a large headline that spanned the entire page.

"Peace talks broke down, and civil war broke out in full force."

Below were densely packed small characters describing a military conflict. He recognized most of the place names: Xuzhou, Shandong, Northeast China, and the battle lines stretched long from north to south.

civil war.

The Japanese left, and the Chinese fought each other.

Chen Zhan's gaze lingered on those few lines for a moment before turning to the second page, which contained local Hong Kong news.

The British Governor was reinstated, the military government was transferred to civilian administration, price controls were implemented, and food rationing was enforced.

A text message read, "Refugees surge in Kowloon Walled City, sanitation is a serious concern," accompanied by a blurry photo of the shacks he had just passed.

Third edition, social news.

His gaze suddenly stopped.

In the bottom right corner of the page, there was a small news article, about the size of a tofu block, with a short title, but a few words on it caught his eye.

"The Chinese Wushu Federation held its re-election, and the fourth president took office."

Chinese Wushu Federation
Chen Zhan stared at those words for two breaths.

The "Chinese Alliance" that was established back then was an abbreviation; the newspapers used the full name "Chinese Martial Arts Federation".

He looked down.

The report was very short, only about a hundred words.

He was referring to the Chinese Wushu Federation's leadership transition meeting last month, where the new president's surname was Ma, but he didn't recognize his given name.

The report briefly mentioned that "the association's predecessor was the Chinese Martial Arts Alliance founded by Mr. Chen Zhan in 1920," without elaborating further.

The 19th year of the Republic of China, 1930.

His name was mentioned only briefly as the "former founder".

Is this the fourth president?

Fifteen years after he left, the Chinese Alliance changed its name, passed through three generations, and finally came to the hands of the fourth president.

I continued searching and flipped to the fourth edition.

The supplement includes miscellaneous articles and a small column called "Martial Arts News," with each article being two or three hundred words long.

Several messages were posted in the column.

Article 1: "Master Zhao, a renowned Hung Kuen master, has established a school in Kowloon, with over a hundred disciples."

Article 2: "Chen, a master of Choy Li Fut boxing, opened a martial arts school in Yau Ma Tei, also teaching traditional Chinese medicine for bone injuries."

The third point made him pause again. "It is said that the successor of the Cheng-style Baguazhang has set up a small school in the Sham Shui Po area, which is little known to most people."

Cheng-style Baguazhang.

Sham Shui Po.

He flipped through several more pages, but there was nothing more useful to him: advertisements, shipping schedules, movie screenings, horse racing schedules—all things he didn't understand.

He closed the newspaper, folded it neatly, and tucked it into his clothes.

He also flipped through the Ta Kung Pao newspaper, which was more politically focused, mainly covering the war situation on the mainland and the international situation.

One special feature reviewed the first anniversary of Japan's surrender, mentioning the Nanjing Trials, the list of war criminals, and the repatriation of Japanese nationals.

A commentary article next to it was titled "Everything is in ruins, when will it be restored?" The tone was somber, and the whole article talked about the plight of postwar China.

Chen Zhan also folded and put away the Ta Kung Pao newspaper.

He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and went through the information he had just seen in his mind.

Hong Kong, 1946.

More than a year after Japan's surrender, the British returned, and with war raging in the interior, a large number of refugees migrated south.

The Chinese Alliance is still around, but it has only been in existence for 15 years, reaching the fourth generation. Logically, it shouldn't have had so many presidents, but these 15 years can be said to be the most difficult 15 years in the history of the Chinese nation.

Countless people have risked their lives for that sliver of hope, so it's understandable.

What about Ye Ningzhen?

Where's the little fox?

I don't know if he's still alive. Fifteen years is enough time for a lot to happen, enough for a person to grow old, and enough for a person to live and die.

Although his arrangements before leaving were meticulous, after the outbreak of the War of Resistance against Japan, any changes were a matter of life and death, and it was unlikely that he would continue along the original route.

Chen Zhan opened his eyes, put away the newspaper, and continued walking deeper into the walled city.

The alley narrowed as we walked, the shacks grew denser, and the sky above was squeezed into a narrow slit, gray and gloomy, as if it were about to rain.

The ground was damp and sticky underfoot.

A porridge shop is located on the corner of an alley.

It was called a porridge stall, but it was really just a shed with two long tables and a few benches set up underneath. A large iron pot was placed on a brick stove against the wall, with white porridge simmering in the pot and steam rising up.

Behind the stove stood a thin old man, about sixty years old, shirtless and wearing a greasy apron, stirring porridge in a pot with a large ladle.

Chen Zhan went inside and sat down on a bench next to the long table.

The old man turned his head and glanced at him, his gaze lingering on his clothes for a moment. He didn't say anything, but asked a question in Cantonese.

Chen Zhan replied in Mandarin: "A bowl of plain porridge."

The old man paused for a moment, then switched to Mandarin with a heavy Cantonese accent: "Eat first, then pay."

Eat first, then pay.

Chen Zhan nodded.

The porridge was served in a coarse porcelain bowl. The white porridge was very thick and steaming. Next to it was a dish of pickled vegetables, which were dark and bitterly salty, but they were just right to eat with the white porridge.

He picked up the bowl and took a sip; the porridge was scalding hot, burning from his throat all the way down to his stomach.

There were still two tables of customers in the porridge shop.

Three men wearing white vests and with tattoos on their arms sat at a table, speaking Cantonese in low but unfriendly tones, as if they were discussing something.

At another table sat a thin old man wearing a felt hat, with a bowl of porridge and a pot of tea in front of him. He was drinking tea with his head down, ignoring everyone.

Chen Zhan listened while drinking his porridge.

In the conversation between the three tattooed men, some words popped out here and there: "The Japanese have surrendered for more than a year," "The British are back to be bosses," "There's a war in the north, so people from there are running south," "Business is tough, and more and more people are scrambling for food at the docks."

He finished his porridge and put down the bowl when he heard a commotion in the alley outside.

First came the cursing, a string of Cantonese profanities, the sounds rough and harsh.

Then came the sound of footsteps, dense, the footsteps of a dozen or so people pattering on the wet ground.

Then came the sound of something being smashed, like something being kicked over, a tin can rolling on the ground with a series of crashes.

The old man at the porridge stall shrank back, put down his large ladle, lowered his head, and retreated behind the stove, his back to the alley, pretending to wash the pot.

The three tattooed men exchanged glances, stood up with their bowls in hand, took two steps back into the porridge shop, and leaned against the wall to watch the commotion.

Chen Zhan remained seated on the bench, holding an empty bowl, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the alley entrance.

In the alley, fifteen or sixteen people surrounded two young men.

The group of fifteen or sixteen people all dressed in the same style: white vests or dark-colored jackets. Some of them had blue dragons or pythons tattooed on their arms and carried weapons such as wooden sticks, iron pipes, and machetes. Others were empty-handed but had clenched their fists with strips of cloth wrapped around their knuckles.

These people were not old, in their early twenties to early thirties, mostly lean, with a fierce look on their faces, the corners of their mouths drooping, and their eyes rolling upwards as they looked at people.

The leader was a crew cut man wearing a floral shirt that was open, revealing a large tattoo on his chest. The dragon head extended from his collarbone to his navel, and the color was dark, indicating that it had been tattooed for quite some time.

He held an iron pipe in his hand and tapped it twice in his palm, producing a dull sound.

He was speaking, in Cantonese.

The gist is: They owe Xinglong Society money, and it's been three months. The interest is compounding, and they have to pay it back. If they can't pay it back, they'll pay with their lives.

The two young men who were surrounded retreated to the base of the alley wall.

One is tall and the other is short.

The tall man appeared to be in his mid-twenties, with a slender build, broad shoulders, and a narrow waist. He had a muscular forearm with several old scars on it.

His face was thin, with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and a tight line at the corner of his mouth. When he stood, his body was slightly turned to the side, with his left foot in front and his right foot behind, and his weight on his back foot.

The shorter man was younger, in his early twenties. He wasn't tall, but he had broad shoulders, like someone who had done heavy physical labor. His shirt was tucked into his belt.

Both of them kept their eyes on the people who were gathering around them, their lips pressed tightly together, and they didn't say a word.

After saying his last sentence, the man in the crew-cut floral shirt pointed forward, and a dozen people surged forward together.

The shorter one made the first move.

Instead, he took a step forward, his right fist coming out from his waist and striking the chin of the first thug. The man's head tilted back, his body swayed, and he took two steps back.

The tall man moved simultaneously, dodging a horizontal swing of a wooden stick to the left. He grabbed the end of the stick with his right hand and pulled it down, causing the person holding the stick to lean forward. The tall man's left knee struck the person's abdomen, bending the person into a shrimp-like position.

Two people fought against more than a dozen, yet they weren't immediately defeated.

The short man's fists were hard; each punch carried a dull force, and the sound of them hitting a person was heavy, unlike the sound of an ordinary person throwing a punch.

His punching style is straight-lined. He pushes off the ground with his back foot, twists his waist and hips to deliver the force to his fist, and his fist twists slightly during the punch.

The tall guy's style is different. His footwork is very agile. He doesn't walk in a straight line. He always circles to the side and attacks from the side and behind his opponent. He uses more palms than fists. He uses skillful force, slapping, pushing, leading, and hooking. His hand techniques are very varied, but the arcs he walks are well-organized.

The two worked together, the shorter one taking the brunt of the attack from the front, while the taller one moved around the side. One was strong, the other gentle, and they held on for more than ten breaths without collapsing.

But ultimately, they were outnumbered. (End of Chapter)