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

Their kung fu was rudimentary, they had only scratched the surface, but there were too many iron pipes and machetes. The two men fought off the one in front of them, and then the others surrounded them from behind.

The shorter man was hit on the shoulder with a stick, let out a muffled groan, and half-knelt on the ground.

The tall man shielded him, blocking the knife. The blade struck his forearm, tearing open the flesh and drawing blood.

A dozen or so people surrounded them tighter and tighter, wielding sticks and machetes at the same time.

"Stop it first."

At that moment, the man in the floral shirt with a crew cut walked up from the back of the crowd.

He handed the iron pipe to the person next to him, and walked forward empty-handed.

The crowd automatically parted to make way.

The man in the crew cut and floral shirt walked up to the tall man, stopped, and without saying a word, slapped down with his right palm, striking the tall man's Jianjing acupoint.

This palm strike was fast and heavy; it wasn't the style of a thug's fight, but something that had been practiced.

He exerted force from the heel of his palm, channeling power from his shoulder to his palm, and his entire arm lashed out like an iron whip.

"Snapped!"

A crisp, clear sound.

The tall man blocked the way, crossing his arms above his head and striking the man's forearm with his palm, causing him to drop a bit and his knee to slam into the ground, breaking a piece of brick.

The second palm followed, striking the tall man's chest.

The palm strike stopped abruptly in mid-air, and a sharp pain shot through the base of the arm, which was impossible to suppress.

Only when the palm wind reached the tall man's front.

The man in the crew cut and floral shirt's expression changed. He turned around and saw Chen Zhan.

A middle-aged man dressed in strange clothes, with an ordinary face, had one hand gripping his arm. It was impossible to tell how much force he was exerting, but his entire arm, from wrist to shoulder, was numb, as if a hidden force had seeped into it, and even the bones in his bones were cracking.

He tried to earn it.

Not moving.

He struggled again, using all his strength.

It remained completely still.

He knew he'd met a tough opponent. Hong Kong was full of hidden talents, with many big companies and experts from the north, even though this person was dressed strangely.
He stepped back, and the man in front of him released his grip.

The man in the floral shirt cracked his knuckles twice as he moved his wrists. He put his hands behind his back and looked Chen Zhan over again, his gaze sweeping from his clothes to his face and then to his hands.

"You want to stand up for them? But the money from Xinglong Society must be returned."

He spoke, his voice a mix of Cantonese and Mandarin, "You can protect them for a moment, but not for a lifetime."

After saying that, he turned around and waved to his men. A dozen men put away their sticks and machetes and followed him out of the alley.

The footsteps faded into the distance, and as they turned the corner of the alley, the figures disappeared among the shacks.

The alleyway quieted down.

The onlookers dispersed and went about their business as if nothing had happened; this kind of thing is commonplace here.

The old man who ran the porridge stall poked half his head out from behind the stove, glanced at it, and then withdrew.

Two young men leaned against the wall, panting.

The shorter man had a large bruise on his shoulder, his right hand resting on his knee, his forehead covered in sweat. The taller man's forearm was still bleeding, and he tore off a piece of his shirt and pressed it against the wound, his teeth grinding together.

Chen Zhan had originally intended to stand by and watch, but decided to intervene after observing the two young men's moves.

When a short person throws a punch, their right fist comes out from the side of their ribs, traveling in a straight line. They push off the ground with their back foot, twist their waist and hips, and their fist twists slightly during the punch, transmitting the force from the sole of their foot to the fist.

This is the way of exerting force.

The angle of the back foot pushing off the ground, the range of waist and hip rotation, and the direction of fist rotation.

Xingyiquan (形意拳).

The stance is not pure, mixing in the power generation of Bajiquan and the footwork of Bagua. However, the way the back foot pushes off the ground is unique to Xingyiquan, and other styles of boxing do not generate power in this way.

Tall people also have their own unique footwork skills.

The way he walked in an arc, the way he circled around people, and the shift in his center of gravity when he walked sideways—it all had a hint of Baguazhang (Eight Trigrams Palm) in it.

It's not pure either, it incorporates some Southern Fist techniques, but the footwork is based on Bagua principles.

Xingyi and Bagua.

In 1946 Hong Kong, in the alleys of Kowloon Walled City, two young men possessed a foundation in Xingyi Quan and Bagua Zhang.

Both of these styles of boxing are Northern Chinese boxing styles.

Chen Zhan asked, "Who taught you your boxing style?"

The two young men were both stunned. They hadn't expected the strangely dressed middle-aged man to speak Mandarin, and they certainly hadn't expected his first question to be about boxing.

The shorter man was the first to react, replying in Mandarin with a Cantonese accent, "Sir, thank you for your help."

Chen Zhan shook his head, ignoring the polite remark, and asked again.

"Who taught you your boxing style?"

The short man and the tall man looked at each other.

The short man hesitated for a moment before speaking, "My father taught me. He's from the North, and he fled to Hong Kong during a period of hardship. He's been here for over ten years."

"What kind of boxing does your dad practice?"

“My father said it was Xingyi Quan, but he himself said he didn’t practice it completely. He had a master when he was young, but later, due to frequent wars, we moved to Hong Kong.”

Is your father still alive?

The shorter man's eyes darkened slightly.

"He passed away last year. He died of illness."

Chen Zhan remained silent for a moment.

The tall man spoke up at this moment. His Mandarin was better than the short man's, and his voice was hoarse, strained with pain.

"Sir, thank you very much for today. We do indeed owe Xinglong Society money, not gambling debts, but money for my martial uncle's medicine. He's been ill for a long time and couldn't afford treatment, so he borrowed money from Xinglong Society, and now the interest is so high that we can't pay it back."

Chen Zhan asked, "Does your martial uncle also practice boxing?"

The tall man nodded: "My martial uncle practices Baguazhang."

Chen Zhan's gaze fixed on him: "What's your martial uncle's name?"

"Ruan Liangshan."

"Ruan Liangshan?"

Chen Zhan thought for a moment, but he didn't seem to recognize the name. "Do you know Ruan Zhi?"

"Huh? How did you know?"

The tall man spoke in surprise, and the short man quickly pulled him up. The tall man's expression changed, and he shook his head, saying, "Hehe, I don't know him. Sir, you've got the wrong person."

After they finished speaking, they got up, helped each other, and walked into the alley.

Moreover, they were very vigilant and even looked back at Chen Zhan. Chen Zhan, however, had not been following the two and could tell that they had something difficult to say.

This era
What unspeakable secret could there be? Has Ruan Zhi become someone who can't be mentioned?
After thinking for a moment without any clue, I turned around and paid for the porridge. The sky was getting dark.

Night has fallen.

Kowloon Walled City is completely different during the day and at night.

During the day, you can still see the daylight, but at night, the alley is pitch black, with only a few light bulbs hanging from the wires, their dim yellow light only able to illuminate a distance of three steps.

The light from a kerosene lamp shone through the cracks in the wooden planks of the shack, barely enough to make out the route. Chen Zhan planned to find a place to stay in the walled city first.

An empty shack stood against the eastern wall of the fortress, constructed of three iron sheets and one wooden plank, with an oilcloth curtain as its door.

The landlord, a short, stout middle-aged man, took the loose silver coins, took a bite, examined their quality, nodded, and let him stay.

There was nothing inside the house.

A wooden plank bed, a tattered blanket, drafts in the corners, and several holes in the tin roof through which the night sky could be seen.

He bought a set of old clothes from his landlord.

The gray cardigan, coarse cloth trousers, and cloth shoes were all worn and faded from washing, but they suited him much better than the late Qing Dynasty clothes he was wearing.

The landlord took the money and gave him a few crumpled Hong Kong dollar bills in return. He took them and looked at them. They were printed with English and Chinese characters, and the denominations were different sizes and colorful.

"Did you swim here, brother?"

Chen Zhan was taken aback for a moment, then nodded: "Boss has a good eye."

"Heh, no need for discernment. There are too many like you. You have no status, do you?"

The landlord gave him a knowing look. With war raging on the mainland, many people were fleeing here. After the Japanese surrendered, the British Hong Kong government occupied Hong Kong.

The British Hong Kong government still had some deterrent power, and the war did not spread to Hong Kong Island.

"Um, no, does the boss know how to process an identity?"

The landlord glanced at Chen Zhan; he was plain-looking, tall and thin, and looked like someone who had suffered greatly, but surprisingly, he carried some silver with him.
"That's easy. I'll take you there tomorrow."

"Thank you for your help."

After Chen Zhan finished speaking, he walked out. The landlord said, "Don't wander around. Kowloon Walled City isn't very safe at night."

Chen Zhan smiled, changed his clothes, and went out for a walk.

The town wasn't large, but it was a maze of alleys, winding and turning, with a fork in the road every few steps. There was no pattern to it; you had to rely on the gaps squeezed between the shacks to make a path.

The deeper you go, the fewer the lights there are, and the louder the voices become.

There was a gambling den on the corner of the alley, with a red lantern hanging at the door, and the clattering sound of mahjong tiles being rubbed could be heard coming from inside.

There was an opium den tucked away deep inside a shack. When the curtain was lifted, a sweet, cloying smell of smoke wafted out, making one's throat itch.

Some blacksmith shops were still in operation, hammers clanging against anvils, sparks flying out from under the door.

There are no laws in this place; everything is possible, and people dare to do anything. Things hidden during the day all come out at night.

Chen Zhan walked through a long alley, made two turns, and suddenly the space in front of him opened up.

A tin warehouse.

It was several times larger than the surrounding shacks, with rusty sheet metal piled together, smoke billowing from the top as if a fire was burning inside. A white incandescent bulb hung at the door, its light bulb yellowed with dirt, illuminating two shirtless, burly men standing at the entrance.

There were more than a dozen people lined up at the door, paying one by one to go in. After paying, a red stamp was placed on the back of their hand, and they pushed open the door to go in.

Shouts came from inside, muffled, the kind of noise hundreds of people shouting at the same time, audible even through the metal sheet.

Chen Zhan walked to the door, took out a Hong Kong dollar bill, and handed it over.

The burly gatekeeper took it, glanced at Chen Zhan, stamped it with a red seal, and stepped aside.

Push the door open and go inside.

It's much brighter inside than outside.

Four large lamps hung from the top of the warehouse, suspended by wires, illuminating it brightly.

A square arena, about three zhang in size, was enclosed in the middle with sandbags and wooden planks. The ground was covered with a layer of sand, on which were dark red spots, which were dried blood.

There were hundreds of people gathered below the stage, standing on three sides, with several rows of wooden frames set up as a grandstand on one side. At the highest point of the grandstand sat several well-dressed people, holding cigarettes and with their legs crossed; they were probably the bookmakers and the gambling bosses.

People below the stage clutched money and shouted at the ring, their Cantonese curses and cheers mingling together, making the tin roof vibrate.

The air was thick with smoke, and hundreds of people were crammed together. The smells of sweat, smoke, and blood mingled together, making your eyes sting.

Chen Zhan squeezed into the crowd, found an iron pillar to lean against, and looked towards the stands.

They're fighting on stage.

Two shirtless men were wrestling on the ring, one fat and one thin. The fat man relied on strength to overpower, while the thin man relied on agility to dodge. After more than ten rounds, the fat man punched the thin man in the temple. The thin man's eyes rolled back, and he fell to his side, his face hitting the sand, and he didn't move.

The fat man raised his fist and circled the arena once, while half the audience cheered and the other half cursed.

Some people threw coins onto the stage, while others threw cigarette butts.

They were carried away.

They changed matches, but it was still the same level of fighting. The style of the dockworkers and street thugs was rough and unorthodox, just brute force against brute force. Whoever fell down first after a few blows lost.

It's watchable, but not very interesting.

Chen Zhan had long heard that there were many underground boxing matches in Hong Kong, and that many masters emerged from them. He thought he would take a look today, but he did not expect to be so disappointed.

Those who came out were all rudimentary fighters; let alone experts, even a few months of training in basic martial arts could take down several of them.

Just as he was about to leave, the third match began, and a new boxer stepped into the ring.

The cheers from the audience had noticeably changed, and he turned to look.

On the stage, the young man was about twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, of medium build, not strong but sturdy, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. The muscle lines on his forearms were very clear, and his build was not the result of brute force. His muscles and bones were very well-proportioned.

He was shirtless, with several old scars on his chest and back, either from knife wounds or club wounds. The scars were deep and had accumulated over more than a year or two.

After he went on stage, he didn't go around shouting. Instead, he went to a corner, stretched his arms and legs, turned his neck twice, and then stood still.

The way he stood made Chen Zhan squint.

Stand with your feet apart, front foot slightly turned inward, back foot firmly planted, knees slightly bent, waist and hips lowered, and hands raised in front of your chest, neither too high nor too low, protecting the midline.

This stance has a solid foundation.

Although it differs from the standard Three-Body Stance, with the front hand positioned a bit too high and the back hand not pulled in tightly enough, the skeletal structure is correct.

The weight is on the back foot, the front foot is light and the back foot is heavy, the chest is slightly concave and the back is straight, the shoulders are relaxed and the elbows are dropped.

Chen Zhan remained calm, leaning against the iron pillar, and continued watching.

The opponent is coming.

A very large boxer, broad-shouldered and burly, with arms thicker than the young man's thighs, grinned after stepping onto the stage, spat into his palms, rubbed them together, raised his fists, and boldly charged forward.

The fight begins.

The big guy rushed up and threw a hook punch, swinging his arm in a wide arc, making a whooshing sound as he swung it down. He was using brute force, not any technique.

The young man did not take the hit head-on.

He turned his foot and slid half a step to the side, dodging the punch. The big guy's fist swung past him from half a foot away, carrying a pungent, sweaty smell.

The young man threw out his right fist at the same time.

The strike comes out in a straight line from the side of the ribs; it's short, fast, and without any unnecessary movements.

Push off with your back foot, twist your waist and hips, and the force is transmitted from the sole of your foot to your waist, from your waist to your shoulder, and from your shoulder to your fist. The fist twists slightly during the punch.

He punched the big guy in the ribs.

The sound was muffled, like a hammer hitting a sandbag.

The big guy grunted, his body swayed, and he took a half step to the side. He didn't fall, but the smile on his face disappeared.

He steadied himself, turned around, and threw another punch, even more powerful than before, aiming for the young man's head.

The young man yielded again. (End of Chapter)