Republic of China era: Actor? Please call me Martial Arts Master!

Chapter 168 Ironclad Ships Can't Beat a Bowl of Hot Soup

"Waaah!"

The sound of the ship's horn echoed across the Haihe River.

This old river steamer, flying the French merchant flag but actually used by the Green Gang for smuggling, finally sailed out of the searchlight range of the concession.

Behind them, Tianjin, known as the "lower reaches of the nine rivers," which had just experienced a bloody battle, along with the dark, gaping cannons of foreign warships and the bustling concessions, gradually became blurred in the thick night fog.

In late winter and early spring, the night wind on the Haihe River has a sharp, biting quality.

The river wind, carrying shards of ice that hadn't completely melted and the smell of fish, whistled through the cracks in the deck, seeping into one's very bones.

It was so cold outside that it could freeze your ears off, but inside the steamship's hold, a pool of warmth was somehow created.

The hold was small and was originally used to store bulk cargo. It smelled of mildew, tung oil, and a faint smell of coal smoke, as if it had never seen the light of day.

But at this moment, in the very center of the cabin, there was an inconspicuous little red clay stove.

The smokeless charcoal in the stove was burning bright red, occasionally bursting out a spark or two of orange light.

On the stove sat a large, black iron pot that had been used for who knows how many years. The bottom of the pot was blackened by soot, but inside, the most comforting aroma of cooking was bubbling.

"Glug, glug—"

There are no sea cucumbers or abalones, nor bird's nests or shark fins.

The fish stewing in this pot were a few miscellaneous fish that the weathered captain had casually scooped up from the Haihe River in a net before setting sail.

A few catfish, two whitebait, and a few small river shrimp, their scales not even properly scraped off.

The boat captain was a truly miserable man. He casually rubbed some coarse salt on his hands and poured in half a bowl of cheap soy sauce he had bought from the black market.

I chopped a few sections of scallion and two slices of ginger, and started stewing them on this small red clay stove.

The edge of the iron pot was lined with a ring of golden cornbread.

It was a coarse grain dish mixed with some soybean flour. The bottom was charred and crispy by the charcoal fire, forming a thick layer of crust, while the top was steamed soft and fluffy by the heat of the fish soup.

The earthy smell of fish, the salty aroma of soy sauce, and the coarse sweetness of cornmeal filled the cramped cabin.

This is the lowest, most despicable food.

This pot of fish and bread, at most, would only be worth two or three copper coins on land.

But at this very moment, sitting around this large black pot are the most elite and prestigious people in the entire Northern martial arts world, and even the entire Chinese martial arts community.

Liu Wenhua, the head of Xingyiquan.

Yang Chengfu, the grandmaster of Tai Chi.

Cheng Tinghua, a renowned master of Baguazhang.

Hou Zhenshan, a grandmaster of Tongbei Quan (a style of Chinese martial arts).

Any one of these four grandmasters, if taken out individually, could make the entire city of Beiping tremble with a single stomp of their foot.

They were once honored guests of royalty and nobility, and revered as living ancestors by various security escort agencies and martial arts schools.

But now?

The four old masters huddled by the stove, wearing coarse cloth gowns that Lu Cheng had taken out of the Qingyun Troupe's opera trunks.

Those were the clothes worn by extras and menial laborers; they were faded from washing and patched in some places.

Their hair was disheveled, their faces were sallow, and outside the cabin door, the waves were crashing against the side of the ship, making a "splashing" sound.

Inside the cabin, there was a deathly silence.

No one spoke, and no one even bothered to glance at the bubbling fish soup.

Shunzi, Xiaodouzi, Lu Feng, and a few other teenagers squatted in a corner a little further away.

Although they were starving and their stomachs were growling, none of them dared to touch their chopsticks first, looking at the faces of their ancestors. They even suppressed their breathing.

"well----"

A long sigh broke the silence.

It was Mr. Yang Chengfu.

This grandmaster, who was usually plump and had an elegant demeanor, and who had mastered Tai Chi push hands to the point where "not even a feather could be added, nor a fly could land," was now holding a large, chipped, rough porcelain bowl in his hands.

The bowl was filled with more than half a bowl of "shao dao zi" (a type of strong liquor) brewed by the boat captain himself.

This liquor is of poor quality, extremely strong, and its smell is so strong it hurts your eyes. Drinking it is like swallowing a handful of broken glass.

Instead of using his internal energy to counteract the effects of the alcohol, Mr. Yang tilted his head back and took a big gulp.

"Cough cough cough————"

The pungent liquor made him cough violently, so much so that tears streamed down his face.

He didn't wipe it away, letting the turbid old tears drip down his wrinkled cheeks and onto his coarse cloth gown.

"Brother Yang————"

Liu Wenhua stretched out his withered hand, wanting to pat his old friend on the back, but his hand fell limply down halfway through.

"Brother Wenhua, don't try to persuade me anymore."

Yang Chengfu shook his head.

"We old bones have practiced boxing and standing in stances our whole lives."

"My Yang family Tai Chi emphasizes using minimal force to deflect maximum force; your Liu family Xingyi emphasizes direct, forceful, and unrestrained attacks."

"We pride ourselves on having trained this body to its limits, cultivated inner energy, and grasped the essence of sincerity, thus reaching the threshold of 'foresight.'"

Yang Chengfu pointed to his calloused hands, his voice trembling uncontrollably.

"But—will it work?"

He suddenly pointed towards the hatch, towards the vast Haihe River, to the place where they had just desperately fled.

"Just now at the dock, the foreign warship turned its cannons, and a row of Maxim machine guns came up—"

"My heart, the martial spirit I've cultivated for sixty years, is actually trembling!"

Yang Chengfu's words were like a sharp knife, piercing the hearts of every master present.

Mr. Cheng Tinghua closed his eyes tightly, and two lines of tears slid down his cheeks.

Grandpa Hou Zhenshan gritted his teeth, his fists clenched so tightly they cracked.

"We can dodge pistols and rifles. That's because we're quick-witted and have a strong sense of danger."

"But what about the cannons? What about the warships?"

"One shot, and nothing grows within a hundred meters; it's a whole area." Ah, no matter how fast you are, can you outrun shrapnel? Can you outrun the intense heat of an explosion?

Yang Chengfu slammed the rough porcelain bowl in his hand heavily onto the wooden board.

With a "bang," the bowl shattered, spilling cheap liquor all over the floor, emitting a pungent smell of alcohol.

"The world has changed, Brother Wenhua, the world has really changed."

"With firearms and powerful ships and cannons, the things our ancestors passed down are nothing but a joke in front of their steel behemoths."

"We're all fussing about internal and external coordination here, but they only need to lift a finger and pull the fuse of a cannon to blast all our decades of hard work into a pile of minced meat!"

"Fists and feet can never defeat guns and cannons."

"The spirit of Chinese martial arts—the legacy of our ancestors—has become a useless pile of mud in our generation."

""

By the end, Yang Chengfu was sobbing uncontrollably.

This is not just his lament; it reflects the profound powerlessness, despair, and collapse of faith felt by the entire martial arts community of the old era when faced with the devastating impact of industrialized firearms.

They are not afraid of death.

In the era of cold weapons, even when facing thousands of troops, these grandmasters would dare to charge in and out of enemy lines seven times.

What they fear is that what they have believed in their whole lives, what they consider their very existence, will be seen by others as garbage that can be crushed by machines at will.

The pride of the older generation of warriors shattered into pieces on this night, before the cold cannons of the warship, beyond repair.

A sense of desolation permeated the entire cabin.

That was not the sorrow of parting or death, but a lament for the end of an era.

In the corner, Lu Feng and a few other young people listened with tears in their eyes. They wanted to say something in rebuttal, but found that they couldn't find any words to comfort these old people who were once like gods.

Because what the elders said was true.

Just then.

Lu Cheng, who had been sitting silently opposite the stove, moved.

He wasn't wearing a costume tonight. After that earth-shattering massacre, he changed into a very ordinary gray-blue long robe, with an inconspicuous black overcoat draped over it.

There was no fierce glare, no domineering aura.

He was like an ordinary schoolteacher, or a troupe leader who had just stepped off the stage and washed away his glamour.

He neither answered Yang Chengfu's desperate pleas nor spoke of grand principles such as "as long as martial arts live, the nation will never perish."

He simply reached out quietly and picked up the wooden spoon, smoothed from years of use, from the stove.

"Glug glug".

He gently stirred the boiling fish soup with a wooden spoon, and the rough aroma of mixed fish and cornmeal instantly became even stronger.

He scooped up a spoonful of the milky-yellow fish soup and poured it into a clean, large, rough porcelain bowl.

Then, he did something that surprised everyone present.

He didn't use any internal energy or any divine means.

He simply rolled up the cuffs of his spotless long robe, revealing his fair and slender forearms.

Then, under the dim light of the lantern, Lu Cheng lowered his head and used the same hands that had just crushed the throat of the Japanese sword saint in the Tianqiao Theater and could create sonic boom rings from a distance.

With extreme patience, I used chopsticks to pick out each and every one of the many fish bones from the fish soup.

His movements were steady, slow, and focused.

It was as if he wasn't picking fish bones, but rather performing the most intricate task in the world.

"hiss----"

Liu Wenhua and the others were stunned, and even Yang Chengfu's crying gradually subsided.

They stared blankly at this young master who had fought his way in and out of Tianjin seven times, striking fear into the hearts of warlords and foreigners alike.

At this moment, he is like a most filial junior, removing fish bones from the elderly in his family.

Remove all the thorns.

Lu Cheng then used his chopsticks to pick up a piece of cornbread that was roasted to the crispiest and most fragrant temperature from the side of the iron pot, broke it into small pieces, and soaked it in the bowl of fish soup.

After doing all this, he held the steaming bowl of fish cake soup in both hands and handed it to Yang Chengfu.

"Old Yang, have some hot soup."

Lu Cheng's voice was soft and steady.

Like the charcoal fire in this red clay stove, it is not dazzling, but it exudes a warmth that can dispel the cold winter.

With trembling hands, Yang Chengfu accepted the large, rough porcelain bowl.

The scalding heat from the bottom of the bowl traveled down his icy palms and warmed his heart.

"Brother Lu————"

Yang Chengfu looked at the cleanly picked fish meat in the bowl, and his throat tightened.

Lu Cheng did not return to his original seat, but instead casually sat cross-legged on the wooden board next to Yang Chengfu.

He took the jar that held the strong liquor and poured himself half a bowl of that cheap liquor.

"Several seniors."

Lu Cheng picked up his wine bowl and looked at the four old men whose eyes had lost their luster.

"Old Yang is right, the world has indeed changed."

"The foreigners' naval guns have a range of over ten miles, and their Maxim machine guns can fire six hundred rounds per minute. Even if our flesh and blood bodies were made indestructible, they still couldn't withstand the power of that steel and gunpowder."

He did not refute it, but rather accepted this cruel reality with great composure.

This made the eyes of the four old masters even dimmer.

"But----"

Lu Cheng changed the subject, picked up the rough porcelain wine bowl, and lightly tapped it against the fish soup bowl in Yang Chengfu's hand.

"when."

A muffled thud.

"Guns and cannons can shatter human flesh, flatten our city walls, and force us to flee to this leaky, dilapidated ship."

In the dim light, Lu Cheng's eyes shone with a light that was not dazzling but extremely profound.

With his "exquisite mind," he saw through the five aggregates, comprehending the tragedy of the times and the true essence of martial arts.

"But they can't break what's in our bones."

Lu Cheng pointed to the bowl of fish soup in Yang Chengfu's hand.

"These fish in the Haihe River are worthless, their lives are worthless. This cornmeal is coarse and harsh on the throat; foreigners wouldn't even give it a second glance."

"But even the lowest of fish, the coarsest cornmeal, when simmered on this red clay stove, can warm our bodies, chilled by the sea breeze, and allow us to survive in this snowy weather!"

Lu Cheng tilted his head back and drank the half bowl of spicy, throat-irritating liquor in one gulp.

As the strong liquor went down his throat, a flush rose on his face.

"Seniors."

When our ancestors passed down Xingyi, Tai Chi, and Bagua, did they ever think about using these few fists and feet to dominate the world or to fight against the cannons of foreigners?

"no."

"We started practicing martial arts so that in this dog-eat-dog world, we could have a stable meal and protect the elderly, women and children in our families from being bullied."

Lu Cheng's voice gradually became deep and powerful.

"National martial arts, national martial arts."

"The art of protecting one's home and country."

"Foreign guns can shatter our bodies."

Lu Cheng stretched out his hand with distinct knuckles and slammed it heavily on his chest.

"But it can't break the spirit that this hot soup warms up—it's indomitable!"

"As long as our backbone remains intact, as long as we still recognize ourselves as descendants of Yan and Huang."

"No matter how powerful guns are, they are nothing more than inanimate objects that kill. We, on the other hand, are living, breathing human beings."

"The soul of Chinese martial arts has never been about how thick a stone slab you can shatter with a single punch, but rather about what you do when a foreign enemy points a gun at your head, forcing you to bend your spine—"

'

Lu Cheng's gaze swept over the four old masters.

"Do you dare to stand up straight and tell him?"

"We Chinese men would rather die standing than live on our knees."

boom!

These words were spoken without the aid of any internal energy.

But to the four grandmasters, it was like a morning bell and evening drum, a resounding and enlightening sound.

A deafening roar!

A sudden glint of light flashed in Liu Wenhua's cloudy eyes.

Yang Chengfu's hands, which were holding the fish soup, stopped trembling. He drank the bowl of fish soup mixed with coarse cornmeal in large gulps, and his stomach, which had been numbed by alcohol and despair, gradually began to awaken.

Yes.

If fists and feet can't beat guns and cannons, are we just supposed to offer our necks to be slaughtered?

Are we going to strip away the backbone passed down from our ancestors?

Why did the Japanese go to such lengths to set up a fighting arena?

Why use poison to ambush them?

Because they are afraid!

They had guns and cannons, but they were still afraid of the indomitable spirit in the bones of these warriors!

"Well done—well done! A bowl of hot soup warms the bones and strengthens the spirit!"

Liu Wenhua suddenly stood up.

Because of the low cabin, he could not stand up completely, but at this moment his hunched back seemed to be re-injected with steel, standing as straight as a spear that would never bend.

He took a deep breath and looked at Yang Chengfu, Cheng Tinghua, and Hou Zhenshan, who had also stood up beside him.

The four masters exchanged glances.

In that one glance, the previous dejection and despair were gone.

There is only one kind of resolute decision: to see through life and death and turn this broken body into firewood, burning it completely!

"Brother Lu."

Liu Wenhua turned around and looked at Lu Cheng, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground.

He didn't call him "Master Lu," but instead called him "Brother Lu," a term of endearment and familiarity he shared with people in the martial arts world.

"You risked your life to go down to Tianjin, stormed Dengying Tower, and destroyed the Hongkou Dojo. You used your life to save us old bones and also to preserve the last vestige of dignity for the Northern martial arts world."

"Now, with these words, you have preserved the soul of our Chinese martial arts!"

Liu Wenhua's voice trembled.

"I am deeply grateful and cannot express my thanks."

"We four old guys just had a discussion."

"Although our vital energy has deteriorated, and these old bones are no longer useful."

"But the insights gained from practicing boxing through decades of changing seasons, the secrets passed down through various schools and sects for hundreds of years, never revealed to others—this hidden foundation still has some value."

As Liu Wenhua finished speaking, he suddenly lifted the hem of his coarse cloth gown.

"Thump."

This is a renowned master of Xingyi Quan, whose fame spread throughout North China and whose disciples and followers are found all over the world.

In this cramped cabin, he actually knelt down on one knee in front of a young man in his early twenties!

Followed by.

"Thump!"

"Thump!"

"Thump!"

Yang Chengfu, Cheng Tinghua, and Hou Zhenshan.

Tai Chi, Bagua, and the Taishan and Beidou symbols on the back.

Without any hesitation or doubt, they all knelt down on one knee, just like Liu Wenhua.

On this stormy night, four elderly men, whose combined age exceeded 250, made a decision that defied the century-old traditions of the martial arts world, fueled by cheap liquor and a pot of coarse fish soup.

"Seniors, what are you doing?!"

Lu Cheng was shocked; this was an incredibly generous gift.

He sprang to his feet, reaching out with both hands to help the four elderly people up.

But this time, these four elderly men, whose vitality was waning, seemed to have taken root. No matter how hard Lu Cheng tried, they remained firmly on the deck and refused to get up.

"Brother Lu, don't stop us, let us finish kneeling."

Liu Wenhua held Lu Cheng's hand tightly, his withered fingers displaying astonishing strength; it was his last remaining obsession.

"The journey home is long, and the river flows on. I'm just idling around anyway."

Liu Wenhua raised his head, two flames burning in his old eyes.

"The rules of the martial arts world dictate that knowledge is passed down to sons but not daughters, and to family members but not outsiders."

"That's the rule of a peaceful and prosperous era; that's selfish and narrow-minded."

97

"Today, on this ship, there is no Xingyi, no Tai Chi, no Bagua, and certainly no Tongbei."

"Only our Chinese martial arts!"

Liu Wenhua pointed at Lu Cheng.

"You, Lu Cheng, are exceptionally gifted and have already reached the pinnacle of martial arts. In the eyes of us old folks, you are the only true dragon who can carry the soul of martial arts through this chaotic world of guns and cannons!"

"We've made our decision."

"On the way home that very night."

"We four old guys are going to get the most core secrets of our respective sects, the top-secret mental techniques and inner alchemy formulas that we haven't even taught our own sons or closed-door disciples —"

"I will pass on my knowledge to you, both orally and through personal instruction, without reservation!"

"I don't ask you to become my disciple, nor do I ask you to change your allegiance."

"I only ask that you—"

Yang Chengfu took over the conversation, tears streaming down his face, his voice mournful and tragic.

"I only ask that you, with the very essence of Chinese martial arts, survive!"

"Go and get rid of those foreigners who look down on us, go and get rid of those traitors who betray their teachers and ancestors—"

"Go back to your grandma's house!"

After saying this, the four old masters clasped their hands in a fist salute and, in that cramped cabin, bowed their heads deeply to Lu Cheng, heads that they had held high all their lives.

Lu Cheng stood frozen in place.

He looked at the four old men kneeling before him.

He felt as if something was tightly blocking his throat, and he couldn't utter a single word.

He neither declined nor dodged the offer.

He knew this wasn't about kneeling before Lu Cheng.

These are the four elderly men making their final sacrifice to the martial arts they have believed in all their lives.

They are using this ultimate form of "loyalty" to entrust the last hope of this nation.

"it is good."

Lu Cheng took a deep breath.

He did not accept this grand gesture, but instead took half a step back and straightened his gray-blue long robe.

Then, he lifted his robe and knelt down on both knees.

He kowtowed deeply to the four elders with the most standard and ancient martial arts salute.

"Lu Cheng accepts the entrustment from the four seniors."

"As long as I, Lu Cheng, am still breathing."

"The roots of Chinese martial arts can never be severed!"

"This straight spine will never bend!"

That night, the wind and waves on the Haihe River were very strong, and the small steamer was tossed about between the crests and troughs of the waves.

But the lower deck was steaming hot.

-

There was no pen, ink, paper, or inkstone, and no lengthy treatises.

The four grandmasters sat around the stove, and over the cheap liquor, they broke down and analyzed their lifelong insights into martial arts, feeding them to Lu Cheng bit by bit.

"Tai Chi originates from Wuji. The ultimate skill of listening to force lies not in the superficial, but in the mind. Intention precedes Qi, and Qi precedes strength. You must empty yourself, as empty as a sack, so that when others' force strikes, you can absorb it and neutralize it."

This is Yang Chengfu.

"The Bagua (Eight Trigrams) moves in circles, seemingly in a circular motion, but in reality, it treads on the boundary between Yin and Yang. The steps must be cunning, the movements swift, but the spine, like a great dragon, must remain stable. Like pushing a millstone, like treading on a lotus flower—"

This is Cheng Tinghua.

"The long-range strike of Tongbei doesn't rely on long arms, but on the large tendons in the back. You have to train the muscles in your back to be flexible, like a whip that can be lashed out—cold, crisp, and hard—"

This is Hou Zhenshan.

Liu Wenhua spoke last, looking at Lu Cheng with hopeful eyes.

"You have already grasped the essence of the Twelve Forms of Xingyi. But I will teach you one last move, which is not a fighting method, but a training method, and also a killing method."

"The highest realm of Xingyi is called the battle between dragon and tiger." That is to combine the dragon form's bone-searching and ascension to heaven with the tiger form's crouching and pouncing on its prey within the body. One yin and one yang, one rising and one falling, together they form a pseudo-elixir in the dantian.

"Although it's not a true 'Gathering the Elixir,' it can unleash combat power exceeding twice the human limit in an instant. It's a life-saving technique, and also a deadly move in a desperate fight."

Lu Cheng sat cross-legged to the side, his [Exquisite Heart] operating at high speed.

He was like a dried-up sponge, frantically absorbing the essence of martial arts that these four grandmasters had poured their life's work into.

Previously, he relied on the system's empowerment to gain strength, but many subtle aspects were missing.

Tonight, in this swaying, dilapidated cabin.

The most crucial pieces of the puzzle of Chinese martial arts were finally perfectly pieced together in his mind.

in the corner.

Shunzi, Xiaodouzi, Lu Feng, and their group of young apprentices.

They held large bowls and ate heartily from the pot of cornmeal and fish soup.

Lu Cheng removed all the fish bones, and the fish soup was delicious.

They ate with their mouths full of oil, wolfing it down.

No one speaks.

But the light in everyone's eyes was so bright it seemed to be burning.

The warm, lively atmosphere inside the cabin, along with the deep, resonant voices of the four masters, completely dispelled the bloodshed and humiliation brought by Tianjin.

In a turbulent and chaotic world.

An unassuming little steamship carries the purest flame of Chinese martial arts.

Cut through the wind and waves.

Heading towards Beiping.

Moving forward at dawn.

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