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

Chapter 177 Preaching at the Temple of Heaven: Everyone is Like a Dragon!

March 21st, the Spring Equinox.

On this day, day and night are of equal length, and yin and yang are each in half.

According to old Beijing custom, on the Spring Equinox, one should stand eggs upright, eat spring vegetables, and go to the Temple of Agriculture to worship the gods of the land and grain.

But this year, the millions of mouths in Beijing didn't dream about these things when they went to sleep last night.

They were talking about the Temple of Heaven.

Before dawn, figures were already moving about on the street outside Qianmen.

They weren't there to work, they weren't there to make a living.

They are people heading south.

Old Xu, the rickshaw puller, locked his rickshaw in the yard today.

Wearing his old blue cotton-padded jacket, which he only wore during the New Year, and carrying a steamed bun wrapped in newspaper, he slowly made his way towards the Temple of Heaven.

"What are you going to see?"

The fat man who sells fried cakes across the street called out to him from his doorway.

"Let's watch the show." Old Xu said without turning his head.

"What kind of show is it that's worth you coming all this way?"

"Master Lu's play."

Those three words are more than enough.

The fat man touched the grease stains on his apron, thought for a moment, then turned around and shouted into the inner room.

"Damn it, seal the stove, no business today. Come with me to the theater!"

When Shunzi and Lu Feng carried that Kui Niu drum out of the opium den, it was incredibly heavy.

The two strong young men, who had practiced Ming Jin (a type of internal strength training), were so engrossed in their work that they had to grit their teeth and catch their breath every few steps.

Lu Cheng simply carried the drum by one hand, walking along at a leisurely pace.

Along the way, some locals who recognized him quietly followed behind.

At first there were three, then thirty, and then the tail grew longer and longer. By the time it reached the North Divine Kitchen Street intersection near the Temple of Heaven, it had become a huge, dark mass, at least several hundred people, who followed silently.

No one made any pronouncements, and no one tried to evoke emotions.

It means to follow along.

This is the most self-evident form of support.

Temple of Heaven Park, Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests Square.

The Qingyun Troupe set up the stage last night.

The platform was set up with great care, yet it was also extremely simple.

The dimensions of the countertop were measured by Lu Cheng himself. It was exactly eight square feet, not an inch more or less.

Red lacquered pillars, cedar wood platform, and a vermilion railing surrounding the platform.

The most eye-catching thing is the Kui Niu Drum in the very center, which has been wiped spotless by Zhou Daikui.

The large drum rests on an ebony stake, its surface facing the sky, silent in this spring morning.

Apart from the big drum, there was nothing else on the stage.

There were no sets, no opera flags, and no gongs and drums that are usually used to create atmosphere.

It's just an empty stage and a big drum.

Behind the curtain, Shunzi was so anxious that she kept stamping her feet.

"Master, your technique is far too simplistic. Will those veteran opera enthusiasts even recognize you?"

Lu Cheng did not change his clothes.

He was still wearing that ordinary moon-white long gown today, and black cloth shoes with multi-layered soles.

The black scabbard of the [Broken Enemy] sword was faintly visible at his waist.

On her head, she wore no crown or hairnet; her hair was simply held up with a black jade hairpin.

This outfit, if you're here to perform, is more like you're here to keep a date.

"Only in simple terms can you see the true skill."

Lu Cheng looked at the sea of ​​people gathering from all directions below the stage, his eyes deep.

The sea of ​​people had completely surrounded the square of the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests in the Temple of Heaven.

People were crowding in front of the stage, people were crowding the sides of the stage, and even the gap in the royal blue brick wall in the distance was crowded with people standing on tiptoe and craning their necks to look inside.

The martial arts masters from various schools, along with their disciples.

Those chivalrous heroes from afar, drawn by the news, carried weapons, travel-worn, their eyes burning with a pilgrimage-like fervor.

The senior disciples of the Peking Opera troupe, clutching their sect's secret manuals that had never been made public before, stood solemnly, as if attending a once-in-a-century covenant.

Most of them were ordinary people from Beiping.

Coal sellers, rickshaw pullers, merchants, and students in schools.

They don't understand internal martial arts, nor do they understand the concept of "marrow cleansing and energy transformation."

But they all knew that something truly extraordinary was about to happen today.

The front row seats were reserved for a group of people.

Shang Yunxiang, Gong Yu, Liu Wenhua, Yang Chengfu, Master Li, Huo Zhenxiao —

And Mr. Han, who was in a wheelchair and brought from Tongrentang.

Half of the martial arts world in North China was present.

In the distance, several military vehicles were parked outside the west gate of the Temple of Heaven, but did not enter.

Those were troops sent by Commander Xing to "maintain order," but faced with this massive army of tens of thousands, not a single officer dared to rush in at that moment.

A little further away, mixed in with the crowd, were several plainclothes agents, who had already quietly set up their laptops and cameras.

They came from consulates in foreign concessions, from the Japanese Special Higher Police, and from secret departments in Nanjing.

They came to see what tricks this master of opera would pull.

However, nobody cared about them.

It was three quarters past Chen Shi (7:45 AM).

The sun had already risen in front of the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests, turning the white marble railings white with its warmth.

"when"

Zhou Daikui stood to the side of the stage, holding a bronze gong, and slammed it down hard.

A bronze bell rang out, its sound distant and clear.

The crowd fell silent in an instant.

Lu Cheng walked onto the stage.

There was no fanfare, no elaborate ceremony, and no elaborate rituals.

-

He walked up and stood next to the Kui Niu drum.

The crowd fell silent for a moment, then erupted into a low, surging cheer.

There was no word "good" or "glory" in those cheers.

There was only the breath of tens of thousands of people exhaling at the same time, a breath that had been held back for a long time.

That sound carried more weight than any lavish applause.

Lu Cheng did not bow, clasp his hands in greeting, or say any of the usual polite opening remarks.

He stood on the stage, looking at the sea of ​​people below, and waited quietly for a moment.

When the cheers completely subsided, and when the breathing of tens of thousands of people gradually became even and held, the cheers faded away.

He spoke.

The voice was not loud.

Neither the [Tiger and Leopard Thunder Sound] nor the [Toad Fishing Strength] was used.

It's just the normal voice and tone of voice of an ordinary person.

However, relying on the fact that he had completed seventy percent of the marrow cleansing, every syllable landed precisely on the airflow node, and the sound clearly penetrated the entire square, landing at the base of the outermost blue brick wall.

"My name is Lu Cheng. I'm a leading actor in the Qingyun Opera Troupe on Qianmen Street."

The first sentence is: extremely peaceful.

Those people in the back row who were crammed into the gap in the wall and standing on tiptoe, grinned when they heard this.

"I know why you have come here, everyone."

Lu Cheng glanced at the Grandmasters of Internal Energy sitting in the front row below the stage.

"Esteemed seniors, you have come for a very important matter."

He paused, his voice suddenly turning serious, carrying a solemnity that made one's heart tighten.

"Take out those secret manuals and techniques that have been hidden away by various schools and sects."

"Make it public, teach it, and give it to the world."

After he finished speaking, there was a three-second silence in the square.

Three seconds later, it exploded.

It wasn't cheering, but rather a collective gasp of astonishment as tens of thousands of people gasped and stared at each other in disbelief.

They had guessed it, but it still seemed unbelievable to hear it come out of that mouth.

"However, before we begin, I have something to say first."

Lu Cheng's gaze swept backward, looking at the blue brick wall and the military vehicles parked behind it.

"Some people say that my gathering of people today is a rebellion, and they have issued a military order."

Some people say that I gave away my family fortune to seek fame, and that I'm just a performer who wants to be in the limelight.

"Some people even say that traditional Chinese martial arts have become outcasts of the times, nonsense that swords and spears can't penetrate cannonballs, and dregs left by our ancestors."

The audience was deathly silent.

Everyone knows who these words are referring to.

Lu Cheng raised his head and looked at the azure sky that held tens of thousands of people.

"Is there any truth to what they're saying?"

pause.

"have."

The fact that Lu Cheng uttered that single word so calmly surprised the people in the audience.

"The Krupp cannons of the foreigners are indeed more powerful than our swords and spears. That is a fact."

"We've trained our fists and feet our whole lives, but we can't withstand machine gun fire. That's a fact."

"But."

Lu Cheng lowered his head, and the golden light in his eyes vanished completely at that moment, leaving only the most genuine emotion.

Compassion.

"The foreigners' cannons can flatten our city walls."

"But it can't flatten this."

He reached out and gently tapped his chest with his knuckles.

"Thump."

The crisp sound seemed to strike the hearts of everyone present.

"In the five thousand years of Chinese history, our nation has never lacked times of national subjugation."

"The Five Barbarian Invasions, the Mongol cavalry, the Eight Banners entering the pass—every time, people say that the Han people are finished, the Chinese civilization is gone, and this civilization should end."

"But is it broken?"

"no."

For the first time, Lu Cheng's voice showed some fluctuation.

"Why didn't it break?"

"Because someone is holding onto their breath."

"Whether you are a scholar, a farmer, a craftsman, or one of us who practice martial arts, there is a spirit that will never be broken in your heart."

"This spirit is the true root of our Chinese nation."

"Martial arts is not omnipotent. But the spirit of those who practice martial arts—the courage to never bend over even in the face of death, the wisdom to overcome the strong with the weak and achieve great things with small means, and the tenacity to stand up even when ten thousand people fall."

"This is the soul of Chinese martial arts."

"The reason I'm preaching today is to return this spirit, this soul, to all Chinese people in the world."

Lu Cheng's words were like a fire, igniting the still chilly spring square.

Some people in the audience began to wipe away tears.

The old boxer, Wang Tieshan, stood in the crowd, his large, rough hands clenched into fists.

In the front row, Grandpa Han leaned forward, his body trembling as he supported himself on the armrests of his wheelchair. Something flickered in his cloudy eyes.

Lu Cheng didn't continue speaking.

Because no amount of words can express the magnitude of what is about to happen.

He took a deep breath.

This breath slowly sank into the dantian, then followed the meridians, flowing down into the earth and up to the heavens.

At this moment, the exquisite heart reflected the tens of thousands of burning hearts across the entire square.

"Today, I will sing a song first."

Lu Cheng picked up the drumsticks placed next to the big drum. They were two ordinary bamboo sticks that he had carved by hand last night.

"Let's start playing this Kui Niu drum."

He raised the drumstick.

With that gesture, he was no longer Lu Cheng.

He is Ni Heng.

He was that madman of all time who stood naked in the court of the most powerful man in the world, loudly cursing the treacherous villain.

It is that proud spirit in every era, trampled underfoot by the powerful and wealthy, yet still looking up to the sky and endlessly cursing.

The drumstick fell, but it was just a flat, ordinary strike.

"Boom!!!!!"

At that moment, the Temple of Heaven Square seemed to be overturned by that drumbeat.

That was no ordinary drum sound. It was the sound of Lu Cheng's entire life force at the half-step Dan-emerging stage, perfectly combined with the innate "gathering strength and releasing sound" nature of the Kui Niu Drum, resulting in a world-class sound.

The sound waves, as solid as a physical object, swept outwards.

The outermost edge of the square, the stone-built wall surrounding the Temple of Heaven, had all the dust on its top shaken off with a whoosh.

The military vehicle parked outside the West Gate had Marshal Xing's flag fluttering wildly in the invisible wind.

A foreign journalist mingled in the crowd nearly dropped his camera, and the Englishman instinctively covered his head.

However, not a single Chinese person took a single step back.

They all felt it; the drumbeats penetrated their clothes, their flesh, and struck their spines directly.

A tingling sensation, followed by an indescribable heat.

It felt like something had set it ablaze from the very marrow of my bones.

Lu Cheng stood behind the drum, his hands moving like the wind, and the drumbeats suddenly began.

He didn't sing; he started by playing the drums.

However, in his hands, this Kui Niu drum was not merely for accompaniment; it was itself the most soul-stirring protagonist of the play.

When the sound is sparse, it is like distant thunder rumbling, stirring the heart.

When the noise is dense, it's like ten thousand horses galloping, making the ground tremble.

When it's urgent, it's like a torrential downpour hitting banana leaves, so dense and impenetrable that it makes your heartbeat go off-beat.

If the sound is slow, it is drawn out extremely long, a sound that is almost extinguished but not quite dead, hanging on to the soul, making it hard to breathe.

This is the drum of Ni Heng in the story of "Beating the Drum and Cursing Cao Cao".

It was one person declaring war on an era.

The elderly opera enthusiasts in the audience, those who had listened to opera all their lives and knew countless famous actors, all stared wide-eyed at the stage with an almost obsessive expression.

They had heard the best drummers.

But they had never heard of anyone being able to play a large drum to such a chilling and tear-jerking level.

The drumbeats reached their densest point.

Lu Cheng abruptly withdrew his hands.

The drum fell silent.

But the lingering echoes of the drumbeats reverberated long afterward beneath the towering dome of the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests and in the open sky above the square.

The silence lasted for a full three breaths.

Then, Lu Cheng put down the drumstick and spoke.

"You despicable scoundrel—!"

That voice seemed to be torn from the depths of the earth.

It's not the sharp, high-pitched tone of a martial arts actor, but rather the powerful, resonant energy of an old male actor who transforms desolation and anger into a surge of righteous spirit.

This is the true teaching I learned from Tan Fengzi.

It was a weak voice that was forcibly transformed through three days and three nights of sobering up, vomiting blood, and hoarseness.

However, this cry of "despicable scoundrel" did not diminish, but only intensified.

Because that confidence comes from the purification of seventy percent of the lead, mercury, qi, and blood.

A single line of lyrics, just four words, sent an invisible shockwave through the air above the Temple of Heaven Square.

The old man Wang Tieshan, who was secretly wiping away tears in the front row, was startled by the loud noise. He choked on the candy in his mouth and it went into his trachea. He coughed incessantly, but his tears stopped.

Grandpa Shang Yunxiang sat in his armchair, his hawk-like eyes suddenly widening.

He is a master of internal energy transformation.

What he perceives with his inner eye is deeper and broader than that of ordinary people.

He could tell.

That singing voice contained more than just technique and skill.

That was Lu Cheng recounting all his experiences: the bloody battle of Tianjin, the guns of the Japanese military police, the cannon fire of foreign warships, the compatriots who fell under bayonets, and the ordinary people waiting for porridge on empty stomachs in the cold wind—

It's all kneaded in.

It was crushed, mixed with blood, swallowed, and then spat out, which resulted in this sound.

"This child—"

Shang Yunxiang's eyes welled up with tears, and he involuntarily gripped the cane beside him.

"He's singing with his life on the line."

Lu Cheng did not sing the entire "Beating the Drum and Cursing Cao Cao".

He only sang three lines.

He stopped after three sentences.

He gently placed the drumstick in his hand on the rim of the large drum.

"The performance will stop here for now."

He surveyed the sea of ​​people below the stage, whose minds were reeling from the shock, and his voice regained its composure.

"Now, let's get down to business."

He turned to the side curtain, where Liu Wenhua, Yang Chengfu, and others had been waiting for a long time.

"Please, esteemed seniors, come to the stage."

What happened next was repeatedly mentioned by all those who experienced it, and they talked about it for a lifetime.

Liu Wenhua was the first to step onto the stage and took out a thread-bound blue book from his pocket.

The book had only four large characters on its cover: "Xingyiquan Jing" (形意拳经).

"This is the complete manual of internal strength, handwritten by generations of Xingyi School successors, which has never been made public before. Today, Xingyi School presents it to you."

He placed the book on a table next to the drum.

Yang Chengfu then went on stage and put down "Illustrated Explanation of Tai Chi Internal Kung Fu".

Cheng Tinghua put down "The Eight Trigrams Heart Method Record".

Master Li put down the "Secret Essentials of Iron Shirt Internal and External Cultivation," a secret manual passed down for three generations at the Iron Fist Gym.

Wang Tieshan put down "The True Explanation of the Three Emperors Cannon Fist".

One book, two books, three books —

The desk was slowly piled up.

These are all genuine treasures passed down through various schools and sects for hundreds of years, which they would rather take to their graves than pass on to outsiders.

The people below the stage, looking at the stacks of secret manuals, were all silent and trembling, feeling as if they were witnessing something extraordinary beyond their daily understanding.

Finally, Lu Cheng took out a vermilion lacquer box from his bosom.

He opened it.

Inside was a thin, thread-bound booklet with six words on the cover.

The True Explanation of Chinese Martial Arts: General Principles

This is a masterpiece he painstakingly compiled and annotated by dozens of veteran boxing masters in his study at the Lu residence, taking seven days and seven nights to gather and annotate the essentials of various schools.

It's not some profound and mysterious martial arts manual.

It is a truly introductory book that allows ordinary people to understand and learn basic methods for strengthening the body and improving health.

Lu Cheng placed the book on top.

"From today onwards, these books no longer belong to any particular sect."

He looked around at the crowd, and finally his gaze fell on the faces of tens of thousands of ordinary Chinese people.

"They belong to all descendants of Yan and Huang."

"Get up, stand up, and let's learn together."

"I don't expect you to master the power of transformation, nor do I expect you to be able to fight against a hundred people."

"I only ask that each and every one of you have the strength to fight back when you are bullied."

"Even when the knife of national subjugation and annihilation is at their throats, they will not kneel."

"That's enough."

"Everyone is like a dragon."

These four words landed softly on this quiet square.

It landed in Old Xu's calloused hands.

It landed on the bulging belly of the fat man selling fried cakes.

It landed between the eyebrows of the female student in the last row, whose face was only half visible.

It touched the hearts of every Chinese person who came here.

I don't know who made the first move.

"good!"

That "Good!" was shouted by Li Dayou, the old master of the Chuojiao School. He didn't have a loud voice, but this shout came from his dantian (lower abdomen).

Then, tens of thousands of "Good!"s echoed across the square, like rolling thunder, from west to east, and from south to north, so loudly that the sparrows on the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests all fluttered away.

Lu Cheng stood on the stage, without taking a bow or clasping his hands in greeting.

He lowered his head and glanced at the Kui Niu drum.

At this moment, what appeared before his eyes was the old martial arts champion lying on a tattered mat in an opium den in the Eight Great Hutongs.

Those eyes were half-closed in the smoke.

And then there was that silent murmur as he lowered his hand.

"Go knock on it—"

"Senior Zhang."

Lu Cheng thought to himself.

"Your three hundred disciples, did you hear that?"

That night.

News of the missionary work at the Temple of Heaven spread like wildfire through various telegrams, newspapers, and express messengers.

The Shanghai-based newspaper *Shen Bao* published an extra edition that same day.

Upon seeing the news, martial arts practitioners in Tianjin held a meeting overnight.

Beiping, Jinan, Chongqing, Luoyang —

Every martial artist who still possessed genuine skills and held onto their spirit felt the wind blowing from Beiping.

The Lu residence.

Night fell, and the courtyard grew quiet.

The apprentices all took a break.

Lu Cheng sat alone under the old locust tree, turning the pages of the incomplete Tai Chi manual by the moonlight.

The wind is gentle.

The fake pill that was slowly rotating in his dantian emitted a faint warmth with his steady breathing.

"Knock knock knock".

There was a knock on the side gate three times.

Shunzi went to open it, then ran back in the blink of an eye, his face bearing an indescribable expression.

"Sir, someone has come outside."

"They said they came from the Eight Great Hutongs."

"Say—say he's quit."

Lu Cheng put down his book, looked up, and gazed at the moon above the treetops.

It was a moon that was not yet full, clear and clean.

He smiled.

"Open the door, please come in."

"Go tell the kitchen to make two bowls of braised noodles."

"Add more braising liquid, and the braising liquid should contain fried sauce."

"Never mind, I'll go myself."