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

Chapter 178 Zhang Sanjia's Last Lesson

The side gate opened.

Shunzi carried a lantern, and its light shone in, casting a shadow on the room.

The figure was thin.

He was as thin as a dried-out bundle of firewood, standing on the threshold, almost unrecognizable in the moonlight.

But strangely enough, its spine was straight.

It's not the kind of straightness that's forced, but a straightness that comes from the very core of the tree, like an old white ash tree that has been exposed to the sun and wind for years, its surface long since lost its luster, but its interior still perfectly straight.

Zhang Sanjia.

He took off the yellow jacket that was so dirty that its original color was unrecognizable.

He changed into a gray cotton short-sleeved shirt.

This short jacket is obviously old, with a patch on the cuff. The stitches are rough, and it looks like it was sewn by hand with poor craftsmanship.

But it's clean.

It was the kind of clean that comes from being washed and not dried before wearing it, with two light water stains on the back.

He stood at the threshold, not stepping inside.

In the glow of the kerosene lamp, the old eyes, sunken in their sockets, surveyed the main hall of the house, then looked at Shunzi, and finally, across Shunzi's shoulder, landed on the person sitting under the locust tree deep in the courtyard.

"Lu Cheng".

He spoke, his voice hoarse but steady.

They didn't call him "Master Lu" or "Lord Lu," they just addressed him by his given name.

This is how people in the martial arts world talk to their peers.

Lu Cheng stood up from under the tree, walked over, and stopped two steps away from the threshold.

The two met face to face, separated only by the threshold.

The bright moonlight illuminated both faces clearly.

The older one, weathered to the bone, resembled a piece of old tree bark pickled by time and opium, covered with crisscrossing wrinkles and deep shadows.

The younger one had a gentle, jade-like face with clear, bright eyes, like a piece of white jade that had just been washed by mountain spring water, reflecting everything but leaving no trace.

Two faces, but one thing they have in common.

Eyes.

It is only after witnessing true death, true life, and the deepest darkness and light of humanity that one can truly come to terms with this kind of profound understanding.

"Come in."

Lu Cheng turned his body to the side.

Zhang Sanjia lifted his foot and stepped over the threshold.

That step landed extremely lightly, so lightly that it made almost no sound.

But Shunzi, standing to the side, felt the blue bricks beneath her feet tremble slightly for a moment.

The fire in the kitchen was still burning.

Lu Cheng cooked the meal himself.

They didn't give any to the old cook, Grandpa Liu, nor to the apprentices who did odd jobs.

He was all alone, sleeves rolled up, standing in front of the large, blackened iron pot.

Shunzi stood at the door, craning his neck to look inside.

Having been his eldest apprentice for so many years, this was the first time he had ever seen his master personally roll up his sleeves and knead dough.

Those hands, which had crushed assassins, broken samurai swords, and shattered the internal organs of Japanese masters from afar, were now neatly and orderly pressed onto a lump of dough, rhythmically pushing it forward and folding it backward, pushing, folding, pushing again, and folding again.

The dough was as docile as a lump of clay under those hands.

Zhang Sanjia sat on a small stool in the kitchen, leaning against the wall, not saying a word, just watching.

The firelight illuminated his face, making the scar that ran from his ear to his collarbone appear and disappear.

"How long have you been abstaining?"

Lu Cheng didn't turn around, continuing to roll out the dough while asking the question.

Last night.

Zhang Sanjia's voice was calm, without boasting or self-deprecation; he simply gave a straightforward time.

"Just one night."

He paused, then continued.

"My hands are still shaking."

He stretched out his right hand and placed it under the lamp.

That hand was indeed trembling slightly; it was a withdrawal reaction, an honest signal from the body that the opium toxins hadn't completely dissipated.

Lu Cheng put the noodles into the boiling pot, picked up his chopsticks and stirred them, then turned around and glanced at his trembling hand.

"Can I use chopsticks?"

"able."

"That's fine then."

Lu Cheng turned back and continued to stare at the pot.

In the kitchen, there was nothing else to say, only the bubbling of the water in the pot and the occasional crackling of the firewood.

This silence isn't awkward; it's a quiet moment between two people who both have something on their minds, after they've thought things through.

The noodles were scooped out, and the soup was chicken bone soup that Shunzi had made yesterday afternoon. It was milky white. I scooped two spoonfuls and poured it on, then picked up a chopstickful of cucumber shreds, a handful of bean sprouts, and two pieces of braised tofu. Finally, I scooped up the braising sauce, mixed it with fried sauce, and poured it over the noodles.

A comforting aroma filled the small kitchen.

Lu Cheng carried two bowls of noodles out, put them on the stone table in the courtyard, and nodded to Zhang Sanjia.

"Come."

The two sat down facing each other.

The moon had risen directly overhead, illuminating the entire courtyard.

The branches of the old locust tree cast sparse shadows in the moonlight, swaying gently in the night breeze.

Zhang Sanjia picked up his chopsticks, scooped up a strand of noodles, and took a bite.

He chewed for a moment.

He put down his chopsticks, looked down, and stared at the soup in his bowl.

"tasty."

These two words, though extremely simple, seem to have been squeezed out from a very deep place.

"When was the last time I ate noodles this delicious?

He stopped before he finished speaking and shook his head.

Lu Cheng didn't ask any further questions, and just continued eating.

The two of them finished both bowls of noodles completely.

After setting down the bowl, Shunzi tactfully brought over two cups of hot tea and then quietly retreated into the shadows of the corridor.

Zhang Sanjia held the rough porcelain teacup in both hands, feeling the warmth, and remained silent for a while.

Today, the Temple of Heaven is showing the play "Beating the Drum and Cursing Cao Cao".

"7

He spoke, his eyes fixed on Lu Cheng.

"That drumming was well done."

"But you only typed three lines of lyrics before stopping, and I know why."

Lu Cheng held his teacup, saying nothing, just looking at him.

"It's not that you can't, nor that you're afraid."

Zhang Sanjia paused for a moment.

"It's because the essence of 'Scolding Cao Cao' lies not in the scolding, but in the drumming."

"To play that drum completely, you need seventy-two strikes."

"From the very first strike, 'The Fisherman's Ladder Strikes,' to the final 'The End of a Chaotic World,' every strike has its significance, and every segment has its own story."

"With your current cultivation level, the aura you unleash with those three lines of chanting is already enough to shake mountains and move the earth."

"But once you've finished all seventy-two strikes, it's easy to let out your last breath. But the rise and fall of those seventy-two strikes tells the story of human joys and sorrows, of loyalty and survival in chaotic times, and of a madman's journey from his bare-chested entrance to his death on Parrot Island."

"You haven't experienced it yet."

As Zhang Sanjia finished speaking, he lowered his head and slowly traced something on the table with his finger, as if he were tracing the rhythm of the seventy-two hammer blows.

"I've been there."

As Lu Cheng listened, the teacup in his hand stopped at his lips, but he didn't drink it.

Zhang Sanjia looked up at him, his eyes filled with something extremely complex, like pain, yet also like relief.

"I experienced the gunfire of the Boxer Rebellion in 1900."

"I've had three hundred apprentices."

"I also experienced the 30-year opium trade."

"These things, when combined, form the foundation for that final, 'end of a chaotic world' passage in those seventy-two strikes."

"I fucking deserve to play that last part."

The wind stopped for a moment in the courtyard.

Lu Cheng put down his teacup, looked at the old man opposite him, his expression calm. He neither said "okay" nor "no need."

.

He just waited.

Zhang Sanjia stood up, kicked the small stool aside, and stood in front of the stone table.

He stretched out his still slightly trembling hands and slowly clenched his fists.

The joints made a "click" sound.

"You preached today and brought out all those treasures that old fogies had hidden away for generations to bask in the sun."

Zhang Sanjia's voice was dry.

"But there's one thing that none of them have."

"What?"

"The spirit of having been defeated."

""

Zhang Sanjia stared at Lu Cheng, something slowly burning in his deep-set old eyes.

"You practitioners of internal martial arts only talk about how to win, how to defeat, how to generate power to strike, and how to neutralize and deflect force."

"But has anyone ever taught you how to lose?"

"How can you swallow your pride when you've lost everything, are penniless, and are rotting in the mud?"

"And then, stand up again?"

Lu Cheng did not answer.

Because of this, he had never been taught anything.

He survived every perilous situation thanks to his unwavering spirit of righteousness.

He had never experienced the despair of wallowing in the deepest mud after the collapse of faith.

Zhang Sanjia noticed his silence and a bitter smile appeared on his lips.

"So, your 'Beating the Drum and Cursing Cao Cao' has to stop after three lines."

"Because Mi Heng insulted Cao Cao, in the end, Cao Cao used him as a tool to kill him, and he died by Huang Zu's sword."

"That last drumbeat was about knowing you're going to die, knowing that dying won't change anything, but still refusing to bow your head—"

He paused, then used an extremely vulgar word.

"That stubborn streak."

"You don't have this, and you shouldn't have it."

"You're still young, you still have a chance to win."

"But I, the old man, have it."

Zhang Sanjia turned around and looked at the Kui Niu Drum, which had been moved into the courtyard and was leaning against the root of the old locust tree.

The drum, polished to a gleaming shine by Zhou Daikui, shone brightly in the moonlight.

"I'll come tomorrow."

Zhang Sanjia said.

The sound was extremely flat.

"I'll do the seventy-two blows for you."

"Let everyone in Beijing hear this: how much weight does a cripple, defeated by guns and cannons and rotting in an opium den for thirty years, still have left?"

Lu Cheng remained silent for a long time.

The moon shifted to the west, and the shadows of the trees moved to a different position.

"Your current body—"

Lu Cheng spoke up.

"Can you hold on?"

This question was asked without any beating around the bush.

Zhang Sanjia raised his still trembling hand, clenched his fist, and then relaxed it.

"have no idea."

He answered directly, without trying to be tough or backing down.

"I quit for a whole night, but I'm still not completely clean of the filth. I'm afraid there's still opium poisoning in my internal organs."

"But I, an old man, still have the foundation of my bones, and that innate superhuman strength hasn't completely dissipated."

-

He looked at Lu Cheng.

"You struck that drum three times today, which helped the 'Kui Niu' to vocalize and also gave it three-tenths of its energy."

"This drum acknowledges your divine will as you take a half-step towards the elixir of immortality."

"If I were to strike the drum, and the drum recognized me, then the spirit within those seventy-two strikes wouldn't just belong to me alone."

Lu Cheng understood.

This Kui Niu drum is a treasure of the palace, used to accompany martial arts masters. It has the characteristic of "carrying the true meaning of martial arts, amplifying it without losing its essence".

Lu Cheng's three strikes today have "activated" this drum.

He imprinted his half-step into the Dantian realm into his drum cavity.

If Zhang Sanjia were to pick up the drumstick and strike, those seventy-two hammer blows would carry not only his own remaining vital energy, but also Lu Cheng's lingering nascent energy, and—

The weight of everything that died in his heart during those thirty years.

Lu Cheng looked up at the large drum.

A moment of silence.

"OK."

He said.

Just this one word.

Zhang Sanjia didn't say thank you, but simply sat back down on the stool, picked up the cup of tea that had gone cold, and took a sip.

Then, he placed his still trembling right hand flat on his knee.

"Lu Cheng".

"Um.

""

"Tell me, after your sermon today, what are your plans for the next step?"

"I've wasted thirty years in this opium den. I'm afraid my brain isn't up to the task anymore. Tell me, I'm listening."

Lu Cheng didn't stand on ceremony. He picked up the folding fan, opened it, and closed it again, repeating this a couple of times.

"The martial arts schools in the south follow a different approach than those in the north. The Jingwu Gymnastics Association has a strong foundation there, making them more receptive to new things. I want to start promoting 'The True Explanation of Chinese Martial Arts' there first, and then let it spread northward."

"Um.

""

"Although Brigade Commander Shi has been removed from his post, he still has connections. I want to use his connections to bring basic Chinese martial arts training methods into the military. It's not about teaching soldiers martial arts, but about making them stronger so they can survive a few more seconds on the battlefield."

Zhang Sanjia nodded.

"That's right. If you can shoot accurately and be physically tough, you can kill more people."

"There's one more thing."

Lu Cheng put down his folding fan.

"I want to open a martial arts school."

"This is not an ordinary martial arts school."

"No tuition fees are charged, and no social status is considered. People from ordinary families, orphans, and refugees are all welcome as long as they are Chinese."

"What I teach is genuine knowledge."

Zhang Sanjia raised his eyelids and glanced at him.

"Where will the money come from?"

"Running a martial arts school isn't just about talking; the venue, the instructors, the meals—all of that costs money."

"have.

, 7

Lu Cheng's tone was extremely flat.

"Most of what we brought out from Fengtai Daying and Dengyinglou has been scattered, but it's still enough for a while."

"in addition----"

Lu Cheng paused for a moment, and the corners of his mouth curved slightly.

"The Qingyun Opera Troupe can really make money performing operas."

"As long as my brand remains in Beijing, the box office will never stop."

Zhang Sanjia looked at him, remained silent for a while, and then suddenly chuckled softly.

The laughter was short and harsh, but it was the most energetic sound the old man had made that night.

"You're a smart kid."

"Setting up a martial arts school was the right thing to do."

"But there's one thing you didn't expect."

"What is it?"

Zhang Sanjia raised his trembling hand and pointed to his wrinkled old face.

"Instructor."

"Your seniors, Liu Wenhua and Yang Chengfu, are the leaders of their respective sects, the treasures that guard the mountain, and cannot be easily touched."

"Your apprentices in the Qingyun Class are still too green; they haven't had enough experience."

"You yourself have to rehearse, compete, and oversee everything. How can you have the time to sit there every day and teach people step by step?"

"So your martial arts school is missing a hard worker who can be a beast of burden and diligently accompany those kids to practice their basic skills every day."

Lu Cheng looked at him without saying a word.

Zhang Sanjia withdrew his hand and clenched it on his knee.

"I'll do it."

These two words were spoken very softly.

So light it was almost carried away by the night breeze.

"I've quit opium, but I don't know how long my body can hold out."

"But as long as I can still move, this old man will go and help those kids practice horse stance."

"My title of Zhang Sanjia, the number one in the world, is long gone, rotten, and unworthy of me."

37

"But the things that taught me the Three Emperors Cannon Fist, the Five Tigers Breaking the Gate Saber, and how to fight a hundred men on the battlefield, are still in my mind from thirty years ago."

"Let those kids learn it."

"It's better than letting this old man like me end up in that opium den with my rotten flesh."

The courtyard fell silent once more.

On the old locust tree, a night bird cried out once, then flapped its wings and flew away.

Lu Cheng closed the folding fan and gently patted it in his palm.

"OK."

He said the sound was the same as when he promised Zhang Sanjia he would play the drums, just that one word.

Clean and concise, without any unnecessary words.

Zhang Sanjia stood up and dusted off the gray cloth short jacket he had just put on.

"I'll go back first."

"Bring my things tomorrow."

"When will your martial arts school open?"

"Three days later, the fervor of preaching at the Temple of Heaven will still be there, making it the perfect time."

"OK."

Zhang Sanjia picked up a tattered cloth bag that was placed at his feet and walked towards the side gate.

He paused at the door but didn't turn around.

"Lu Cheng".

"Um.

""

"You don't need to worry about the seventy-two blows I'm about to deliver tomorrow, whether they're standing or lying down."

"This is my business."

"6

Lu Cheng did not answer.

After a moment of silence, he said.

"There's a fire left burning in the stove in the kitchen tonight. Tomorrow morning, there will be congee and pickled vegetables."

"You can eat anytime you come."

Zhang Sanjia listened, then turned his back to him and didn't move.

After a long while, the withered figure trembled slightly, as if something had broken open in its bony chest.

But he didn't turn around.

He stepped across the threshold and into the night in the alley.

The footsteps were light.

But step by step, it was implemented very solidly.

Shunzi emerged from the shadows of the corridor, walked to Lu Cheng's side, and looked at the figure that had disappeared into the night.

"Master, can he... succeed?"

Lu Cheng was also looking in that direction.

"able."

"But he said he didn't know if his body could handle it, what if he only got halfway through those seventy-two blows tomorrow—"

"Then let's fight wherever it goes."

Lu Cheng tucked the folding fan back into his waistband and turned to walk into the house.

He paused as he passed the large drum shaped like a Kui ox leaning against the roots of an old locust tree.

He reached out and gently pressed the drumhead.

The large drum stood silently in the moonlight.

The drumhead was still warm, the residual heat from Lu Cheng's three strikes during his sermon earlier that day hadn't completely dissipated.

"Some principles..."

Lu Cheng spoke softly, as if speaking to the drum, or perhaps to the night scene in the entire courtyard.

"It's not just about living that it can be passed down."

He withdrew his hand and went inside.

The lights were still on inside.

The next day, at Chen Shi (7-9 AM).

Zhang Sanjia has arrived.

He was carrying a tattered canvas bag, and Lu Cheng had Shunzi help him count what was inside.

A clean set of shorts to change into.

A thick, thread-bound book with the words written on the cover.

"Zhang Family's Hundred Battles and Martial Arts Records"

This is a record of his experiences and observations from thirty years ago, when he was exchanging skills with various masters and traveling the martial arts world. It includes a detailed account of his closed-door duel with Huo Yuanjia, his annotations on the unique skills of various schools, and his bloody and tearful combat experience on the battlefield in the Year of Gengzi.

He had been holding onto this book for thirty years.

I haven't shown it to anyone.

Now, it's placed on the desk in the Lu residence.

"Keep it safe."

Zhang Sanjia shoved the bag into Shunzi's hand and shook it off.

Which room do you live in?

Shunzi scratched his head and pointed to the east wing.

"Over on the east side, there are two empty rooms—"

"The east wing is the east wing."

Zhang Sanjia carried his bag and walked towards the east wing, but after taking two steps, he turned back.

"Is there any porridge left?"

"Yes, it's warm in the pot," Shunzi quickly replied.

"Bring it here."

Zhang Sanjia sat down at the stone table in the courtyard, placed his hands on the table, turned his still trembling right hand over, and looked at his palm.

There was a thick layer of calluses on his palm.

I haven't spun a drumstick in thirty years, but the calluses are still there.

The body's memory is the most honest.

Shunzi brought out hot porridge and a dish of pickled vegetables. Zhang Sanjia took it, scooped up a spoonful, blew on it, and ate it.

Then, he looked up at the Kui Niu drum leaning against the courtyard and lingered on it for a while.

"We'll start practicing this afternoon."

He said calmly, to Shunzi.

"Call all you half-grown boys over here and have you practice standing meditation. I want to assess your foundation."

Shunzi paused for a moment, then a big smile spread across his face as he turned and ran towards the practice room.

"Lu Feng, Xiao Douzi, Lu Ling, Qinglian, Hongyu—all of you, come out here!"

That shout startled the sparrows that had just landed on the old locust tree, and they flew away again.

The window in the east wing was opened a crack, and Lu Cheng was inside, turning a page of the book in his hand.

The steam from the congee was still rising in the courtyard.

The Kui Niu Drum stands silently beside the old locust tree, waiting for its owner, who is thirty years late, to pick up the drumstick again.

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