Shooting the Eagle: Starting from Iron Palm Peak

Iron Palm Peak, Council Hall.

"Lin Qi committed insubordination and injured Han Biao. According to the gang rules, he should be stripped of his martial arts skills, have his right hand cut off, and be expelled from the Iron Palm Gang!"

Han Duanyue's voice echoed in the hall, each word as firm as iron, carrying an unquestionable authority. He was the deputy leader of the Iron Palm Hall, the second most important figure in the gang. Standing below Qiu Qianren, his face was grim, but a hint of smugness lingered at the corner of his mouth.

Kneeling in the center of the hall was a young man, not yet twenty years old, his clothes tattered and covered in blood. His left arm hung limply at an odd angle, clearly broken; a piece of his rib was broken, and he made a faint hissing sound as he breathed; the blood at the corner of his mouth had dried into a dark brown color and was smeared on his chin.

His name was Lin Qi, a third-generation disciple of the Iron Palm Clan. An orphan, he was raised by an old servant in the clan. Three days ago, he went down the mountain to buy medicine and saw Han Biao—Han Duan Yue's nephew—ripping off a singing girl's clothes in the street. The girl was crying her heart out, while the onlookers laughed. Lin Qi didn't know where he got the courage, but he attacked her. His martial arts skills were mediocre; he had only barely mastered the Iron Palm technique after ten years of practice, but Han Biao was even worse, easily defeated. He rescued the girl and told her to run away.

Then Han Biao's uncle arrived.

Han Duanyue's men dragged Lin Qi into the alley, smashed an iron rod into his left arm, breaking the bone into three pieces; kicked him in the ribs, cracking two ribs; and finally kicked him in the lower back, the force of which injured his internal organs. When he was dragged to the main hall, he was half-dead, unable to even kneel properly, and had to be supported by two disciples.

Han Duanyue didn't give him a chance to speak, and directly announced the charges, asking Qiu Qianren to make the final decision.

Qiu Qianren sat high in his chair and uttered only two words throughout the entire conversation.

"Execute."

At that moment, two disciples stepped forward, grabbed Lin Qi's arms on the left and right, and prepared to drag him out to cut off his hands.

Lynch woke up at that moment.

The moment consciousness returned, the first thing he smelled was blood—not someone else's, but his own, thick and cloying, dripping from his mouth and forehead. Then came the cold, not the cold of winter, but the chill of excessive blood loss seeping from the very bones. And then came the pain. His left arm felt like it had been smashed inch by inch with a hammer, each pulse making the bone fragments screech silently; in the lower part of his chest, even a slightly deeper breath was stabbing painfully, as if bone fragments were pressing against his lungs.

wrong.

These feelings are wrong. This isn't his body.

He remembered his name was Lin Qi—yes, also Lin Qi. A sophomore in college, majoring in engineering, he was cramming for his final exams, studying *The Legend of the Condor Heroes* to prepare his thesis. At three in the morning, he was incredibly sleepy, thinking he'd take a five-minute nap, and then…

Then there is no more.

Now he knelt on the cold stone slab, being dragged out by his arms. His vision was blurry, but he could see the shadowy figures in the hall, the large chair carved with iron palms high up, and the long-bearded man in a blue robe sitting on it.

Iron Palm Floats on Water, Qiu Qianren.

Memories flooded in like water bursting its banks, not slowly seeping in, but forcefully blocking out his senses, making his temples throb and his vision go black in waves.

The Iron Palm Clan, Southern Song Dynasty, Jinghu South Road, Iron Palm Peak. His name is Lin Qi. He has no parents and was picked up from the roadside and raised by an old handyman in the clan when he was five years old. The old handyman died last year.

He practiced Iron Palm for ten years—a skill taught to ordinary disciples of the Iron Palm Gang, involving repeated striking with iron sand and soaking in medicinal wine. When practiced to a high level, it could even split stone tablets. However, compared to the "Iron Palm Skill" secretly passed down by the gang leader, it was worlds apart.

Only the sect leader and his personally taught disciples are qualified to practice Iron Palm Kung Fu; it is the true signature skill of the Iron Palm Clan. The tens of thousands of disciples in the clan practice common kung fu techniques gathered from the martial arts world, such as Iron Sand Palm, Eagle Claw Kung Fu, and Arhat Fist.

It took him ten years to master the Iron Palm technique to about 70-80% of its potential. Han Biao's uncle, Han Duanyue, was the deputy head of the Iron Palm Hall, with decades of cultivation. In Han Duanyue's eyes, he was less than an ant.

He hit Han Biao, so he has to die.

Lin Qi—the original Lin Qi—was already dead before being escorted into the main hall. The kick to his lower back shattered his liver with internal force; he managed to hold on until the hall's entrance, where his last breath escaped.

And now, another Lin Qi has awakened in this still-warm body.

"Is this the world of 'The Legend of Condor Heroes'? Time travel?" Lin Qi's mind was blank.

He usually loves reading martial arts novels, so why is he getting into this time-travel thing?

His disciples had already dragged him to the threshold. A few steps further out was the execution platform. His right hand would be severed, his martial arts crippled, and he'd be thrown down the mountain. Given his current injuries, being thrown down the mountain would mean certain death.

"Wait...wait a minute."

He had no time to think about anything else; all he knew was that his current situation was terrible.

The voice was forced out of his throat, hoarse like rusty iron scraping against stone. The two disciples paused, looked down, and froze.

"You—you're not dead?"

Lynch didn't answer. He used his remaining right arm to brace himself against the ground and forcefully broke free from their grasp. The severed arm hit the ground, and excruciating pain shot through his body like an electric current. His vision went white for a moment, and he almost fainted again. But he gritted his teeth, making a grinding sound, and struggled to his feet.

The moment he stood up, he took in his surroundings. On either side of the main hall were a dozen or so chairs, their backs engraved with different patterns—iron palm patterns, sword patterns, tiger head patterns—arranged according to rank. In the very center was a huge bluestone table, covered with animal hide, upon which rested a bronze token.

Behind the stone table was a large chair that was half a foot taller than all the other chairs. On the back of the chair were carved a pair of huge iron hands, palms facing each other, as if they were grasping something.

That's the symbol of Iron Palm Kung Fu; in the entire gang, only one person is qualified to sit in that chair.

Qiu Qianren was about to get up and leave when he saw Lin Qi stand up, and he stopped.

Those eyes fell on Lin Qi, neither angry nor imposing. Lin Qi felt as if a mountain was pressing down on his shoulders, making it difficult to breathe.

Everyone was watching him. A third-generation disciple, covered in blood and with a broken arm, walked back to the main hall as if he had crawled out of a grave.

Qiu Qianren sat down again.

Lin Qi walked to the center of the hall and knelt down. His knees hit the stone slabs, and the pain from his broken ribs made his vision blur, but he did not use his hands to support himself.

"Master, your disciple has something to say."

His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear enough in the empty hall. The broken ribs made his breathing unsteady, and each word sounded like it was rolling over a knife's edge.

Qiu Qianren looked at him with a hint of surprise and curiosity in his eyes.

"explain."

Lin Qi took a deep breath. The moment his chest expanded, a sharp pain shot through his broken ribs, but he gritted his teeth and endured it.

He raised his head and looked directly into Qiu Qianren's eyes. His mind raced.

"What should we do? It looks like we're doomed. Qiu Qianren is bloodthirsty by nature; if we fall into his hands, we're almost certainly going to die."

Suddenly! A thought flashed through his mind. Then, a glimmer of hope appeared in his eyes.

"Let's go all out, if we're going to play, let's go big."

Having made up his mind, he slowly began to speak.

"Chief," he said, his voice trembling but clear, "our Chief Shangguan Jiannan was such a hero, dedicating his life to the country and its people. On his deathbed, he passed the position of Chief to you, hoping that you would inherit his legacy and uphold justice and help the weak."

"But look at what the Iron Palm Clan is like now! The things the members are doing are increasingly contrary to the original principles of our clan: to help the weak and punish the strong, and to love the country and its people."

"The members of the gang have become increasingly corrupt. Loyal and righteous people have left, while wicked and evil people have gathered together, turning the once great Iron Palm Gang into a den of filth and evil, a den of thieves and villains."

"I am willing to die, but I regret that I was not capable enough to fulfill the old gang leader's instructions. I have no face to meet the old gang leader after my death."

Lin Qi became more and more agitated as he spoke, and towards the end he was almost heartbroken and in tears.

"I've gone all in this time. If it still doesn't work, then I guess the damn God isn't giving me a way out," Lin Qi thought to himself.

Yes, that was the only possible way for Lynch to escape.

In the original novel, during the second Mount Hua Sword Tournament, Hong Qigong's words captivated Qiu Qianren, who, ashamed, jumped off a cliff and committed suicide.

If it weren't for Master Yideng's timely intervention, Qiu Qianren would have really gone to see Shangguan Jiannan.

Although Lin Qi doesn't have the authority of Hong Qigong, it's unlikely that his words will be enough to provoke Qiu Qianren into committing suicide. However, he might still have a chance to persuade Qiu Qianren to spare his life.

When he finished speaking, the hall was as quiet as a tomb.

Lin Qi stared at Qiu Qianren's face, observing every subtle change in his expression.

In the first instant, Qiu Qianren's pupils contracted sharply—the reaction to being struck in a vital spot. In the second instant, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and the corners of his mouth turned down—anger. That anger wasn't feigned; it was real, exploding from his body like gunpowder being ignited.

An invisible pressure erupted. Lin Qi felt as if a giant hand was pressing down on his chest, his heart pounding as if it would explode, his ears ringing, and blood dripping from the wound on his forehead onto the stone slab. He knew this was the aura formed by Qiu Qianren's internal energy being released. With his Iron Palm skill cultivated to such a level, every move he made carried a terrifying pressure.

But he did not look away.

He was gambling. Gambling that Qiu Qianren wasn't a person driven by anger. In the original story, Qiu Qianren was nearly driven to suicide by Hong Qigong's insults, indicating that he felt guilty deep down. A truly ruthless person wouldn't be so ashamed as to contemplate suicide because of a few words.

Anger comes quickly and goes quickly.

After about ten seconds, the pressure began to lessen. Qiu Qianren's expression changed from anger to something else. His eyebrows relaxed, but his lips remained taut, and his eyes changed from sharp to complex, as if an old scar had been reopened—painful, yet irresistible to look at.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

No one in the hall dared to utter a sound. Han Duanyue opened his mouth, but seeing Qiu Qianren's expression, he closed it again. Zhou Mingyuan put down his teacup, Qian Sihai wiped the sweat from his brow, and Mei Ruolan gently shook her head. Even Qiu Qianzhang abandoned his amused expression and sat up straight.

After a long time, Qiu Qianren opened his eyes.

"Your name is Lynch?" His voice was low, unlike its previous metallic quality; it sounded more like he was tired.

"Yes."

"Who taught you to say those words?"

"No one taught me," Lin Qi said. "I just felt that these words should be said to the leader."

He didn't say he read it in a book. He couldn't. It was normal for a third-generation disciple to be illiterate; to utter the words "original text" would be suicidal. He chose a vague but truthful answer—he felt he should say it, so he did.

Qiu Qianren remained silent for a while. His gaze shifted from Lin Qi to a point in the void, as if he were recalling something from long ago.

Lynch noticed that his right hand was on the armrest, and his index finger tapped the armrest twice—an unconscious action that indicated he was thinking, and that the content of his thoughts was making him uncomfortable.

Han Duanyue finally couldn't hold back any longer.

"Boss, this brat is spreading heresy and misleading people. According to the gang rules—"

"Did I say I was going to kill him?"

Qiu Qianren interrupted him. His tone was flat, as if he were just saying the weather was nice today. But Han Duanyue's face turned pale instantly, and although he opened his mouth, he didn't dare to say anything more.

Lin Qi noted this detail down in his mind. Han Duanyue's fear of Qiu Qianren wasn't just ordinary fear; it was a deep-seated, visceral dread. This meant that Qiu Qianren's authority within the gang was absolute. No matter how arrogant Han Duanyue was, he was nothing more than a dog on a leash in front of Qiu Qianren.

Qiu Qianren stood up, walked down the steps, and walked step by step to Lin Qi.

When he stopped, Lin Qi smelled the mingled scent of pine and rust on him—the smell of long-term practice of the Iron Palm Technique, a product of the intertwining of cold jade and hot blood. This skill was only qualified to be practiced by the successive leaders and their successors, and in the entire Iron Palm Clan, only Qiu Qianren knew it.

"You, a third-generation disciple, risked your life just to say these words?"

"Yes."

Why?

Lynch thought for a moment. This was a crucial question. Answering "for the Iron Palm Gang" was too insincere, while answering "to survive" was too truthful. He needed an answer that lay somewhere in between.

"Because I don't want to die," he said, pausing before adding, "and even more so, I don't want the Iron Palm Clan to rot away like this."

The first part was true, the second part was half true and half false—he genuinely didn't want the Iron Palm Clan to decline, but that was because the Iron Palm Clan was his only hope at the moment. Only when the gang prospered could he prosper.

Qiu Qianren stared at him for a long time.

Lynch did not avoid his gaze, but neither did he deliberately provoke him. He kept his eyes calm, like a pool of water—deep, but unfathomable.

Qiu Qianren suddenly laughed.

The smile was faint, fleeting, but Lin Qi saw it. It wasn't mockery, nor was it a sneer, but rather a smile that was "somewhat interesting." There was something else in that smile—bitterness, relief, and a trace of inexplicable weariness.

He turned and walked back to his seat, waving goodbye.

"Take him away. Find a doctor to treat his injuries. After he recovers, come see me."

Lin Qi was stunned for a moment, then kowtowed: "Thank you, Chief."

Two disciples stepped forward to help him up, and he did not refuse. When he stood up, his knees were numb from kneeling, and the pain from his severed arm had reached a breaking point. His whole body was trembling, but he held on and did not fall.

By the time I stepped out of the main hall, it was almost dawn.

A sliver of dawn broke over the eastern ridgeline, and a morning breeze carried the scent of pine needles and dew. Lin Qi stopped, tilted his head back, and took a deep breath. The broken ribs throbbed as they expanded in his chest, causing him to wince in pain, but he still managed to finish the breath.

Alive.

He survived.

Behind him, Qiu Qianren's voice came from inside the hall, very soft, as if he were talking to himself.

"Have I really done something wrong all these years?"

Lynch did not turn around.

He knew that from this moment on, his journey had just begun. And on this journey, he would face far more than just Qiu Qianren.