Shooting the Eagle: Starting from Iron Palm Peak

Heading northeast from Iron Palm Peak, the rice paddies on both sides of the official road had just been harvested. Occasionally, one or two farmers would squat on the bare ridges, glancing up at Lin Qi before looking down again.

Lin Qi rode slowly, not in a hurry. Jinghu Altar was northeast of Iron Palm Peak, a day's journey by horseback. He could set off at dawn and arrive by afternoon. With plenty of time, he could take this opportunity to familiarize himself with the Iron Palm Clan's influence in the surrounding area.

Every ten miles or so along the way, there was a small teahouse by the roadside. These were the Iron Palm Gang's sentries, and the teahouse owners were mostly relatives of the gang's members, responsible for relaying messages and receiving passing gang members. Lin Qi stopped at the first teahouse and drank a bowl of tea. The owner glanced at his waist tag, didn't ask any questions, and filled a pot of water for him to take away.

The second teahouse was located at a fork in the road, consisting of three thatched huts with a faded signboard at the entrance. When Lin Qi dismounted, there was already one person sitting inside.

The man was in his thirties, dressed in a gray cloth short coat, with a single-edged sword at his waist. He was slowly sipping tea on a bowl on the table. When he saw Lin Qi enter, he looked up and sized him up, his gaze lingering briefly on Lin Qi's waist badge before moving away.

Lynch sat down at another table and ordered a bowl of tea.

"Young man," the man suddenly spoke, "from the Iron Palm Gang?"

Lin Qi felt a chill run down his spine, but remained outwardly calm: "Big brother has a good eye."

"The iron palm is engraved on my waist tag, who can't see it?" The man smiled. "Don't be nervous, I'm not a bad guy. My surname is Lu, and my given name is Ming. I'm a wandering swordsman."

"Lin Qi." Lin Qi gave his name without saying anything more.

Lu Ming picked up his teacup and took another sip, then casually asked, "Brother Lin, where are you headed?"

"work."

"Oh." Lu Ming didn't press further, put down his teacup, and stood up. "Then I won't bother you any longer. Until we meet again."

He tossed down a few coins for tea, strode out of the teahouse, mounted his horse, and headed in the other direction of the fork in the road.

Lin Qi watched his figure disappear at the end of the official road, feeling that the man was a bit strange, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. After finishing his tea, he mounted his horse and continued on his way.

After walking for about an hour, the terrain on both sides of the official road began to rise and fall, the rice paddies turned into low hills, and there were more trees along the roadside. Lin Qi remembered that in Ah Qi's memory, this section of the road was not peaceful, and bandits occasionally appeared, but they were just petty thieves, and the disciples of the Iron Palm Gang generally would not provoke them when they passed by.

As he was thinking, three people suddenly jumped out of the bushes by the roadside ahead.

The three were all burly men, dressed in tattered clothes of various colors, and carrying knives. The leader, a man with a fierce face, stood in the middle of the road, holding a large, menacing-looking knife, and shouted at the top of his lungs, "This mountain is mine, these trees are mine—"

Lin Qi reined in his horse, looked at them, and couldn't help but laugh. This was a scene he had seen countless times in novels and television shows, but encountering it in person felt somewhat unreal.

"What are you laughing at?" the man roared. "Leave your horse and your money, and I'll spare your life!"

Two other burly men flanked them from the left and right, their knives flashing.

Lin Qi dismounted and tied the reins to a tree by the roadside. He looked at his palms—after more than a month of being boiled and forced to expel the poison, the skin on his hands had become hard and tough, with a faint bluish-green hue, looking as if it were plated with a thin layer of iron in the sunlight.

"You little brat, are you deaf?" The leader of the men walked over, knife in hand. "Didn't you hear me?"

Lynch didn't answer. He took a step forward.

Seeing that he refused to submit, the man roared and brought his broadsword down on his head. The blade was fierce and whistled through the air.

Lin Qi didn't rush to make a move. He stared into the man's eyes, his shoulders, and the hand holding the knife.

"Power precedes the palm"—this was the first sentence Qiu Qianren taught him. Superior martial arts don't wait for the opponent to strike before reacting; rather, they predict where and how the opponent will strike before they even make their move. Seeing something and then reacting is too slow; one must train to the point where one knows without looking.

The moment the man raised his knife, Lin Qi already knew where the knife would land—his left shoulder.

Because the man's right shoulder slightly retreated when he raised the knife, shifting his weight to his left foot, which was a typical precursor to a chop to the left shoulder.

Lynch didn't dodge. He stepped forward to meet the blade.

The man swung his sword down, the blade still half a foot away from Lin Qi's left shoulder, while Lin Qi's right palm was already at his chest.

The power originates in the palm.

It wasn't a case of striking first after being struck later; it was striking simultaneously. The instant his opponent drew his blade, Lin Qi also struck with his palm. The blade hadn't even arrived yet, but his palm had already reached it. It wasn't that Lin Qi's palm was faster, but rather that his judgment was earlier—he had already made his move while his opponent was still gathering his strength.

This palm strike used the "Mountain Pushing Stance." The heel of the palm pressed against the man's chest, and with a slight twist of the wrist, a spiraling force erupted. It wasn't about pushing the man away, but about sending the force inside, drilling in like a drill.

The man felt as if he had been stabbed in the chest with a red-hot iron rod. He screamed and flew backward more than ten feet before crashing heavily to the ground. The ghost-head broadsword flew out of his hand and clattered into a tree trunk by the roadside, its blade vibrating and humming.

He struggled to get up, only to find that the front of his shirt was torn to shreds, revealing a purplish-red handprint. The handprint was deeply embedded in his flesh, and the surrounding skin was a bluish-purple, as if he had been hit by a hammer.

The man looked down at the palm print on his chest, his face turned deathly pale, and his lips trembled as he couldn't utter a word.

The other two burly men were terrified by this scene, and their hands holding the knives were trembling.

Lin Qi ignored it. He looked down at his palms—they were slightly warm, and there wasn't even a red mark on his skin.

He was recalling the palm strike he had just received.

That palm strike was delivered the instant the man raised his knife. Although it was faster than his opponent's, there was still a process of "judgment" involved. A true master doesn't need to judge; before the opponent's intentions are even formed, their palm has already struck.

That's a level he can't reach yet.

The other two burly men exchanged a glance, shouted simultaneously, and charged forward from the left and right. The one on the left slashed at Lynch's shoulder with a knife, while the one on the right stabbed him in the ribs.

This time, Lynch didn't wait for them to make a move. He acted.

He took a step forward, his body rising like a fallen leaf in the wind, not to dodge, but to meet the blade of the man on his left. The man had just raised his knife when Lin Qi was already beside him, his left palm resting on his wrist—not a slap, but a pull, gently guiding the man's force.

The man felt as if his knife was being sucked in by something, veering uncontrollably to the right. With a clang, it collided with the knife thrusting from the right, the two knives tangling together, sparks flying. Both men cried out in alarm and scrambled backward.

Lynch didn't chase after him. He stood still, his breathing steady.

From the start to the finish, it took three breaths.

The two burly men hurriedly separated and saw their elder brother lying on the ground, with a deep palm print on his chest, which was bruised and purple. The two men were so frightened that their legs went weak and they knelt down on the ground.

"Grandpa, spare me! Grandpa, spare me!"

Lin Qi walked over to the man, squatted down, and examined his injuries. Although the palm print on his chest was shocking, the bones were not broken, and his internal organs were not seriously damaged—he had only used 50% of his strength in that palm strike, controlling it perfectly.

The man was panting heavily, his eyes filled with fear as he looked at Lin Qi.

"Go back and tell your accomplices," Lin Qi stood up, "the Iron Palm Gang's path is not one you can stop."

"Yes, yes, I remember, I remember!" The man got up and scrambled into the woods, the other two following behind, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

Lin Qi dusted off his hands, untied the reins, and mounted his horse.

He looked down at his palms; the bluish-green sheen had faded, returning to their normal flesh color. Those two moves had given him a deeper understanding of "force precedes the palm"—not about speed, but about judgment. You know your opponent's intentions before they materialize into action. The earlier you know, the more composed you can be.

This is the essence of superior martial arts.

He urged his horse to continue on its way.

In the afternoon, he finally arrived at Jinghu Altar.

The Jinghu Altar was built on a small hill, surrounded by stone walls, with two disciples carrying swords standing at the entrance. Lin Qi showed his waist token, announced his purpose, one disciple went in to inform him, and the other led him into the courtyard.

The altar master, Zhao Tieshan, was a burly man in his forties with a full beard and large hands like two palm-leaf fans. He was practicing his martial arts in the courtyard, shirtless, revealing his muscular chest and abdomen, and holding a stone lock in each hand, flipping it up and down.

"Master, people from Iron Palm Peak have arrived," a disciple reported.

Zhao Tieshan put down the stone lock, turned around, saw Lin Qi, and grinned: "You're the gang leader's newest disciple?"

Lin Qi clasped his hands in greeting: "Disciple Lin Qi greets Altar Master Zhao."

Zhao Tieshan looked him up and down, his gaze lingering on his hands for a moment before he nodded: "Where's the gang leader's letter?"

Lin Qi took the letter from his pocket and handed it over with both hands. Zhao Tieshan took the letter, opened it, glanced at it, frowned slightly, and then relaxed.

"Go back and tell the gang leader I received the letter." Zhao Tieshan tucked the letter into his pocket. "You've come all this way, you must be tired. Stay and have a meal before you go."

"Thank you, Master Zhao."

Zhao Tieshan had a meal prepared; although not lavish, the portions were generous. Lin Qi was indeed hungry and ate with relish. Zhao Tieshan sat opposite him, drinking and observing him.

"You're the first new disciple the gang leader has accepted," Zhao Tieshan said. "Which branch were you in before?"

"I am a third-generation disciple, without a temple. I used to live in a secluded courtyard in the back mountain."

Zhao Tieshan raised an eyebrow: "A third-generation disciple? What made the gang leader decide to take you in?"

Lin Qi knew there was no malice in those words, only genuine curiosity. He thought for a moment and said, "I said something in the main hall that the leader thought made sense, so he accepted me as his disciple."

"What did you say?"

Lin Qi hesitated for a moment, but still said, "This disciple said that the Iron Palm Clan has changed over the years, and the people around the Clan Leader are not so good."

Zhao Tieshan paused for a moment while holding the wine bowl, then burst into laughter.

"Interesting!" He downed the wine in his bowl in one gulp. "You've got some nerve. Han Duanyue's people have certainly given you a hard time, haven't they?"

Lin Qi smiled wryly: "It's alright, I can still manage for now."

"Just handle it." Zhao Tieshan put down his wine bowl, his expression turning serious. "I know Han Duanyue; he's petty and holds grudges. You beat up his nephew and became the gang leader's personal disciple; he's not going to let you off the hook. If you need any help in the future, feel free to come to me."

Lin Qi's heart skipped a beat. Zhao Tieshan was the leader of the Jinghu Altar and a powerful figure in the Iron Palm Clan. The fact that he was willing to say this meant that he was also dissatisfied with Han Duanyue.

"Thank you, Master Zhao."

After finishing his meal, Lin Qi said goodbye and left. Zhao Tieshan saw him to the door and patted him on the shoulder: "Take care on your way."

Lin Qi mounted his horse and returned the way he came.

He didn't encounter any more bandits on the way back. He rested at a teahouse again, drank a bowl of tea, and chatted with the owner for a bit. The owner said that the area had been rather unsettled lately, with people from the Jin Kingdom frequently appearing, seemingly looking for something.

Lin Qi was wary, but didn't ask any further questions.

As dusk fell, Iron Palm Peak came into view. Twilight enveloped the mountain, and it was already dark above the mountainside, with only the summit still retaining a sliver of the setting sun's afterglow.

When Lin Qi went up the mountain, he met Qiu Qianren at the entrance of the stone building.

"Has the letter been delivered?"

"It's been delivered. Master Zhao said he received the letter." Lin Qi paused, "Master Zhao also said that if I need any help in the future, I can go to him."

Qiu Qianren nodded without saying anything more.

"Did you run into trouble on the way?" Qiu Qianren suddenly asked.

Lin Qi was taken aback: "How did Master know?"

"There's blood on your clothes, but it's not yours." Qiu Qianren's gaze fell on Lin Qi's palm. "There are scratches on the edge of your palm. Did you fight?"

"A few bandits," Lin Qi said. "My disciple injured the leader with 'Mountain Push'."

"How did you hit him?"

Lin Qi recounted the scene—observing the opponent's shift in center of gravity when raising the knife, predicting the landing point in advance, and striking with his palm against the blade, the force preceding the palm strike.

After listening, Qiu Qianren remained silent for a moment.

"You've achieved 'force precedes the palm,' but you're still at the 'seeing' stage," Qiu Qianren said. "A true master doesn't judge based on seeing the opponent's movements, but on seeing their intentions. Seeing it with your eyes is already half a beat too late."

He raised his right hand, palm outstretched, and remained motionless.

"Look at my palm, can you tell which direction I'm going to strike?"

Lynch stared at his palm for a long time, but couldn't see any signs.

Qiu Qianren flicked his wrist, his palm like a knife, slashing towards Lin Qi's left shoulder. The edge of his palm stopped half an inch from Lin Qi's shoulder, but the force he generated was like a thin knife, cutting Lin Qi's cheek painfully.

"This is what 'power precedes the palm' truly means." Qiu Qianren withdrew his palm. "Before my intentions materialize into action, you can't see anything. By the time I strike, it's too late for you to react."

Lin Qi seemed to be deep in thought.

"The bandits you encountered today were too weak in martial arts; you could win by judging them. But when you encounter a true master in the future, before you can even make a judgment, their palm will already be on your body," Qiu Qianren said. "Go back and think it over carefully. Tomorrow at dawn, practice your skills as usual."

"Yes."

Lin Qi returned to the side courtyard, washed his face with water, sat on the bed, and began to circulate his internal energy. The internal energy of the Iron Bone Technique flowed slowly through his meridians, and the internal energy in his dantian became more solid than before he set off.

He opened his eyes and looked at the moonlight outside the window.

Today was his first time going out on business alone, and also his first time venturing into the martial world since his rebirth. Although it was just delivering a letter, and although he only encountered a few incompetent bandits along the way, it made him truly feel the power of Iron Palm Kung Fu in actual combat—not brute force, but judgment; not striking after the opponent, but striking first.

The power originates in the palm.

He closed his eyes and repeatedly rehearsed the palm strike from earlier that day in his mind, trying to find that feeling of "knowing without looking".

The moonlight outside the window grew brighter and brighter, shining on his slightly reddened palms.