Chapter 88: An Encounter with a Master

These young men were all around twenty years old.

They had numerous iron rings hanging from their arms, each weighing about two or three jin. With every ounce of strength they could muster, some of them turned bright red in the face. Holding a horse stance, their legs trembled as if they were on the verge of collapse.

Su Jie knew that this “Iron Wire Fist” was an essential training method within Southern-style martial arts. It greatly helped in building strength and originally came from Hung Gar. In the history of Southern martial arts, it was first passed on by the Monk Jueyin to “Iron Bridge Three (Leung Kwan),” who taught it to Lam Fook-sing, then to Wong Fei-hung, and later to “Lam Sai-wing.” Eventually, it was documented and widely promoted.

Later on, styles like Wing Chun and other Southern fists also adopted iron rings to train “bridge power.”

In Southern styles, the arms are referred to as “bridges.”

This kind of training involves both internal and external hardening.

Because the iron rings clang against each other, the wrists, skin, and underlying tendons and bones are constantly jarred. Over time, this makes the arms as tough as iron. Just a light clash during a fight can leave the opponent overwhelmed.

In many villages throughout the South, martial arts are deeply rooted in the culture and have even blended into lion dancing, Cantonese opera, and other artistic traditions.

To Su Jie’s surprise, there were still young people practicing here in this manor.

This was the ancestral estate of the Xu family. At the center stood a grand courtyard called the “Four Golden Points,” and surrounding it were buildings that appeared to all belong to the Xu clan—clearly a tightly-knit family compound.

In southern China, it’s common for extended families to live in clusters—a habit developed during the turbulent days of the past.

“This training may be tough now, but one day you’ll see its benefits,” said the martial arts instructor, a middle-aged man wearing a pitch-black, button-up changshan. He had a long beard, held a teapot in one hand, and a stick in the other. Whenever a young man slacked off, he lashed out without hesitation. “You’re all from this village. After the New Year, our company is expanding abroad. If you don’t train properly, you might just die out there. Doing business in the Middle East or Africa isn’t as safe as being in China. Those places are crawling with bandits.”

‘I see,’ Su Jie thought to himself. The Xu family’s business had clearly extended overseas, particularly in volatile regions where, while opportunities abound, danger is never far behind.

Su Jie had once read online about Chinese folks running restaurants in Iraq, serving American soldiers who’d even roll up in tanks. Some would pay with expensive military equipment. Within a year, these restaurant owners had made millions. But the risk was enormous—gunfights and ambushes were common.

For ordinary people raised in peaceful modern China, such environments are unimaginable.

Doing business in war zones presents immense opportunity—especially in material trade—but the price is your life on the line.

The Xu family was evidently pushing hard into foreign markets and had done quite well in international trade. They now needed young men as security personnel, much like the armed escorts of old martial arts courier agencies.

And these security staff had to be recruited locally—people they knew and trusted. Trust is everything in such environments; a stranger might turn on you, and in a war zone, death could come at any moment.

Su Jie watched for a while and realized the instructor was no average teacher. His moves were swift as wind, thunderous in force, crashing like waves, and rolling like boulders. His strikes were powerful and deep, completely different from the short, compact nature typical of Southern fists. There was even a hint of the open, expansive style found in Northern martial arts.

Yet all his movements were clearly rooted in Southern-style techniques.

This was someone who had mastered the art and incorporated elements from many schools.

“In Southern-style martial arts, hatred is the most important thing,” the instructor said. “When you practice, imagine a man in front of you who killed your parents, violated your wife and daughters, mocked you, humiliated you, and trampled on you. You must kill him. Use the techniques you’ve learned to kill him. Only by cultivating this hatred will your skills grow rapidly. Only when driven by revenge can a person truly dedicate themselves fully to something.”

Su Jie couldn’t hold back: “The hatred in Southern-style martial arts is about national hatred, not personal vendetta. Training with personal revenge may improve your skills quickly, but it narrows the heart and warps the mind. You’ll never reach the realm of a true master.”

He knew it was rude to interrupt someone’s teaching—especially among old-school martial arts instructors, it could be seen as an affront worthy of a duel.

But times had changed, and Su Jie genuinely didn’t want to see martial arts veer away from their greater purpose.

“Who the hell are you, brat? You’ve been watching this whole time and I didn’t say a word. Now you dare spout nonsense?”

The instructor was enraged—his voice thundered.

Whoosh!

With that shout, the instructor was already in front of Su Jie, his fist thrusting toward Su Jie’s chest like a spear or an arrow.

Though he’d started out four or five meters away, with several steps in between, he used some unknown footwork, bounding forward in a few steps like a leaping gazelle, and appeared before Su Jie almost instantly.

That level of movement skill would put him among the elite even in parkour.

Su Jie, however, was no slouch. In the blink of an eye, he compressed his body, folding his torso and raising a knee like a shield to block his whole body—then charged forward.

Most people faced with an attack instinctively backpedal, dodge, or block. Even pro fighters do the same. But Su Jie, through countless bouts, psychological conditioning, and spiritual discipline, had eliminated the urge to retreat. His only instinct was to charge forward.

He imagined himself a soldier “offering his life for his country, ready to die without hesitation.”

He saw himself as a hoe and pickaxe—a humble but unstoppable force.

With this mindset, the instructor felt his attack interrupted before reaching full power. Suddenly, a five-fingered palm came down like a mountain, bearing down on him.

He was stunned.

He’d assumed Su Jie was just another overconfident youth and meant only to give him a scare. He didn’t expect to be met with such a ferocious response.

In that critical moment, the instructor abruptly pulled back, retreating.

While falling back, he struck again with a punch and a kick to break Su Jie’s momentum.

But Su Jie didn’t pursue. He’d been defending himself all along, with no intent to spar. The opponent’s fierce aggression had simply triggered a reflexive “Hoe Strike” counter.

“My apologies,” Su Jie said, standing up. “I spoke out of turn.”

“Was that Xin Yi Ba (Heart Intent Fist)?” The instructor stood firm, bracing himself in case Su Jie charged again.

From that brief exchange, he could already tell Su Jie was no ordinary fighter.

That earlier triple-step, chest-punching strike was called “Black Tiger Steals the Heart”—a seemingly basic move but executed with the force of tiger and crane, light yet deadly. It was his signature technique, rarely countered when used by surprise.

“Black Tiger Steals the Heart” may look simple, but that’s what makes it effective—and profound.

Su Jie’s “Hoe Strike Technique” was similar—an evolved form of a farmer’s digging posture.

“What just happened?” the young men whispered among themselves, confused.

They hadn’t seen the exchange clearly—just their master launching an attack and suddenly retreating.

They all knew “Black Tiger Steals the Heart”—every disciple had felt its bite. No one had ever dodged it.

But now, a young man had seemingly blocked it?

“What are you staring at? Get back to training!”

Whap! Whap! Whap!

The instructor lashed out with his stick, driving them back into formation.

Then he turned to Su Jie. “Hey, kid. Let’s have a chat.”

“Sure,” Su Jie nodded, still bowing repeatedly. “I’m really sorry for earlier.”

His repeated apologies left the instructor with no room to stay angry.

“Alright, let’s let it go. It’s not a big deal,” the instructor said. “Actually, you were right earlier. The ‘hatred’ in Southern fists should be national hatred. But you have to understand—these kids were raised in good times. They have no concept of national tragedy or family annihilation. I haven’t even personally felt that kind of loss. Without real experience, it’s hard to push their martial practice to the psychological limit. That’s why I can only teach them to focus on personal hatred—something they can actually understand. They’re heading abroad after New Year. If they don’t toughen up fast, they’ll suffer for it.”

“I see now,” Su Jie nodded. He hadn’t thought of that angle.

“And as for you,” the instructor continued, “from our brief exchange, I could tell—you’re practicing Xing Yi. You’ve developed a distinct intention—there’s a flavor of reckless charge in it. But you’re missing something. I bet you’ve never actually experienced charging forward through real gunfire and explosions. That kind of courage has a rawness that psychological tricks can’t replicate. You’ve been brainwashing yourself—convincing yourself it’s real. But suggestion is still just suggestion.”

“If your ‘Hoe Strike’ had been truly forged in the fire of real combat, there’d have been no way for me to escape.”

Su Jie nodded again.

Ever since he discovered the spirit behind his own martial path—“The rivers and mountains reside in my heart; one crow of the rooster lights up the world”—he’d been using intense psychological suggestion during practice. His skills had improved rapidly as a result.

But in the end, suggestion isn’t the same as experience.

He couldn’t truly feel the righteous grandeur of those who had once sacrificed everything for a broken nation.

“Great times make great people,” Su Jie said quietly.

“Exactly. A new era demands a new spirit.” The instructor and Su Jie seemed to be having a Zen-like exchange that only the two of them could understand.

“What’s your name, Master? I’m Su Jie,” he asked. He hadn’t expected to meet such a formidable figure here. If they really fought, who would win was uncertain. But in terms of understanding martial arts, this master was his equal.

“I’m Huang Dingyi,” the instructor said, taking out his phone. “Let’s add each other. I’ve got a martial arts school in G City—and an app for training. You should download it.”