Sun Yong’s gaze swept over the faces of the martial hall disciples. He gave a slight nod and said, “Xu Hong, two more new disciples joined the hall today, didn’t they?”
Eldest Senior Brother Xu Hong hurriedly nodded. “Yes, Master. One joined yesterday, and two today. In these two days, three people have entered the martial hall.”
Sun Yong gave a faint hum and continued, “Since new disciples have entered the hall, I’ll say a few more words.”
His voice was not loud, yet it was like a peal of thunder rolling through the ears of every disciple present.
“What is martial skill? What makes something martial skill?” Sun Yong’s gaze swept over the tense faces of the new disciples, then returned to the composed expressions of the older disciples. His tone abruptly sharpened. “Is it flashy moves? Is it a fine-sounding name? None of that!”
“Remember this—if it can receive an opponent’s strike, break an opponent’s bones, let you survive and kill your way out in a life-and-death fight, then it is good martial skill!”
The moment his words fell, Sun Yong’s figure suddenly moved.
Everyone only felt their vision blur. No one saw how he acted before they heard a muffled boom. His right fist had pressed down onto a large slab of bluestone.
Amid flying fragments of stone, the fist mark had actually sunk half an inch into the surface, cracks spreading outward like a spiderweb for over a zhang—this was precisely the opening stance of Mountain-Crushing Fist.
“Watch carefully!”
Sun Yong withdrew his fist and struck again, the wind from his punch whistling fiercely.
At times, it fell like a heavy hammer, shaking the robes of the disciples nearby until they flapped.
At times, it was like a fierce tiger pouncing on prey, the fist shadow so fast that only an afterimage remained.
Every punch that landed on the stone slab or wooden post was accompanied by the sound of splitting and cracking. Hidden within those simple moves was a ruthless killing force.
“Xu Hong, take the new disciples and temper their qi and blood. Have them hold horse stance and practice the fist frame. The other senior disciples, train your fists properly and break through to the Ming Jin realm as soon as possible—remember, you learn the fist to preserve your life, and even more so to win.”
Sun Yong withdrew his fist and stood still as stone dust trickled down from between his fingers.
“Yes. This disciple will remember Master’s teachings.”
The next moment, all the disciples, including the eldest disciple Xu Hong, bowed in unison and expressed their thanks for their master’s instruction.
The few new disciples who had just entered the martial hall reacted half a beat slower, then hurriedly copied the senior brothers and sisters beside them and bowed as well.
A faint smile appeared on Sun Yong’s face. Clearly, he enjoyed this sort of thing. He nodded and said, “All right, go train. If you have any questions, ask your eldest senior brother. If even your eldest senior brother can’t resolve it, then ask me.”
Yang Jing had listened very seriously just now.
He knew too little about this world.
Although he had received the original owner’s memories, the original owner had never been someone with broad knowledge or experience to begin with.
And what Yang Jing cared about most was still what martial skill in this world was like.
Was it the kind of martial arts from ancient times, leaping over roofs and running along walls?
Or was it the miraculous cultivation methods and powerful martial arts from novels?
Or was it so-called national arts?
Yang Jing had originally felt that it might lean more toward national arts, because in his previous life, he had once seen a passage in an ancient text. The realms divided within national arts also had terms such as Ming Jin and An Jin.
But from the hall master’s words just now, Yang Jing had been deeply shaken and enlightened.
“What is martial skill?” Yang Jing murmured, his eyes gradually brightening. “If it can receive an opponent’s strike, break an opponent’s bones, let you survive and kill your way out in a life-and-death fight, then it is good martial skill!”
Although in the original owner’s memories there were also similar words Sun Yong had once said, dead memories inherited from the original owner were completely different from words personally heard from Sun Yong’s own mouth!
“Perhaps I thought of martial skill too narrowly before, or rather, too rigidly. Martial skill shouldn’t be dead and inflexible. It should be adaptable. Whatever can defeat an opponent, whatever can let me survive—that is good martial skill.”
Yang Jing silently thought this to himself.
Sun Yong clasped his hands behind his back and returned to the inner courtyard.
The disciples in the front courtyard continued tempering their qi and blood and practicing Mountain-Crushing Fist.
Those new disciples who had just entered the martial hall were temporarily being instructed personally by Eldest Senior Brother Xu Hong.
Yang Jing returned to the place where he had been training before and continued practicing Mountain-Crushing Fist. Each punch he threw was accompanied by shouted breaths and the sound of cutting wind.
Although he was still far from mastering Ming Jin, after long-term, frenzied martial training, Yang Jing’s current physical condition was already far stronger than that of an ordinary person.
In a normal fight, he could take on three to five common men alone. If he grasped the opportunity well, he might even expand his advantage further.
He trained until the sky darkened. Only after everyone else had left did Yang Jing, his muscles aching and swollen all over, walk to the square stool by the wall and rest for a moment. Then he put on his clothes and left the martial hall.
Walking along the streets of Chengping Ward, Yang Jing’s thoughts stirred.
The next moment, a panel appeared before his eyes—
[Mountain-Crushing Fist, beginner (78/200)]
After punching for an entire day, he had finally raised the progress of Mountain-Crushing Fist by another two points. He was one step closer to breaking through to minor mastery.
Leaving Chengping Ward, he headed south all the way along Vermilion Bird Avenue until he arrived at the Western Market.
Although the sky had already darkened, the Western Market was still bustling. Gauze lanterns hanging before the shops on both sides of the street had been raised one after another beneath the eaves. Warm light spread along the bluestone road, reflecting off the wine banners and cloth streamers on either side as they swayed slightly.
Yang Jing came to a butcher’s shop whose door panels were still half open. On the chopping board, pork belly and ribs hanging from iron hooks gleamed with oil. Beside them, a wooden basin was piled with chopped pig offal, the bloody smell mingling with the smoky scent of the marketplace.
Yang Jing tightened his grip on the remaining half-string of large cash coins in his sleeve. His gaze swept over the various meats for a moment before finally landing on the pile of darker-colored meat in the corner—that was horse meat. Its grain was coarser than pork, and its edges had already turned slightly black. Clearly, it was a day old.
Martial training consumed qi and blood the most. Ordinary coarse rice and mixed grains could not fill that deficit at all. Only meat, or precious medicines of even greater value, could replenish strength and allow the sinews and bones to be nourished after tempering.
During this period, he had tried quite a few kinds of meat. Pork was mild and could fill the stomach, but it did little to support qi and blood. Beef was powerful, but it was far too expensive. The money in his hands was simply not enough to support him buying too much beef.
It was only a few days ago, when Yang Jing had accidentally tried horse meat, that he discovered horse meat was truly fierce in nature, and also extremely suitable for his martial training. Once stewed and eaten, that deep force could travel straight down his throat to his dantian, making him stronger even when he threw punches the next day. His progress in training was visibly faster by several points.
“Shopkeeper, how much for this horse meat?” Yang Jing asked.
The shopkeeper was wiping the greasy chopping board with a rag. Hearing the voice, he looked up and smiled. “What’s left today. I’ll sell it to you cheap—fifty large cash coins a jin.”
That was nearly half cheaper than fresh meat during the day.
“Give me two jin,” Yang Jing said, inwardly letting out a breath of relief, though his face showed helplessness. “The price has gone up again. A few days ago it was still forty-seven large cash coins per jin.”
War had broken out in Caozhou to the west, and it was said that rebel troops had also appeared in Yizhou to the east. Jizhou was caught in the middle, and every aspect had been affected to no small degree. Inflation and currency depreciation were only part of it.
The shopkeeper swiftly cut the meat, weighed it, tied it up with straw rope, and handed it over.
Yang Jing took it. It felt slightly cool in his hand and carried a faint fishy smell.
Then Yang Jing paid the money, and the large cash coins in his sleeve decreased a little more.
The currency of the Great Qi Dynasty was mainly based on silver taels, but for ordinary commoners, the value of silver was too high. The money used to purchase goods on ordinary days was basically all large cash coins. One tael of silver was equal to seven hundred large cash coins.
Yang Jing did not linger. He turned and quickly merged into the deepening night, continuing south along Vermilion Bird Avenue.
Although Chengping Ward, where the Sun Martial Hall was located, was also in the outer city, it was extremely close to the inner city. The place where Yang Jing usually lived was in Datong Ward, at the very edge of the county town.
Yang Jing was, after all, a martial practitioner. His physical condition was good, and his pace was quick.
A quarter of an hour later, he arrived at the residence he rented in Datong Ward.
It was an ordinary courtyard. On either side of the courtyard were two rows of single-story rooms, five rooms in each row. Yang Jing’s room was the second one from the east on the northern side.
As soon as Yang Jing returned to his room, he immediately began stewing the meat.
The room was narrow. In the corner stood a small clay stove, flames licking the bottom of the clay pot and giving off a faint gurgling sound.
Yang Jing had already placed the horse meat, cut into large chunks, into the clay pot. Clear water covered the surface of the meat. Apart from that, there was only a small pinch of salt grains settled at the bottom of the pot, and no other seasoning.
Yang Jing sat beside the stove, his gaze falling on the rolling surface of the water.
The horse meat was not exactly fresh. After stewing for a long time, that difficult-to-hide bloody smell gradually faded, and instead a rich meaty fragrance slowly spilled out from the clay pot.
Once the meat had stewed until tender, Yang Jing immediately put out the fire. After waiting for the clay pot to cool slightly, he lifted it directly. Without using bowl or chopsticks, he reached in, scooped up a piece, blew on the hot steam, and stuffed it into his mouth.
There was not much flavor—only a bit of saltiness from the salt, and the texture of the horse meat itself.
From time to time, sounds came from the doorway.
Yang Jing knew that those were the other tenants in the courtyard. Having smelled the aroma of meat from his room, they were walking past his door a few extra times to take a few more whiffs.
Yang Jing paid them no attention at all. He ate very seriously, even stretching out his tongue to lick the meat broth in the clay pot clean.
After putting down the clay pot, Yang Jing did not immediately wash it.
He felt a solid warmth in his abdomen slowly spreading out, following his blood through his limbs and bones—this was the unique strength of horse meat. Unlike ordinary meat, which floated on the surface, it sank deep into the flesh and muscles, like a handful of warm fire slowly simmering his sinews and bones.
A moment later, he rose and stood still, sinking his waist and gathering his breath. His fists slowly clenched.
With a low shout, the opening stance of Mountain-Crushing Fist unfolded, and the wind from his fist brought with it the sound of splitting air.
As the fierce and forceful fist momentum swung out, it shook the window paper until it rustled softly. Within his body, the current of heat stimulated by the horse meat seemed to be pulled by this fist force and suddenly surged up.
Yang Jing practiced for more than another hour in one stretch. Only when he felt fatigue coming from his body did he withdraw his stance and stop.
With a thought, the panel appeared before his eyes—
[Mountain-Crushing Fist, beginner (79/200)]
Seeing that his progress had risen again, Yang Jing could not help grinning.