Master of Chinese Martial Arts: I Can Steal the Skills of a Grandmaster from the Republic of China E

Chapter 112 A Day in the Life of Grandmasters

In the backyard of the Gong family mansion, the winter plum blossoms had not yet bloomed, and the chill of winter had already settled.

Gong Baotian, wearing a worn gray squirrel fur vest, sat on a stone bench, holding a warm, white jade chess piece in his hand.

Sitting opposite him was Zhang Zhankui, the chief martial arts instructor of the Tianjin Police Department. At that moment, he was looking at the chessboard with a furrowed brow.

Gong Baotian placed a piece on the board and said, "A few days ago, Zhou went to Yuntian Temple and passed on a message through Daoist Qingxu. You know what it said. He's risking his life on the front lines; we can't let him be discouraged by these old bones."

Zhang Zhankui chuckled, picked up his rough porcelain teacup, and took a large gulp: "This kid, he's the one who rushes ahead, but he's left us to clean up the mess. Where's the list?"

Gong Baotian took out a folded piece of rough-edged paper from his sleeve, unfolded it, and on it were a dozen or so place names, the ink still fresh: "These places are the dens of collusion between the charity and the heretics that the disciples of various families have discovered in the past few days through open and covert investigations."

Opium dens, gambling dens, underground kilns, and slush funds—we usually keep them in the dark, lest we alert them. But today, we'll uproot them completely.

Zhang Zhankui took the list, glanced at it, and nodded: "I'll handle the official matters. I have a few old subordinates in the police department who can still put in a good word. Today's routine inspection will be fine."

Nobody stopped them.

"more than."

Gong Baotian raised his eyes, his gaze as deep as an ancient well. "Master Ye has already persuaded the Jingwu Association and his fellow Southern Fist practitioners. Guo Zhen's former subordinates are also willing to lend a hand."

Today, the martial arts community of Tianjin will show off their skills and let those hiding in the sewers know what's what—

He tapped his finger lightly on the chessboard.

"Who really calls the shots in Tianjin?"

At 11:00 AM, thunder rumbled throughout Tianjin.

Under the carved gate tower and the golden signboard of Fushou Hall, two short-sleeved men were leaning against the gateposts, yawning.

Suddenly, a blur appeared before my eyes, and a figure in a green robe was already close by.

Ip Man.

He didn't say anything, but simply raised his hand and gently pressed the Jianjing acupoint on the left side of the man's body. The man immediately collapsed to the ground, his body going numb and weak.

Just as the man on the right pulled out the dagger from his waist, Ip Man's right hand was already on his wrist, with a flick and a push.

"Click."

The wrist bone was dislocated, and the dagger clattered to the ground.

Ip Man stepped inside, where the air was thick with smoke, startling the smokers on the dozen or so opium couches.

"Someone come here!"

The shopkeeper behind the counter had barely uttered half a call when Ip Man flicked his foot, sending a bench flying that landed right in front of the shopkeeper, sending splinters flying everywhere.

"Clear the area."

Ip Man said calmly, "Those who are not involved, leave immediately. Those from the charity, stay."

Seven or eight guards rushed out from the back hall, wielding iron rulers and clubs. Ip Man stepped forward, his movements as fluid as a fish, cutting into the crowd.

Wing Chun's short bridge technique delivers a powerful, close-range attack.

"Bang, crack, thud!"

The dull thuds of fists striking flesh continued. In just five or six breaths, a group of people lay sprawled on the ground, groaning and writhing.

Ip Man walked up to the pale-faced shopkeeper, took out an official document stamped with the police department's seal from his pocket, and unfolded it.

"Suspected of selling prohibited tobacco and harboring fugitives, the area has been sealed off."

He hesitated for a moment, then added, "By order of Chief Instructor Zhang Zhankui."

At the side door, a bell rang, and two human puppets burst through the curtain.

Behind the door, several figures were still moving about.

Almost simultaneously, in the back alley of the Inoue Trading Company warehouse.

Gong Er, dressed in a dark green outfit, stood at the entrance of the alley.

Behind her, six members of the Gong family stood in a row, each holding a white waxwood staff that reached their eyebrows, blocking her way.

Deep in the alley, the iron gate was tightly shut. Through the crack in the gate, one could hear frantic moving and low growls coming from inside.

"Smash it open."

Gong Er said.

A member of the Gong family stepped forward in response, exhaled, and wielded a rod with the force of a venomous dragon emerging from its lair. With a muffled thud, the thick bolt snapped in two.

Five people rushed out of the door, all with bloodshot eyes, bulging muscles, and drool at the corners of their mouths. They were drugged people, fearless of death.

Gong Er's figure floated, and she was already in front of the medicine man in front of her.

The medicine man roared and punched down with such force that it could shatter a monument.

Gong Er neither dodged nor avoided; her left hand moved like a flower, stroking and pressing on that thick wrist.

With a series of soft "crackling" sounds, the joints of the drug-using man's entire arm dislocated like firecrackers, hanging limply.

The excruciating pain brought him back to his senses, and fear flashed in his eyes.

Gong Er pointed her right hand at his Tanzhong acupoint.

The person who had been drugged froze and fell straight backward.

The remaining four drug users roared and pounced.

Gong Er stepped out with the Bagua pattern, his figure moving like a ghost in the narrow alley. With each pause, someone would fall down.

Whether her joints were dislocated or her acupoints were sealed, it was all done swiftly and decisively, and no one could get within three feet of her.

Seeing that things were going badly, the last drug user let out a wild howl, pulled out a pistol from his pocket, and pointed it at Gong Er with trembling hands.

"Bang!"

Gunshots.

Gong Er's shoulders trembled slightly. On her moon-white outfit, the fabric creased inwards at the shoulder.

But there was no blood.

All I could see was a very subtle twitch and twitch in the muscles of her shoulder.

"bite."

A twisted and deformed bullet was squeezed out from a tear in the clothing, landed on the ground, rolled twice, and was still warm.

The man who was being treated was stunned.

Gong Er was already in front of him, and her fingertips gently brushed against his Adam's apple.

The drugged man's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the ground.

At the same moment, at the Golden Rooster Wharf private vault.

Zhang Zhankui personally led the team.

He was dressed in a police uniform, followed by more than 20 armed Chinese police officers and seven or eight students from the military academy he had personally trained.

The iron gate to the private vault was tightly closed.

The guard leader was a burly man with a blue face, who had once been a notorious bandit. Looking at Zhang Zhankui, his face twitched with rage: "Chief Instructor Zhang, what is this—"

Zhang Zhankui's voice boomed: "I'm here to investigate. Open the gate."

The blue-faced man gritted his teeth: "This is a legitimate business; we have a concession license—"

Before he could finish speaking, Zhang Zhankui stepped forward.

The blue bricks on the ground trembled slightly.

He raised his right hand, spread his five fingers, and placed his large, fan-like hand on the iron-clad wooden door.

"Click, creak, bang"

No one could see how much force he used, but a series of cracking sounds could be heard from inside the door, from the bolt, latch, and latch.

"boom!"

Two heavy doors swung open with a loud thud.

The pale-faced man was ashen-faced, and the thugs behind him were trembling as they gripped their knives.

Zhang Zhankui withdrew his hand, loosened his fingers one by one, and moved his wrist.

In him, the term "transformation of strength" means overwhelming all techniques with sheer force, making him indestructible.

He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the piles of chests, medicinal herbs, and several earthenware urns covered with talismans.

"Number them one by one, and take them all away."

The Chinese constables responded swiftly and followed the rules.

News of the raids on various outposts reached the charity's liaison office, located in the basement of a foreign firm in the British concession, almost simultaneously.

The on-duty dispatcher today was Manager Jin San, who was sweating profusely, gripping the receiver in one hand and flipping through the phone book in the other, his voice shrill: "Fu Shou Tang has been raided! Ip Man personally led the operation!"

"Warehouse No. 3 at the dock has fallen! Zhang Zhankui has brought the police!"

"At the gambling dens in Xigu—Gong Er has taken them all down!"

"How dare they?! Isn't today the River God Festival?! Why would the police cooperate with them?!"

"I don't know—Zhang Zhankui personally intervened, and all the paperwork was in order—our people planted couldn't stop him at all!"

"Where's the leader?! Inform the leader immediately!"

"Unable to contact the leader; he's been missing since this morning—"

Manager Jin San slumped in his chair, his glasses slipping down to the tip of his nose.

The receiver slipped from his hand, dangling precariously from the edge of the table, with anxious "Feed? Feed?" sounds coming from it.

He looked at the map of Tianjin on the wall, which marked various outposts and manpower distributions. At this moment, seven or eight points had been crossed out with a red pen.

The silver dollars he had spent bribing officials over the years, the banquets he had held to smooth things over, and the leader's eyes, which never revealed any emotion, flashed through his mind.

Years of planning and meticulous arrangements, both overt and covert, were torn to shreds in less than an hour by this sudden, precise, and ruthless attack.

This was a premeditated, organized, and official-backed purge.

Who was behind this?

"withdraw!"

He hoarsely gave the order, "Everyone who can move, evacuate immediately! Destroy the account books! Anything you can't take—burn it!"

The basement was thrown into chaos, filled with the sounds of tearing paper, smashing objects, and panicked footsteps.

They fled in panic under the sunlight like a group of startled mice, not even having time to think about how the fire could have burned so perfectly and so fiercely.