A Life of Attributes Starting as a Nobleman in the Republic of China Era

The February wind, carrying a sky full of snow, howled through the city of Shanghai.

The temporary arena set up at the People's Center was surrounded by heavy canvas curtains, keeping out the wind and snow.

The arena, several meters square, was packed with people, three layers deep. In the viewing platform in the very center of the arena sat Li Jinglin, Sun Congzhou, Ren Zhan, as well as Smith, Zhao Yuping, Richard, Li Zuyi, Zhang Xiaolin, Deng Zhuosheng, Ma Jun, Lü Mai, and other dignitaries.

These people sat upright or leaned back, each with a different expression. Li Jinglin expressionlessly twirled the sandalwood prayer beads in his hand, Sun Congzhou half-closed his eyes as if dozing, while the foreigner Smith seemed quite interested, frequently glancing at the audience through his binoculars. Ren Zhan turned to Zhang Xiaolin and whispered a few words, the latter nodding repeatedly with an inscrutable smile on his face.

At each of the four corners of the arena, a brazier of charcoal burned, its light reflecting off the curtains and creating an almost eerie warmth throughout the arena. The crackling of the charcoal fires was occasionally punctuated by the distant howling of wind and snow, like the city's low growl.

"It's almost time." Zhao Yuping glanced at his pocket watch and nodded slightly to the servant behind him.

The attendant strode to the front of the stage, and the gong rang out with a loud "bang," instantly silencing the noisy crowd.

Zhao Yuping stood up and walked to the center of the stage, clearing his throat: "Gentlemen, the rules for today's martial arts competition are simple—after signing a life-or-death contract, everyone on stage will be judged solely on skill, regardless of background. It will be best two out of three rounds, and the winner will receive the title of 'Shanghai's Number One Martial Artist' and a prize of ten thousand silver dollars."

A stir immediately broke out in the audience. Ten thousand silver dollars, in those turbulent years, was enough to make anyone's heart tremble.

"In the first match, Master Han Tieshan from Tianjin will face off against the local representative, 'Little Divine Whip' Shen Qing."

As the words fell, the curtain on the left side of the arena was lifted, and a robust man in his thirties walked in. He wore a short black tunic and a belt around his waist. His steps were steady, and his temples were slightly bulging, clearly indicating that he was an expert in both internal and external martial arts. This was Han Tieshan, the direct descendant of the Han family's Tongbei Quan style from Tianjin.

The curtain on the right side moved, but no one came out for a long time. Just as everyone was wondering, a slender whip shadow silently emerged from the gap in the curtain and wrapped around the pillar. Then, a gray shadow darted out like a swallow, somersaulted in mid-air, and landed lightly on the stage.

He was a young man in his early twenties, thin and with delicate features that made him look more like a bookish young master than a boxer. He held a nine-section steel whip in his right hand, the end of which dragged on the ground, making a soft rustling sound.

"Shen Qing—" someone shouted from below the stage, followed by a few scattered cheers.

Shen Qing seemed not to hear, his eyes fixed on Han Tieshan opposite him, a slight smile playing on his lips, a hint of youthful arrogance mixed with an indescribable coldness.

Han Tieshan clasped his hands in a fist and said, "Master Shen, please."

Shen Qing did not return the greeting. With a flick of his wrist, the nine-section steel whip shot out like a snake from its hole, heading straight for Han Tieshan's face with a sharp whistle.

So fast!

On the viewing platform, Sun Congzhou, who had been half-asleep, suddenly opened his eyes.

Han Tieshan's pupils contracted slightly, but his feet did not move an inch.

Having practiced Tongbei Quan for twenty years, he was long past the age of being intimidated by moves. The instant the steel whip arrived with the wind, his right shoulder slumped slightly, and his entire arm seemed to suddenly lose its bones, limply swinging to the side, actually sliding under the tip of the whip. This was the "Snake Swimming" movement in Tongbei Quan, which looked soft and powerless, but actually contained hidden strength in the shoulder blade, ready to counterattack at any moment.

The whip tip grazed his earlobe, the resulting gust of air snapping off a few strands of hair, which floated gently to the ground.

Shen Qing's whip missed, but he wasn't worried. With a flick of his wrist, the steel whip bent in mid-air, seemingly turning back to bite like a living creature. The most difficult aspect of a nine-section whip is its ability to change direction. Ordinary martial artists, once they've used up all their strength, can't retract it. But in Shen Qing's hands, the whip seemed to become a tentacle extending from his body, striking wherever he pointed, at will.

Those in the audience who knew their stuff were already whispering among themselves.

"This young man has some skills."

"That's right. Look at how he holds the whip. His thumb is hooked on the middle joint. This is an ancient method of the Northern School of Whip Technique. Not many people know it nowadays."

"I heard he's the grandson of 'Whip God' Shen Sanjue? Back in the day, Shen Sanjue held a fighting tournament at Tianqiao in Beiping and didn't lose a single match for seven days."

"Shen Sanjue? That's all from the previous dynasty..."

On the viewing platform, Richard, teacup in hand, stared intently at the stage with his blue eyes, his lips moving slightly as he asked the translator beside him in broken Chinese, "How old is that young man?"

The translator leaned over and whispered a few words. Richard said "Oh," nodded thoughtfully, picked up the cigar on the table, and slowly cut off the butt.

Sitting to his left, Li Zuyi was getting impatient. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and fiddled with a jade thumb ring in his hand. His eyes swept over Shen Qing a couple of times before turning away. He had never been interested in martial arts; the only reason he was sitting here today was because of Zhao Yuping's influence—and the ten thousand silver dollars he had bet on.

Further away, Deng Zhuosheng and Ma Jun sat side by side, occasionally whispering to each other. Deng Zhuosheng was a tall, thin man who wore gold-rimmed glasses and looked like a schoolteacher, but in reality, he was a well-known "big shot" in the Shanghai dock area, and there was no one he didn't know. Ma Jun, on the other hand, was a short, stout middle-aged man with a round face that always wore a smile. When he smiled, his eyes narrowed into slits, and no one knew what was going on behind those eyes.

"Old Deng, who do you think is the best?" Ma Jun asked with a smile.

Deng Zhuosheng pushed up his glasses, and instead of answering directly, he said something unrelated: "After Han Tieshan arrived yesterday, he went to the City God Temple first."

"Oh?"

"I burned three incense sticks and kowtowed three times."

Ma Jun's smile faltered for a moment before returning to normal. Visiting the City God Temple was a customary way for martial arts practitioners in Shanghai to pay their respects. Han Tieshan, a native of Tianjin, went there to burn incense upon arrival; this showed he wasn't just there for a fight.

On the stage, Shen Qing had already changed five moves with his whip.

The first lash was "The Poisonous Snake Emerges from Its Cave," the second was "The Python Coils Around Its Body," the third was "The Golden Snake Dances Wildly," the fourth was "The White Snake Spits Its Tongue," and the fifth was a feint. As soon as Han Tieshan dodged to the side, Shen Qing's left hand suddenly emerged from the shadow of the whip.

Palm.

It wasn't a fist, it was a palm. The five fingers were brought together like a knife, aimed straight at Han Tieshan's throat.

A gasp of surprise erupted from the audience.

This change of tactics was so fast that no one had time to react. When Shen Qing used the whip, everyone thought he would settle the score with the whip itself; no one expected that his real killing move was in his left hand. The whip was the visible weapon, the palm the hidden one; the alternation between light and shadow, the feints and the real attacks, was no longer just a simple martial arts technique, but a tactic, a psychological game.

Han Tieshan, a man who had spent decades navigating the treacherous waters of the martial world, felt a chill run down his spine in that critical moment and instinctively leaned back. He leaned back almost to his limit, his back forming an angle of less than thirty degrees with the ground, yet he managed to stay firmly in place thanks to the grip of his legs.

"Iron Bridge!" someone in the audience blurted out.

Shen Qing's palm grazed Han Tieshan's chin. Although it didn't actually hit him, the sensation of the palm grazing his skin felt like a dull knife cutting across his throat, causing a burning pain. Han Tieshan knew something was wrong. Using the momentum of his backward lean, he rolled away to create distance before regaining his footing.

He touched his chin and felt a slight dampness on his fingertips—a layer of skin had been scraped off.

Han Tieshan looked at the faint bloodstain on his fingertip and suddenly smiled.

"The younger generation is truly formidable," he said.

These four words were spoken calmly, a calmness unlike that of someone who had just suffered a loss. But those familiar with Han Tieshan knew that the calmer he was, the more serious he was. The most powerful aspect of the Tongbei Quan of the Han family of Tianjin was never the routines, but rather the breath. If that breath was held, the fist was made of iron; if that breath was released, the fist was made of cotton.

At that moment, Han Tieshan held his breath.

He slowly took off his outer shirt, revealing a tight-fitting gray short jacket underneath, the outline of his muscles faintly visible beneath the fabric. Not exaggerated, but clearly defined, like old tree roots intertwined, each muscle growing in its proper place, neither too much nor too little.

The fire in the charcoal brazier flickered, casting alternating light and shadow on Han Tieshan's face.

On the viewing platform, Lü Mai, who hadn't said much until now, suddenly straightened up and leaned forward. He was the only one among these people who truly understood boxing—he had studied under a master in Cangzhou when he was young, and although he later went into business, his insight was still there.

"They're getting serious now," Lu Mai said in a low voice.

Sitting next to him, Zhang Xiaolin was sipping his tea. Hearing this, he raised his eyelids slightly but didn't reply, continuing to drink his tea. Today, he wore a dark blue robe with mink fur trim on the cuffs, which accentuated his angular face, giving him an air of wealth and power. Zhang Xiaolin's influence in Shanghai spanned both the legal and illegal worlds; his presence here was itself a statement.

Li Jinglin stopped fiddling with the prayer beads.

Sun Congzhou opened his eyes.

Ren Zhan's smile faded.

The entire arena suddenly fell silent, so silent that only the crackling of the charcoal fire and the occasional howling of the wind and snow as it occasionally blew in through a corner of the curtain were lifted. The howling sound came from afar and then receded again, like something wandering outside the city, unable to enter but unwilling to leave.

Shen Qing also sensed this change.

His grip on the steel whip tightened slightly, his knuckles turning white. The arrogance on the young man's face subsided somewhat, replaced by a more focused expression. He knew that the real contest had only just begun.

Han Tieshan took a step forward.

This step was extremely light, as light as a cat stepping on cotton, yet the ground of the arena trembled slightly. This was the "striking foot" in Tongbei Quan (a style of Chinese martial arts). On the surface, it was the foot that moved, but in reality, the power originated from the dantian (lower abdomen), was transmitted through the spine, and finally flowed throughout the whole body. With each step, the whole person sank down like an old pine tree with its roots firmly planted.

He took another step.

After two steps, the distance between Han Tieshan and Shen Qing was reduced to less than five feet.

The advantage of the steel whip lies in its range; within five feet, the whip becomes ineffective. Shen Qing understood this, of course. He immediately retreated, and at the same time, with a flick of his right hand, the steel whip swept horizontally from the side, attempting to force Han Tieshan back.

But Han Tieshan refused to back down.

He charged forward, meeting the whip in its wake.

Tongbei Quan is known for its "long-range strikes," with an arm span that is longer than that of ordinary boxing styles. When Han Tieshan charged, his entire right arm was like an iron chain being flung out, making a soft "click" sound at the joint, and his fist went straight for Shen Qing's chest.

Shen Qing's whip struck Han Tieshan's left shoulder, but Han Tieshan seemed oblivious to the pain, his punch unabated. Shen Qing had no time to retract the whip and had to block again with his left hand—this time not with a palm strike, but a solid parry.

The fist and palm collided, producing a dull "bang".

Shen Qing took three steps back.

Han Tieshan only took half a step back.

The difference in skill seemed to have been made. But after Shen Qing stood still, he flexed the five fingers of his left hand, and the corners of his mouth curved up again. His wrist was trembling slightly, but the smile was not feigned; it was a genuine excitement from the bottom of his heart.

The audience held their breath.

On the viewing platform, Richard's cigar was half-burnt, ash settling on his impeccably tailored trousers, which he seemed oblivious to. Smith's binoculars remained constantly in place. Zhao Yuping sat upright in the main seat, his hands clasped in front of his abdomen, his expression unreadable.

The wind and snow howled outside the tent.

The charcoal fire leaped in the basin.

This contest has only just begun.

Shen Qing flexed his numb left palm, mentally reassessing the old man.

That punch, though it looked like it landed on the palm, actually felt like being hit through cotton with a hammer when it passed through—not the kind of pain that tears the skin, but a tingling, numb sensation that seeped into the very bones. The power of Tongbei Quan is indeed different from ordinary martial arts.

He glanced down at his left hand; the tips of his fingers were already turning a little purple.

"Master Shen," Han Tieshan said, standing five steps away, his tone unhurried, "how much of your grandfather's skill in whipping your hair is there?"

Shen Qing raised her head, raising an eyebrow: "You know my grandfather?"

"We met once in Beiping thirty years ago," Han Tieshan said, his gaze lingering on the distance for a moment, as if flipping through an old almanac. "Back then, I was performing on Tianqiao, and your grandfather's fighting ring was set up right across from me. For seven days, no one could withstand thirty moves from his whip."

Upon hearing this, several older martial arts masters in the audience exchanged glances, their eyes holding unreadable expressions. Shen Sanjue's name was indeed legendary in the memories of their generation. However, legends, as they are passed down, become mere stories, and stories, when told too often, lose their credibility.

Shen Qing didn't respond. He never wanted to talk about his grandfather's affairs in front of outsiders. In the years when the family was well-off, visitors would flock to the door, and his grandfather would sit in the main room drinking tea, telling each visitor a story about how things were back in Tianqiao. Later, when things went badly and the family became deserted, his grandfather would still sit in the main room drinking tea, talking to himself, still telling the same stories about how things were back in Tianqiao.

The overpass made them, and the overpass ruined them.

With a flick of his wrist, the nine-section whip snapped shut and coiled back around his waist. This surprised many—was he admitting defeat? Or was he switching weapons?

Han Tieshan was also taken aback.

Shen Qing patted the whip at his waist, looked up and smiled: "Master Han is right, I have indeed only learned half of my grandfather's whip technique. So today I'll try a different way of using it."

Before he finished speaking, he pushed off with his feet and shot straight at Han Tieshan like an arrow released from a bow, without dodging or avoiding.

This completely surprised everyone. A whip user, putting down his whip and instead choosing hand-to-hand combat? Wasn't that just crippling himself?

Han Tieshan had no time to think. He stretched out his right arm and met the punch with the "Single Whip" stance of Tongbei Quan. This punch looked like it was thrown from the shoulder, but in reality, the force started from the soles of his feet, passed through his knees, hips, waist, and shoulders, and finally exploded from the fist, layer by layer, like throwing a stone into the center of a lake, with ripples spreading out in circles.