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

Zhang Xiaolin understood. He remained still.

Han Tieshan was silent for a few seconds, then looked down at the wound on his thigh. The blood had stopped seeping out, but his pants had a hole, revealing the raw flesh underneath—a gruesome sight. He reached out and touched it, his fingertip picking up a bit of semi-dried blood. He smelled it, then looked up at Shen Qing.

"Master Shen," he said, "can you still fight?"

Shen Qing wiped the dried scab from the corner of his mouth, a gesture tinged with the stubbornness unique to young men. His right hand unconsciously touched the steel whip at his waist again, this time without letting go.

"If Master Han can fight, then I can fight too."

Han Tieshan smiled, a smile containing both admiration and a hint of unspoken bitterness. He turned to face Wu Song, clasped his hands in a fist salute, and said, "It is my honor to have Commander Wu as the referee. However—"

He paused, his gaze falling on the two rows of heavily armed soldiers.

Wu Song followed his gaze and immediately understood. He flicked his cigarette ash and waved his hand behind him: "Take three steps back."

The soldiers took three steps back in unison, their boots landing in perfect unison, as if they were all alone.

"The gun barrel is pointed at the ground."

The gun barrels were all pointing downwards.

"Attention! Don't move!"

Forty people stood motionless, like forty ice sculptures.

Wu Song turned around, put a cigarette in his mouth, put his hands in the pockets of his military overcoat, and tilted his head slightly, like a spectator waiting for the show to start in a theater.

"Alright, go ahead and fight."

The air in the ring suddenly tightened again.

It wasn't cold; it was something indescribable, like an invisible string being slowly tightened until it was about to snap. The flames in the charcoal brazier seemed to sense this change as well. They stopped dancing merrily and instead shrank into small, quiet blue tongues, clinging tightly to the charcoal, as if holding their breath.

Han Tieshan slowly took off the outer garment he had just put on, folded it neatly, and placed it in the corner of the arena. The movement was very slow, almost like performing some kind of ritual. After folding it, he rolled up the cuffs twice, revealing his forearms with bulging veins. The bruise on his left forearm, caused by Shen Qing's elbow strike, had now turned a deeper, more intense color, like a ripe plum.

He stretched his shoulders, his shoulder blades opening and closing dramatically beneath his thin shirt, making a soft, clicking sound.

Then he closed his eyes.

Someone in the audience whispered something, but was immediately silenced when someone next to them nudged him with their elbow.

Han Tieshan closed his eyes, his breathing slowly becoming deep and long. With each breath, subtle changes occurred in his body—his shoulders gradually slumped, his arms slowly drooped, and his whole body seemed to be pulled down by something, inch by inch, shrinking lower. It wasn't relaxation, nor collapse, but a gathering of strength, like a bow being slowly drawn, the sound of the taut bowstring audible only to the one drawing the bow.

When he opened his eyes again, the previous composure and gentleness were gone, replaced by an almost indifferent calm. It wasn't anger, nor murderous intent, but a higher realm—he had suppressed all his emotions, pushed them to the deepest part of his consciousness, leaving only pure technique, pure power, and pure instinct.

Sun Congzhou's eyes lit up.

He had sat on the viewing platform for so long, seen so much, and now this was finally what truly interested him. Han Tieshan's state of being was called "entering a state of divine concentration" in martial arts; not everyone could achieve it, nor could it be done every time. It required the right timing, the right place, and the right people; a sufficiently strong opponent; a sufficiently calm mind; and a touch of inexplicable luck.

Han Tieshan was lost in thought today.

Shen Qing also sensed it.

His hand holding the steel whip felt slightly cold—not from the cold, but because he suddenly realized that the person in front of him was different from before. The Han Tieshan before was a martial artist, a flesh-and-blood person who could feel pain and anger; the Han Tieshan now was more like a precise machine, every joint functioning perfectly, every breath perfectly synchronized with the rhythm of his body.

That's not right.

A flicker of unease crossed Shen Qing's mind, but he quickly suppressed it. He took a deep breath, flicked his right hand, and the nine-section steel whip unfurled with a clatter, tracing an arc along his side. The tip of the whip cut through the air, emitting a low whimper, as if something were crying.

He didn't wait.

Unlike the first round, he made the first move this time.

The steel whip, like a black venomous snake, darted out along the platform, its target not Han Tieshan's body, but his ankle. This was the "Ground Whip" technique, specifically designed to attack the lower body. It was difficult to defend against, but extremely difficult to master—the whip tip moved along the ground, and the slightest unevenness would cause it to bounce back, losing its accuracy. Shen Qing's ability to execute the Ground Whip with such precision demonstrated the solid foundation he possessed.

Han Tieshan did not look down.

He didn't look, not out of arrogance, but because he didn't need to. He could feel the vibrations of the platform beneath his feet; he knew exactly where the whip was coming from, how fast it was going, and roughly when it would arrive. Just as the tip of the whip was about to wrap around his ankle, he gently lifted his left foot two inches.

The whip tip slid past his feet.

Han Tieshan simultaneously stepped forward with his right foot, a step larger and more forceful than usual, like a pair of scissors snapping shut, shortening the distance between him and Shen Qing. His right hand emerged from his waist, palm up, fingers slightly spread, like a snake poking its head out of a hole, silently pressing towards Shen Qing's chest.

This isn't a fist, it's a palm.

In Tongbei Quan (a style of Chinese martial arts), the palm strike is more difficult to master and more deadly than the fist strike. The power of a fist is point-like; if it hits, it's a single point. The power of the palm strike is area-like; if it hits, it's an entire area. The power of Han Tieshan's palm strike lies not in its weight, but in its hidden force—if Shen Qing were to take it head-on, the hidden force in his palm would explode the moment of contact, and the sensation would be ten times more unbearable than being punched.

Shen Qing did not take the hit directly.

He dodged to the right, and as he did so, he flipped his right wrist, causing the nine-section whip to spring up from the ground as if pulled by an invisible hand. The whip tip turned in mid-air and lashed out at the back of Han Tieshan's head from the side.

As if Han Tieshan had eyes in the back of his head, he tilted his head, and the whip tip flew past his ear, striking the pillar with a crack and leaving a deep dent.

The two of them took half a step back at the same time, widening the distance between them again.

Only a few breaths have passed since Wu Song shouted "Keep fighting!" But everything that has happened in those few breaths has sent chills down the spines of those in the know.

That's too fierce.

Both of them are too fierce.

It wasn't the kind of ferocity you see in street brawls, but a pure and chilling savagery honed through skill. Every move they made was precise and efficient, devoid of any unnecessary flourishes or theatricality; every punch and every whip strike was aimed at ending the fight.

Wu Song stood by the ring, a cigarette still dangling from his lips, already quite a bit burned, the ash hanging down, threatening to fall at any moment, but he didn't flick it. His eyes were fixed on the ring, his expression unreadable, but the fact that the ash hadn't fallen showed that he was even controlling his breathing very lightly and slowly.

On the viewing platform, Lü Mai gripped the armrests again, his knuckles even whiter than before. He had practiced boxing in his youth and knew how terrifying Han Tieshan was in his current state, as well as how remarkable it was that Shen Qing could launch a counterattack under such pressure.

Regardless of who wins or loses today, these two individuals are enough to make everyone present remember their names.

Han Tieshan has made another move.

This time he didn't use his palm or his fist, but his shoulder.

His right shoulder suddenly thrust forward, as if someone had pushed him from behind. His center of gravity shifted forward instantly, and his right shoulder acromion, like a giant hammer, aimed straight at Shen Qing's chest. This is the "leaning hammer" move from Tongbei Quan, which is rarely used because it's too risky—using your shoulder to strike someone means exposing your entire front to your opponent. If you miss, the opponent's counterattack can easily hit your face.

But Han Tieshan used it.

Because he knew that Shen Qing would not back down.

The previous exchange had made it clear to him that this young man had an unyielding spirit. It wasn't that he couldn't back down, but that he refused to. The more you pushed him, the more he would fight back; the fiercer you were, the more he would oppose you.

This is the youthful spirit, but also the fatal flaw of youth.

As expected, Shen Qing did not back down.

Instead of retreating, he charged forward. His left hand swept across his waist, and the black iron ruler, less than three inches long, reappeared in his palm. The ruler was held horizontally in front of his chest, its body positioned precisely between Han Tieshan's shoulder and Shen Qing's chest.

"Click—"

The sound of the iron ruler striking the shoulder bone was like a piece of dry firewood being snapped in half.

Shen Qing was knocked back three steps by the impact, each step leaving a deep footprint on the table. A gash appeared on the web of his left hand, and blood trickled down the iron ruler, dripping onto the table like someone had spilled a bottle of red ink.

But he did not fall.

He stopped.

A sharp pain shot through Han Tieshan's right shoulder—not the pain of bone, but the pain of muscle. Although he had knocked the iron ruler away, the edge of the ruler had cut a gash on his shoulder, tearing his clothes and exposing the flesh underneath. Blood quickly soaked a large area of ​​his gray short jacket.

The two looked at each other again.

This time, neither of them spoke.

Shen Qing glanced down at his left hand; blood was still gushing from the base of his thumb. He switched the iron ruler to his right hand, bit down on the skin at the base of his left thumb, and ripped it off, spitting the torn skin onto the ground. The blood gushed out even more violently, but he ignored it and gripped the iron ruler tightly again.

Han Tieshan watched him do all this without saying a word.

Some people in the audience turned their heads away, unable to bear watching any longer. Someone whispered, "This child is crazy," with an indescribable sense of awe in their voice.

Han Tieshan suddenly spoke up.

"Shen Qing," he called by his full name, not "Master Shen," his voice not loud, but in the quiet shed where only the sound of wind and snow could be heard clearly, "Do you know who your grandfather fought in his last battle at Tianqiao?"

Shen Qing was stunned for a moment.

Of course he knew. The last battle was the one his grandfather, Shen Sanjue, least wanted to talk about in his life.

"My grandfather didn't lose." Shen Qing's voice was a little hoarse.

"I know," Han Tieshan said calmly, "He didn't lose."

He paused for a moment.

"But he didn't win either."

Shen Qing's pupils contracted slightly.

"The opponent in that battle," Han Tieshan said, his gaze passing over Shen Qing and landing on a place very, very far away, "was my master."

The entire arena suddenly fell silent.

It was as quiet as a grave.

Shen Qing's pupils contracted slightly.

A gasp rippled through the audience. Most of those present had only heard rumors of the duel at Tianqiao in Beiping decades ago—Shen Sanjue and Han Fengshan of Tongbei Quan fought for a full hour, ending in a draw. Shen Sanjue retired from the ring after that, and Han Fengshan never set foot in Beijing again. No one knew what had actually happened on the stage that day; neither of the two involved spoke a word until their deaths.

Now that Han Tieshan stands here and utters the words "my master," everything has an answer.

Shen Qing's hands trembled slightly. Not from fear, but from the blood. Blood was still gushing from his left hand, trickling down the ridge of the iron ruler and dripping onto the table, drop after drop. He suddenly smiled, a smile that carried something indescribable—was it relief, mockery, or something else? Even he himself couldn't tell.

"I see," he said, his voice not loud.

Han Tieshan looked into his eyes: "The battle between your grandfather and my master was never finished. Today, you and I will finish that battle."

Shen Qing did not answer. He put the iron ruler back at his waist and gripped the handle of the steel whip again with his right hand. This time, he gripped it tightly, his knuckles turning white, as if he were holding something more important than his own life.

Han Tieshan slowly spread his arms, his shoulder blades opening and closing with a final, deepest "click." His right shoulder was still bleeding, and the bruises on his left forearm were swollen, but his eyes showed no sign of wavering. Suddenly, light shone in those two dry well-like eyes—not a gentle light, but a fire, a fire buried underground for many years, thought to have been extinguished, but which had been burning secretly all along.

The two people moved at the same time.

Shen Qing's whip arrived first. This whip strike was devoid of any fancy moves or feints; it was simply a clean, straightforward lash, descending from above like a knife. The whip tip tore through the air, emitting a sharp whistling sound, so shrill it was as if someone were scraping glass with their fingernails. Some people in the audience covered their ears.

Han Tieshan did not dodge.

His right arm met the whip. The whip tip struck his forearm with a sharp crack, tearing a long gash in his sleeve and revealing a red, swollen welt beneath. But he seemed oblivious, his arm continuing forward, passing through the whip's shadow, heading straight for Shen Qing's face.

Shen Qing turned his head, the force of the punch grazing his cheek, causing a burning pain. At the same time, his right hand twitched, and the steel whip snapped back in mid-air, its tip wrapping around Han Tieshan's wrist.

It's entangled.

Someone in the audience shouted "Bravo!" but before the shout had even finished, Han Tieshan had already reacted—he twisted his wrist sharply, the steel whip wrapped around his wrist a second time, and then he pulled it back.

Shen Qing's body involuntarily staggered forward a step.

Han Tieshan's left fist was already waiting there.

The punch landed on Shen Qing's ribs with a dull thud, like someone smashing a soaking wet burlap with a hammer. Shen Qing spat out a mouthful of blood, his vision went black, but he didn't let go. He gritted his teeth and, using the force of Han Tieshan pulling him, rammed himself into Han Tieshan's arms—right elbow forward, elbow tip pointing towards Han Tieshan's chest.

It's another example of the "Mountain-Pulling Lean" move from Bajiquan.

But this time, Han Tieshan did not back down.

He released his grip on the steel whip, then clasped his hands together like two door panels, clamping Shen Qing's elbow firmly between them. The sound of his palms colliding with Shen Qing's elbow was dull and short, like something being crushed.

Shen Qing's elbow was trapped and he couldn't move.

Han Tieshan's hands were trembling. Shen Qing's elbow was pressed against his palm, the penetrating force numbing his entire arm, from his fingertips all the way to his shoulder. But he didn't let go.

The two remained frozen in the center of the ring.

Han Tieshan's hand was wrapped around Shen Qing's elbow, while Shen Qing's hand gripped the whip wrapped around Han Tieshan's wrist. Their faces were very close, close enough to see the frost on each other's eyelashes—a thin, white layer formed from the condensation of their breath.

The fire in the charcoal brazier flickered.

The wind and snow roared outside the tent.

The two of them almost simultaneously had their final thought.

Han Tieshan's forehead slammed forward—the Iron Head Kung Fu wasn't just for show; it was a real skill honed over thirty years.

Shen Qing thrust his knee upwards—a knee strike, simple, direct, and without any unnecessary movements.

His forehead slammed into the bridge of his nose with a dull thud that made your teeth ache. His knee struck his lower abdomen like a wooden stake hitting cotton.

The two of them released each other at the same time, stepped back at the same time, and fell down at the same time.

Shen Qing fell backward onto the table, hitting the back of his head. He saw stars, and blood gushed from his nose like a burst dam, smearing his face with a warm liquid. He felt as if his nasal bridge was crooked, and his breathing made a strange, whistling sound.

Han Tieshan knelt on the platform, his hands supporting him on the ground. The excruciating pain in his lower abdomen caused him to curl up like a shrimp. Cold sweat instantly poured from his forehead, mingling with blood as it streamed down his face. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, like a fish thrown ashore.

The arena fell silent.

The audience fell silent.

The viewing platform fell silent.

Everyone stared at the two men lying on the platform, and no one spoke. The flames in the charcoal brazier flickered, casting shifting light on their faces. Han Tieshan's face was contorted, sweat and blood mingling and dripping onto the platform. Shen Qing's face was mostly covered in blood, only her eyes remained open, staring at the canvas billowing in the wind above the canopy.

The cigarette in Wu Song's mouth had long since gone out, the butt sticking to his lower lip, but he didn't move. He stood there, his hands in the pockets of his military overcoat, tilting his head to look at the stage, his expression indistinct.

After a long time—perhaps a long time, perhaps just a few breaths—Han Tieshan loosened his grip and lay on his side on the table. His chest heaved violently, each breath accompanied by a rough, sandpaper-like sound.

Shen Qing tried to move, but found she couldn't get up. It wasn't that she lacked strength, but that her body wouldn't obey her commands. Every muscle was trembling, every bone was protesting, and her whole body felt like it had been taken apart and reassembled—nothing felt right.

But he still turned over.

Using his right hand to support himself on the platform, he slowly rose, from lying on his side to prone, from prone to kneeling, and from kneeling to half-squatting. This process took a long time, so long that some people in the audience couldn't help but turn their heads away. His steel whip had somehow slipped from his hand and lay coiled up in the corner of the platform, like a hibernating snake.

He finally stood up.

His posture when he stood up was awkward; his legs were trembling, and his back was crooked, like a sapling bent by the wind. But he stood firm.

Han Tieshan also made a move.

He braced himself against the tabletop with both hands, slowly and inch by inch, pushing himself upwards. The pain in his lower abdomen caused each effort to be accompanied by a suppressed groan, a very low sound that could only be heard by those nearby.

He stood up as well.

He stood straighter than Shen Qing.

The two men stood facing each other, less than three steps apart. Shen Qing's steel whip was still wrapped around Han Tieshan's right wrist, half of the whip's end dangling down and swaying gently in the wind. Shen Qing's left hand was completely numb, hanging limply at his side, blood dripping from his fingertips and pooling on the table.

Wusong finally moved.

He took the extinguished cigarette butt out of his mouth, flicked it aside, and cleared his throat.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice not loud, but everyone heard him, "do you still want to fight?"

Han Tieshan remained silent.

Shen Qing didn't say anything either.

The two men stared at each other. Han Tieshan's eyes were bloodshot, sweaty, and tired, but more than that, they held a deep respect—something that only those who had truly fought each other could share, something unspoken.

Shen Qing's lips twitched, as if he wanted to say something, but no sound came out. He tried to smile, but the movement pulled at the wound on his nose, making him wince in pain.

Han Tieshan noticed this expression.

Han Tieshan suddenly laughed.

It wasn't a bitter smile, nor a relieved smile, but a genuine, heartfelt laugh. He shook his head with a smile, bent down, used his uninjured hand to untie the steel whip wrapped around his right wrist, picked it up, walked to Shen Qing, and handed it to him.

Shen Qing looked at the whip for two seconds, then reached out his right hand and took it.

Han Tieshan extended his hand.

Shen Qing looked at that hand, then at her own right hand—it was covered in blood, and she didn't know if it was someone else's or her own.

He wiped the blood on his pants and grasped Han Tieshan's hand.

As their hands clasped together, someone in the audience suddenly started clapping. One clap, two claps, then a burst of applause, filled with a sense of relief and excitement at surviving a close call.

Wu Song glanced at the people clapping, and the applause immediately subsided, but did not disappear completely.

He withdrew his gaze and looked at the two blood-soaked men standing on the stage, shaking hands. The cracked smile on his lips reappeared.

"Alright," he said, "this duel is a draw."

No one refuted.

No one dared to refute it.