Breaking Limits in Martial Arts: Grinding Your Way to Becoming a Martial Saint in a Chaotic Era

Ning Yun paused for a moment, then continued, his tone both serious and helpless: "Although Junior Brother Guo has not yet reached the perfect state of Ming Jin, he has been at a high level for some time now. His boxing style is solid, and he is also calm and composed, so he won't make hasty mistakes on stage."

Zhao Yan closed the old booklet on the table, pushed it aside, and picked up the now-cold tea, taking a sip. The tea was cold and bitter. He frowned, then put it down. "I thought you'd say A-Qing as the third person. You've always thought highly of him."

Ning Yun smiled wryly and shook his head.

"Junior Brother Xu..." He lowered his gaze, staring at his slightly lame left leg, carefully choosing his words, "Master, Junior Brother Xu has only been in the academy for a little over two months. You know, when it comes to martial arts, no matter how high your talent is, it can't withstand the test of time."

"At the Laba Festival, almost all the disciples sent by various martial arts schools were at the peak of Ming Jin. Some had already reached that level last year, having trained for a year and waiting for this day. No matter how skilled Junior Brother Xu is, his level is still what it is. He still has a long way to go before reaching the peak of Ming Jin."

Zhao Yan didn't respond, but simply tapped his fingers lightly on the table twice.

Ning Yun raised his head, his voice lowering slightly, "It's not that I'm saying Junior Brother Xu is no good. On the contrary, I think Junior Brother Xu is the best prospect our martial arts school has had in recent years. But precisely because he's a good prospect, we can't rush him. What if..." He didn't finish his sentence. His master understood what he meant.

Zhao Yan remained silent for a long time. He picked up the bowl of cold tea and put it down again, the tea sloshing around in the bowl, almost spilling out.

Ning Yun was telling the truth. Xu Qing had only been in the academy for a little over two months, yet he had already achieved the minor mastery of the Ming Jin technique. Zhao Yan had witnessed this progress firsthand.

Every morning, he would give Xu Qing pointers on stance training, and in the afternoon, they would spar one-on-one. Xu Qing would throw his fists, catch them, and then throw them back. In this back-and-forth exchange, he could clearly feel that this disciple's fists were much heavier than ordinary Ming Jin (a type of martial arts).

It's not brute force, but a solid, deep-rooted power that springs from the very core of your body, like the deep, unfathomable roots of an old tree.

He has taught martial arts for so many years and has seen many Ming Jin disciples, but none of them have the strength of Xu Qing at this stage.

However, no matter how strong Xu Qing was, he was only at the Lesser Mastery of the Ming Jin realm.

The difference between minor and full-fledged Ming Jin (a type of martial arts skill) lies not only in strength, but also in the richness of one's Qi and blood, the endurance of one's stamina, and the experience of adapting to changing situations.

These things cannot be made up for by talent; they require time, daily sweat, and refining every punch.

At the Laba Festival, the disciples of other martial arts schools were all at the peak of Ming Jin, while Xu Qing, who was only at the minor stage of Ming Jin, would suffer even if his punches were heavy.

He harbored another concern, deeper and heavier, like a thorn stuck in his flesh, which he didn't usually notice but would hurt when touched.

He and Yu Tai of the Benlei Martial Arts School have been mortal enemies for over a decade. This feud began the day Chu Sheng defected and is now irreconcilable.

Yu Tai may have a smiling face, but he's more cunning than anyone else. His disciples have all been instilled with the idea that "there's no need to show mercy when fighting against people from the Zhao Family Martial Arts School."

When ordinary disciples of the Zhao Family Martial Arts School went on stage, Yu Tai wouldn't dare to act too outrageously in front of the county magistrate and other officials.

But if Xu Qing, Zhao Yan's personal disciple, were standing on the stage, he was certain that Yu Tai would have the Benlei Martial Arts School members go to great lengths.

Ning Yun's leg was deliberately broken by someone from the Benlei Martial Arts School during a martial arts competition. That match ruined Ning Yun's life.

He couldn't let Xu Qing follow the same path. At least, before Xu Qing truly matured, he couldn't let him face these uncontrollable accidents.

"You're right," Zhao Yan sighed. He lowered his head, not daring to look at Ning Yun. He was afraid that Ning Yun would see what was in his eyes—guilt and heartache. He had always kept them hidden in his heart, but they would still surge up regardless.

"Wu Mingyuan, Chen Wang, Guo Huan," Zhao Yan murmured, "It's settled then. The three of them will represent the martial arts school at this year's Laba Festival."

Ning Yun responded, picked up the teapot, and poured Zhao Yan a cup of hot tea.

The rising steam blurred Zhao Yan's face.

"Master, the tea is ready. Drink it while it's hot," Ning Yun said with a smile, her tone exactly the same as usual.

Zhao Yan picked up the teacup and took a sip. This time it was hot, the bitterness had lessened, and a sweet aftertaste emerged. It lingered, slowly moving from the back of his tongue down his throat.

He held his teacup, his gaze fixed on the view outside the window.

The old locust tree's branches were bare, like an old man's fingers, withered and cracked. But he knew that when spring came, it would sprout again, and grow new leaves, lush and green.

Xu Qing is the same. It's not the right time yet. But spring will always come.

......

Snowing.

The first snow in Qinghe County arrived on the first day of the twelfth lunar month.

The snowflakes were small, fine and scattered, like grains of salt sifted down by God. They fell to the ground and onto the tiles, and before you could even see their shape clearly, they melted into tiny water droplets.

It was cold, and it had snowed, so the students from the outer courtyard all huddled indoors. Some chatted wrapped in blankets, some huddled around the stove to warm themselves, and some simply crawled into bed.

Xu Qing remained standing on the training ground, set up his stance, and continued to punch.

The force of the punch exploded through the snow, producing a dull thud. Snowflakes that drifted towards him were scattered by the force of the punch.

Snowflakes fell on his shoulders, arms, and head, but before they could accumulate, they were evaporated into water droplets by the heat from his body.

He seemed to be enveloped in a cloud of heat, with a layer of white mist faintly rising from him under the hazy sky.

He practiced again and again, his punches becoming heavier and his blood and energy growing stronger.

Snowflakes fell on him and melted. They fell again and melted again.

On the blue brick floor, the spot beneath his feet remained dry.

......

It snowed three times in a row in December, each snowfall heavier than the last.

The first snowfall was thin, like a layer of salt sprinkled by God. It melted as soon as it hit the ground, leaving only a damp residue.

The second snow came suddenly, falling like goose feathers, covering the entire Qinghe County town overnight. The rooftops were white, the treetops were white, and even the stone lions at the entrance of the martial arts school were white.

When the third snow fell, the wind came too. The snow was propelled by the wind, and the wind amplified the snow's power. In the vast white world, nothing could be seen. The snowflakes flew horizontally, stinging our faces like needles.

On the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month, the wind stopped and the snow stopped. The sun, which hadn't peeked out for several days, finally came out, its golden light spreading across the courtyard and making the snow shine so brightly it was blinding. The sky was a clear, unblemished blue, without a single cloud in sight; it was a rare and beautiful day.

But Zhao Yan wasn't in the mood to appreciate the snow.

The disciples in the front courtyard gathered together, with Wu Mingyuan and Chen Wang standing at the very front, dressed in tight-fitting clothes, their backs ramrod straight, both looking quite energetic. But one person was missing—Guo Huan was not there.

Guo Huan was on temporary assignment at the dock and wasn't hospitalized. He usually only came and went quickly when practicing at the martial arts school. Just now, someone sent to call Guo Huan, but the result was... Guo Huan had accidentally injured his leg while inspecting the dock last night and couldn't come. He was already at home, unable to walk.

Zhao Yan's expression was not good. It wasn't the kind of ugly expression that comes from extreme anger, but rather a somber, overcast look.

"Master, the dock is icy and very slippery. It's possible that Junior Brother Guo was careless..." Chen Wang saw that his master's face was frighteningly dark and wanted to persuade him, but he himself felt that he didn't have much confidence in what he was saying, so he spoke softer and softer until he could hardly be heard.

The dock was frozen over. Guo Huan had been working there for over half a year, walking that path every day without ever falling. But he fell on the eve of the Laba Festival. And the fall happened so conveniently, injuring his leg. How could a martial artist with a leg injury perform on stage?

Zhao Yan didn't speak. He stood there, his gaze falling on the doorway, then on the patch of snow in the yard that was whitened by the sun.

When the twelfth lunar month arrived, he had Chen Wang tell Guo Huan about attending the Laba Festival.

Guo Huan readily agreed, a smile on his face, saying, "Master thinks highly of me, I will definitely fight well and not let the martial arts school down." But on the day of Laba Festival, Guo Huan was "unexpectedly" injured and couldn't come.

How could he not see that Guo Huan wasn't injured, but afraid? Afraid of those promising youngsters at the Benlei Martial Arts Academy, afraid they would be ruthless; he didn't want to become the next Ning Yun. Even if the people at the Benlei Martial Arts Academy wouldn't care about an ordinary disciple like him, he didn't want to take that risk.

Zhao Yan sighed. The sigh was long and light, as light as the wind blowing across the snow, leaving no trace.

He didn't blame Guo Huan. Strictly speaking, he and Guo Huan weren't really master and disciple. Guo Huan paid him money, and he taught him martial arts; the transaction was settled, and neither owed the other anything. If one had to pinpoint any connection, it would be that he had recommended Guo Huan for the dockside job. But there was no point in dwelling on that now.

Guo Huan was considering his own future; he didn't want to cause trouble, nor did he want to be crippled or seriously injured. This is only natural and understandable. If he were in Guo Huan's position, he might very well have made the same choice.

But I can't quite describe the feeling I have inside.

It wasn't anger, resentment, or disappointment. It was a chill. Like standing in the snow on a cold winter's day and having a bucket of cold water poured over your head.

The coolness flowed down my spine, all the way to the soles of my feet, and into the very bones.