Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

The story of Cang Lifeng's solo incursion into the Wang family and his defeat of five young men swept through every corner of Xiqiao Village like a whirlwind overnight, also stirring up ripples of varying depths in this low-lying old Cang family house.

At dinner time, the atmosphere in the kitchen was more somber than usual, yet subtly different. The flickering light of the oil lamp illuminated several preoccupied faces. Cang Zhenye and Su Yumei looked at their eldest son, who seemed to have matured and become more upright overnight, yet returned covered in wounds, their eyes filled with a complex mix of relief, heartache, and worry. Cang Xiangyang and Cang Tianci stood close to their eldest brother on either side, their eyes filled with admiration.

Cang Jianguo, who always advocated for forbearance, squatted in the shadows of the doorway, silently smoking his pipe. After a long while, he finally spoke in a muffled voice, "Lifeng, you... sigh, you've vented our anger, but this grudge is now sealed. Wang Zhenkun is a vengeful man, from now on..." He shook his head, swallowing the rest of his sentence, which turned into a heavy sigh. His son, Cang Xiaoren, stood to the side with his head down, his expression unreadable.

Cang Zhenye glanced at his elder brother, wanting to say something, but his throat moved and he swallowed it back. He knew that what his elder brother said was not without reason—Wang Zhenkun still held the fertilizer quota and grain seed allocation in his hands, those things could make a family's land go to waste for a year.

"So what if the knot is broken?" Cang Yuanzhi, sitting in the corner, suddenly slammed his cane on the ground, his face flushed with a long-lost excitement. "Big brother, you're just too patient. Lifeng did the right thing. The bones of our Cang family aren't so easily broken!" His words were like a stone thrown into stagnant water, making Cang Jianguo's face even more unsightly.

Unlike his usual state of being slumped in the shadows, reeking of alcohol, Cang Shouzhen sat in a slightly brighter spot this time. His once cloudy and unfocused eyes were now fixed on Cang Lifeng, filled with complex emotions—shock, bewilderment, and a faint glimmer of hope. He swallowed hard and uttered in a somewhat hoarse voice, "It's better to...better to fight it out. It's better than...better to die a cowardly death."

After speaking, he lowered his head and didn't look at anyone again. No one knew what he was thinking when he lowered his head. Only he knew that he was thinking about how, twenty years ago, he had also stood like this, being looked at like this.

However, his words startled the whole family, who couldn't help but look at him. This subtle change was like a glimmer of light breaking through the gloom.

The old man, Cang Houde, remained silent, his sharp gaze sweeping across the faces of each of his children and grandchildren. His gaze lingered on Cang Shouzheng for a moment, a flicker of emotion crossing his eyes, before finally settling on Cang Lifeng's upright figure, his eyes filled with satisfaction. He slowly said, "It's too late now. Feng'er has used his method to earn dignity for our family. We'll see what happens next, step by step, and be cautious." These words were both an acquiescence to Lifeng's actions and a warning to the entire family.

Cang Lifeng observed his family's reactions and understood their situation. He knew that while his swift action had deterred external enemies, it had also stirred up trouble within the family. But he was certain that retreat would not earn respect; only by demonstrating sufficient strength and responsibility could he unite his family.

A dozen days later, his injuries had healed somewhat, and at the villagers' insistence, Cang Lifeng decided to hold a public martial arts demonstration. The demonstration was scheduled for a late summer evening when the heat was still lingering. The abandoned grain-drying ground was already packed with villagers early on. In the shadows at the edge of the crowd, Wang Youfu and several of his close associates watched coldly, hands tucked into their sleeves.

Cang Lifeng stood in the middle of the field, but his thoughts drifted back to four years ago.

Life at the Nancheng Martial Arts School was both a crucible and a purgatory. His first words to his mentor, Zhou Qingfeng, were: "Practicing martial arts without internal strength training is a waste of time in old age." He remembered this, and from then on, day after day, sweat dripped onto the stone locks, his knuckles breaking and healing repeatedly. Seeing his unwavering determination, Master Zhou imparted all his knowledge—fist and foot routines, internal energy generation techniques, and the little-known "Finger-Striking Meridian-Cutting Technique," often giving him pointers in his spare time. He often said: "Lifeng, a martial artist is not merely a brute. Strength is the lowest, posture is the middle, and root is the highest. Break their posture, sever their root, and that is the way to long-term success."

On the eve of graduation, Coach Zhou wanted to recommend him for further studies at a sports academy, a place he had never even dared to dream of. But thinking of his family's mounting debts and his younger siblings who needed support, he could only shake his head. He still remembers the regretful look in his coach's eyes.

Pulling his thoughts back, Cang Lifeng calmly swept his gaze across the dark mass of people. Without uttering a word, he clasped his hands in a salute and moved swiftly.

He unleashed a powerful and ferocious set of Southern Fist techniques, his breath sounding like muffled thunder rolling across the ground, his movements seemingly imbued with hidden wind and thunder. Then, he swiftly grabbed a steel knife, and a flash of gleaming light swept across the air like a bolt of lightning, its cold gleam chilling.

The most breathtaking sight was the nine-section whip. The silver whip seemed to come alive in his hands, sometimes soaring like a silver dragon, its whistling sound cutting through the air; sometimes skimming the ground, the tip precisely striking the pebbles with a crisp crack. Even more thrilling was how the whip, wrapped around his waist, would suddenly flash past his legs and neck with lightning speed, his movements controlled with incredible precision, eliciting gasps of amazement from the onlookers.

The clamor subsided into silence. He abandoned his weapon and slowly walked to a blue brick at the edge of the field. Concentrating, he pointed and thrust!

With a muffled "thud," the brick broke!

This simple, unadorned finger gesture was more impactful than any of the previous light, shadow, or sound effects. After the deathly silence came thunderous cheers. The young men were flushed with excitement; several elderly villagers stroked their beards and nodded in approval; those villagers who were close to the Wang family exchanged complex glances.

Wang Youfu, who was hiding in the crowd, turned pale. He hurriedly squeezed out of the crowd and ran away into the twilight, heading straight for the Wang family compound.

---

The aftershocks of the martial arts competition continued to reverberate in the days that followed. The biggest changes were first and foremost evident within the Cang family.

At dinner, the atmosphere under the oil lamp was more lively than ever before. Cang Xiangyang looked at his elder brother with eyes full of admiration: "Brother, can I learn your skill of breaking bricks with your bare hands?" Even the usually timid Cang Xiaohua whispered, "Since our elder brother is back, the villagers are looking at us differently."

Cang Zhenye chewed his food silently for a long time before sighing and saying to Cang Lifeng, "Feng'er, you've shown off your skills and established your authority. What are your plans for the future?"

Cang Lifeng put down his chopsticks and said, "Dad, I understand. Practicing martial arts is not for showing off. Master Zhou often said that the essence of martial arts is to strengthen the body and to protect the family and country. I've thought a lot about this lately. Relying solely on one person's strong fists won't solve the fundamental problem. I thought, why not take advantage of this trend and organize the young people in the village who want to learn some skills to form a 'Xiqiao Martial Arts Team'?"

"Firstly, it will give young people a proper way of life, strengthen their bodies, reduce illnesses, and give them some confidence to protect themselves in case of trouble; secondly," he paused, lowering his voice, "it will also give Xiangyang and Tianci a sense of security, ensuring that our Cang family is no longer a disorganized mob that can be easily manipulated. We won't provoke trouble, but when trouble comes, we can't be afraid of it!"

The news spread, and the next morning, the area in front of the Cang family's house was packed with people. Most were villagers with their children, carrying rice, noodles, and eggs, pleading with Cang Lifeng to take them as disciples. A few families stood at a distance, hesitant to approach. A man named Li Dazhuang, leading his thin son Tiedan, circled the crowd three times before finally sighing and pulling his son away—his wife had cried all night, saying how would they explain it to the Wang family if he learned martial arts from the Cang family?

Cang Lifeng observed all of this. He said nothing, but stood at the courtyard gate, addressed the hesitant figures, and raised his voice, saying, "Thank you for your trust, fellow villagers! Our 'Xiqiao Martial Arts Team' is officially established today! Anyone who wants to come is welcome. I teach skills to strengthen the body, not to cause trouble!"

These words are for those who hesitate, and also for those eyes watching from the shadows.

The next day, at the crack of dawn, Cang Lifeng stood tall and unyielding like a pine tree in the abandoned threshing ground. Addressing a group of boys of varying ages, he calmly said, "Practicing martial arts without internal strength training is a waste of time in old age. Stand firm!"

The boys immediately assumed a horse stance. Cang Lifeng, hands behind his back, looked them over one by one. When he reached Tianci, he paused—this younger boy had the most stable stance; although his legs were trembling, the angle of his knees and the straightness of his back were as if measured with a ruler. He remembered that when he first started learning martial arts, Master Zhou had judged him the same way.

Tianci was unaware that his older brother was watching him. He was simply staring at the ground in front of him, his mind blank. He had practiced that simple horse stance countless times. At first, his legs would tremble like withered branches in the wind, but now he could steady them, though the pain was still there. When the pain came, he thought of only one thing: Wang Yaowu's push, Wang Zhenkun's punch, and Zhao Jinhua's slap on his mother's face. He couldn't think about these things; thinking about them would only fuel his hatred, and hatred would make the pain go away.

But he wasn't thinking about those things today. What he remembered was what his older brother had said under the lamp last night—"One person's strength alone can't solve the fundamental problem." He didn't quite understand what "fundamental problem" meant, but he remembered the word.

The sun rose higher, and the shadows on the threshing ground grew shorter and shorter. Some people couldn't hold on any longer and collapsed to the ground with a cry of pain. Tianci's legs also began to tremble, but he gritted his teeth and focused all his strength down, down to his feet. He remembered the blood at the bottom of Wild Boar Gully, and his mother's words, "You must have strong bones." How exactly did he mean "strong"? He didn't know. But he thought, it was probably like this—no matter how badly his legs trembled, he wouldn't fall; no matter how much pain he felt, he wouldn't cry.

After a while, the older brother finally shouted "Stop!" Tianci felt like his legs no longer belonged to him. He plopped down on the ground, panting heavily. Sweat dripped into his mouth, salty and with a hint of rust. He suddenly remembered that when he bit Wang Zhenkun that day, his mouth tasted the same way.

"Are you alright?" The older brother walked over, squatted down, and looked at him.

Tianci nodded, speechless.

Looking at his younger brother's stubborn face, Cang Lifeng's heart softened. He reached out and ruffled Tianci's hair, whispering, "That's how martial arts training is. You have to persevere, and you'll grow stronger. You're more resilient than I thought. Remember, martial arts training is like sharpening a knife; slow and steady wins the race. Only with a calm mind can your movements be accurate."

Tianci's eyes brightened. He remembered the blood on his elder brother's leg, and how straight his brother stood in the Wang family's courtyard. He wanted to ask: When can I be like you? But the words caught in his throat.

In the days that followed, he continued to learn slowly. When practicing routines, his movements often appeared clumsy and laughable due to his poor coordination, drawing hushed chuckles from others. But he seemed oblivious, silently repeating the movements again and again. The laughter fell on him like raindrops hitting a stone, splashing but leaving no trace. Sometimes his older brother would come over to help him correct his posture, which he would carefully memorize, practicing the next movement a hundred times.

As the sun rose higher, the shadows on the threshing floor grew shorter and shorter. With each challenge to his physical limits, he experienced something unprecedented: a sense of control over his own body, a solid power that took root from his feet and slowly spread upwards. The past mockery and bullying seemed to be gradually shaken away by the daily beatings. His fists might not be hard enough, but his spine, silently, was straightening inch by inch.

In the stillness of the night, Cang Lifeng often paced alone on the threshing ground. Gazing at the starry sky, he felt little joy at his success, but rather a heavy sense of responsibility. He knew that Wang Zhenkun would not give up easily, and the current calm was merely an illusion. He suppressed all his worries, becoming even stricter in training, meticulously breaking down each move and technique for the boys. He taught them not only martial arts, but also a sense of vigilance in adversity and the resilience to stick together for mutual support.

Time flows like water, quietly passing by. By the early summer of the following year, the reputation of the "Xiqiao Martial Arts Team" had spread far and wide. Neighboring villages would often invite them to perform lion dances and martial arts for weddings and funerals, in exchange for a small fee. This meager income, like a trickle of water, quietly nourished the Cang family's long-parched lives.

After a day's work, Cang Zhenye gazed at the group of energetic figures on the threshing ground, his eyes finally settling on his third son, whose every move was beginning to take shape and whose eyes were calm. He squatted down, took out his pipe, lit it, and took a deep drag. The pungent smoke filled his lungs, and his long-furrowed brows seemed to finally relax a little in the rising wisps of smoke. But when his gaze swept over the high walls of the village secretary's courtyard, a trace of worry quietly flashed across his eyes again.

Unbeknownst to him, within those high walls, a window was slightly ajar. Through that crack, a pair of eyes peered out.

Those eyes were fixed on the direction of the threshing ground, on the young figure standing at the front of the crowd. They watched for a long, long time.

Then, the window was closed.

But the instant it closed, something seeped out from the crack.