From a tuberculosis patient to a martial arts master

"The government is the government after all. They have several kinds of secret martial arts techniques that they can break down into a few." Zhu Hong shook his head and flipped the book back to the front.

"Two thousand merits?"

Goodness, I wonder how many battles it will take to accumulate that much.

He composed himself and scanned the section on mundane martial arts: "Willow Catkin Sword Technique, Silk-Entangling Fist, Door-Severing Saber, Garment Saber, Three-Sword Slash Against the Wind, etc." The sheer variety was dazzling.

As he flipped through the pages, his gaze suddenly sharpened.

【Sword Drawing Stance】

The marginal note is just a few lines long, as simple as it gets:

"Draw your sword and strike."

"Just one move."

Zhu Hong frowned, and looking further down, he saw several lines of smaller characters, written in a very messy hand, as if some senior had casually added them:

"This move has very little room for error."

It is extremely wasteful of weapons; an ordinary iron knife will chip and break after only three to five uses. Moreover, it is extremely taxing on wrist strength, and should not be used lightly by anyone who does not possess great wrist strength.

Be very careful.

He stared at those lines of text for a long time, and a glimmer of light slowly appeared in his eyes.

This swordsmanship is plain and unchanging; it's just drawing the sword and slashing—that's all. Anyone else watching would probably laugh out loud: "You call this swordsmanship?"

But the more Zhu Hong looked at it, the more he liked it.

Why bother with so many fancy killing techniques?

As the saying goes:

Of all martial arts techniques, none are invincible except for speed.

A clean and decisive cut, removing the dross and retaining the essence, was exactly what he wanted.

Those sword techniques in the world that are said to be exquisite and unparalleled, once mastered, can have thirty-six variations, seventy-two consecutive moves, and thousands of techniques, all executed in a dazzling display.

Ultimately:

It cannot be separated from the most basic skills of chopping, hacking, slashing, and cutting.

Martial artists often seek to master a wide range of techniques when practicing swordsmanship, hiding their fundamental skills within complex routines, believing that the more variations they employ, the higher their martial arts level will be.

But this swordsmanship is the opposite; it discards all the fancy techniques and focuses solely on the drawing of the sword, practicing it relentlessly. At its peak, before you even see the sword, your head has already been severed.

This seemingly simplest strike may just be the essence of martial arts' return to simplicity and authenticity.

The art of martial arts is never about the number of moves.

No matter how many moves you have, if your opponent only strikes once, it will be so fast that you won't have time to counter it, and so strong that you won't be able to block it. What use are all the variations then?

As the saying goes, "Master one move and you can go anywhere in the world."

As for:

"Extremely wasteful of weapons; an ordinary iron knife will chip and break after only three or five uses." Zhu Hong muttered this, but the corners of his mouth curled up slightly.

So what if it's useless? Just prepare a few more knives.

As long as the knife is fast enough, one slash will take down the opponent; ten or eight slashes are nothing.

"Extremely demanding on wrist strength; those without exceptional wrist strength should not use it lightly." Upon seeing this sentence, his eyes shone even brighter.

Does it strain your wrists?

That would be great!

The more powerful he is, the easier it is to kill; this swordsmanship seems tailor-made for him.

"Mr. Han, I have made my choice."

Zhu Hong closed the booklet, looked up, and said softly, "I want this style, the sword-drawing stance."

"That door?"

Upon hearing this, a hint of surprise seemed to flash in Han Wu's senile old eyes. He propped his chin on his single arm and slowly said, "You really want to choose that one? It's just one move, not even a rank."

"Yes." Zhu Hong nodded, speaking slowly and deliberately:

"I'm not very bright, and I can't bite off more than I can chew. Mastering one move is better than having ten mediocre moves."

Han Wu stared at him for a while, then suddenly grinned:

"Alright, whatever you want."

With a single wave of his arm, Zhu Hong's waist token on the table flashed with a blue light, and his twenty merits vanished just like that. Then, he reached out and, seemingly from nowhere, grabbed a thin booklet and tossed it over casually.

"Take it."

Twenty points of merit are enough for you to practice for a lifetime.

Zhu Hong reached out and caught it.

Good heavens, this booklet is pitifully thin. The words "drawing the sword" are crookedly written on the cover, without even bothering to add the word "style".

He didn't care, stuffed the sword manual into his mustard seed bag, and spent ten merits to exchange for five of the most ordinary goose feather swords. He cupped his hands to Han Wu and said, "Thank you, Elder Han. I'll take my leave now." After saying that, he turned and left.

Han Wu watched his figure disappear through the door and muttered to himself:

"That's interesting."

……

Emerging from Guangchu Tower, Zhu Hong didn't rush to take on any cases, nor did he intend to head out of the city immediately. He stroked the hilt of his sword, thinking, "I should practice first, right? Otherwise, holding a sword without knowing how to draw and slash would be a waste, wouldn't it?"

Behind the guardhouse was a drill ground, which was used by the constables to practice martial arts.

He carried the sword manual and headed over there.

"Drink, drink—ha!"

When we arrived at the drill ground, there were quite a few people there.

A dozen or so young reserve officers were practicing their martial arts there, fighting enthusiastically. There weren't many official constables to be seen; they were probably all out earning merit points.

The venue wasn't large, but it was quite tidy.

Zhu Hong found the most secluded corner, far away from the group of reserve soldiers, before taking out the sword manual.

Open the homepage:

Only one page of illustrations is found in the book.

The martial artist, with his chest tucked in and back straight, was half-crouched like a fully drawn crossbow. His left hand pressed firmly against the hilt of the scabbard, while his right hand loosely gripped the hilt. His strength seemed to be gathering yet not gathering, a posture of drawing his sword ready to be unleashed, as if it were about to explode like thunder in an instant.

The next few lines of smaller text contained the mnemonic:

Focus your energy on your lower abdomen and channel your strength into your waist and spine.

The moment the sword is drawn, all the strength in the body is concentrated into a single line and released in an instant.

When the knife is drawn, the person advances; when the knife is withdrawn, the person stops.

Nothing more than speed.

Zhu Hong looked at the illustration over and over again more than a dozen times, memorizing the incantation by heart, before finally putting the sword manual away.

He flipped his wrist to remove the knife, the cold blade in his hand, his aura already solidified.

Close your eyes.

Recall the posture of that image in your mind:

Sink your waist and bend your knees.

Left foot forward, right foot back, left hand gripping the sheath, right hand pressing the hilt. Qi sinks to the dantian, power flows through the waist and spine…

Zhu Hong silently channeled his strength, channeling it down his spine into his right arm and converging at his wrist.

pull!

"Zheng—"

A flash of cold light burst forth from its sheath, tracing an arc in the afternoon sunlight before slicing into the air with a "whoosh."

Zhu Hong stood there holding the knife, but his brows were furrowed.

Too slow.

Moreover, when the sword was drawn, the strength in the waist and back did not connect with the arm, resulting in a break.

The knife was thrown out, but most of its force dissipated.

He sheathed his sword and took a deep breath:

"Again."

pull!

There was another "clang".

It's still too slow.

Zhu Hong did not give up.

The essence of swordsmanship lies not in haste or seeking momentary speed.

练：

patience.

磨：

Determination.

That is the fundamental thing.

Once the decision was made, Zhu Hong focused intently on the task at hand.

He gripped the hilt, lowered his wrist, and with a swift motion, drew the blade. A clear, resonant "clang" rang out as the cold blade was drawn from its sheath.

Sheathing

Pull it out again.

Harvest again, then pull again.

Once, twice, ten times, thirty times, fifty times...

The sun slowly moved westward.

The shadow stretched longer and longer from my feet.

The group of reserve soldiers who had been training had long since finished and dispersed, leaving only him on the vast training ground, repeatedly drawing and sheathing his sword.

My arms are sore, but I grit my teeth and keep going.

My wrist is swollen, so I rub it with my left hand a couple of times and then continue.

The blade is chipped; let's get a new one and continue.

……