Chapter 4

Volume 1 Chapter 4: Hua Shanjiu and the Wensheng Fist

The fighters below the stage exchanged glances. Li Yan had put down the Thai fighter Chachai in just two exchanges—no one was willing to step up and invite bad luck at this moment.

“Hahaha, kid, the Kowloon boxing stage only opens when there are bets placed. Just now someone bet on Chachai to fight through the gauntlet, that’s why you got to fight. If no one bets to fight you, you can only step down and drum up business.”

The speaker was none other than the man in the white suit who had seen through Li Yan’s technique.

His pink shirt hung open, revealing the edge of a yaksha tattoo. A smile appeared on his abnormally pale face as he pulled a thick stack of banknotes from his breast pocket.

“None of those small fry are your match. Do you have the guts to fight one of my men? Win or lose, this fifty thousand is yours.”

The Kowloon Walled City’s fighting stages were ranked by tier. What Li Yan had just fought on was the fourth stage—a fighter who won on stage earned five thousand. This gold-chain suit man was opening with fifty thousand. Li Yan would have to win ten straight fights to earn that much.

In 1986 Hong Kong, a bowl of offal noodles cost ten dollars—a big, generous portion. A pack of Marlboros cost twenty. Fifty thousand dollars was an absolutely enormous sum.

Li Yan hadn’t particularly cared about this fifty thousand Hong Kong dollars at first. He could only stay here a month, and whether he’d even live to spend money was another question entirely. But when his gaze fell on the fifty thousand, peculiar characters actually slid across his vision.

Hong Kong dollars: Fifty thousand. Valuable item, exchangeable for five Yanfu points. Items of this type can only be exchanged after you have confirmed ownership.

Note: Even a single Yanfu point is something you crave.

The small-eyed fat man who had been so arrogant to Li Yan at first came running over with a fawning smile.

“Ninth Brother, Ninth Brother.”

The man in the white suit didn’t even glance at him, just stared at Li Yan on the stage.

“Well? Fighting or not?”

“Ninth Brother.” The fat man broke out in a cold sweat all down his back, but had no choice but to force a smile.

“Ninth Brother, if you’re in a good mood and want to bet on fights, pick any fighter here you like—I’ll have this bastard fight for you right away. But putting your own man on stage, that… that’s against the rules.”

Only then did Ninth Brother shift his gaze to the fat man’s greasy face, his tone unfriendly:

“Fatty, is your brain short-circuiting? Making me spend fifty thousand to watch fourth-stage trash fight? You take me, Hua Shanjiu, for a sucker?”

“Ninth Brother, how would I dare.” The fat man was about to say more, but Hua Shanjiu cut him off directly.

“You don’t need to say anything. I’m just letting my man have a bit of fun down there, and I’m paying in full. Which rule on the committee’s books says outsiders can’t step on stage? If Taishui has a problem with it, I’ll go apologize to him, alright? While I’m still in a good mood—get lost.”

The fat man was caught in a dilemma. Around Hua Shanjiu sat roughly forty or fifty punk-faced young gangsters, all eyeing him with unfriendly looks. He stole a glance at the committee staff member handling the registration slips, saw the man nod, and only then slunk away miserably.

“Kid, you’ve struck lucky!”

He ground his teeth and walked over to Li Yan, muttering under his breath.

“This man is a fitter in the ascendant from Wo Hop Sing, from the ‘mixed’ faction. Fight pretty, then take a few punches and lie down on the ground, and you’ll walk away with fifty thousand. Understand?”

Li Yan blinked: “Triads, huh?”

“Keep your wits about you and pray for yourself.”

“Sure.”

Li Yan’s expression was relaxed, even though his status bar showed high fever, bleeding, and inflammation—all complications of leukemia.

His physical condition was actually terrible. Aside from the fatigue, he’d get inexplicable gum bleeding or nosebleeds from time to time, and had even once suddenly fainted while practicing.

Yet Li Yan felt this was the peak moment he hadn’t experienced in months. The flesh-on-flesh impact of blows, the salty, metallic taste of blood rolling between lips and teeth—all of it stirred up that ferocity deep in his heart. That intensely powerful feeling of being alive.

Hua Shanjiu grinned and patted the shoulder of a freckle-faced young man beside him.

“Little Zhou, I know you’ve been itching for this. Get up on the stage and have some fun with this Baguazhang master.”

Little Zhou wasn’t tall, with sharp, short hair and a murderous air in his eyes. He stood up, didn’t take the aisle, but vaulted straight down from the stands. Then he climbed onto the platform.

Hua Shanjiu looked at the cold-faced Little Zhou and shook his head with a smile. This young brother of his had ancestral roots in Shandong and had also trained in traditional martial arts—not the flashy kind you learn in three or five years, but over a decade of deep immersion. He was qualified to open a school and take students at any national martial arts hall in Hong Kong. Sharp and deadly, he was one of Hua Shanjiu’s capable hands.

In his early years, Little Zhou had sparred with a Cheng-style Baguazhang master and suffered a huge loss—five ribs broken, right ear deafened. So for all these years, he’d always hoped to face another Baguazhang inheritor and settle that score. But Baguazhang was mostly passed down in the Beijing-Tianjin area, and Baguazhang schools in Hong Kong were as rare as phoenix feathers and qilin horns.

In the Kowloon Walled City, Hua Shanjiu did know of one legitimate Baguazhang inheritor—but give him ten more guts and he still wouldn’t dare ask that person to spar with his brother…

Standing on the platform, Little Zhou cupped his hands in salute—not like a gangster from a triad, but carrying a bit of the old-school martial artist’s bearing.

“Du Family Fist, Zhou Weitao. Please.”

Li Yan glanced at him.

“Hejian, Li Yan.”

Little Zhou frowned imperceptibly, a flash of anger passing through his eyes. He stepped forward, his elbow thrusting straight at Li Yan’s chest!

Li Yan lightly retreated half a step, letting most of the momentum of Little Zhou’s elbow pass, his left arm sweeping upward from below to hook the opponent’s elbow, his right foot kicking toward Little Zhou’s shin.

But when Li Yan made contact with Little Zhou’s elbow, he felt the opponent’s force release and immediately withdraw—and a strange feeling rose in his heart.

“A bit interesting.”

A sharp light burst in Little Zhou’s eyes. He spun with a circular step, evading Li Yan’s foot, his left fist hammering toward Li Yan’s temple from a diagonal below like an iron mallet!

Li Yan narrowed his eyes and, instead of advancing, retreated—his step angled, crashing toward Little Zhou’s chest, his right hand forming a claw to lock Little Zhou’s wrist, which was held at a sixty-degree angle. He intended to snap Little Zhou’s wrist.

The Du Family Fist was born from the old Hong Fist, and what it excelled at was precisely grappling and elbow strikes. Here Li Yan was using grappling against him—Little Zhou sneered.

He ignored Li Yan grabbing his left hand, dropped low, and reached a claw toward Li Yan’s crotch.

Li Yan reacted extremely fast, his knee rising to meet it and jar Little Zhou’s palm back. At the same time, his right hand exerted force outward, intending to twist and break Little Zhou’s left hand.

But a most peculiar force came through his grip—Li Yan exerted force yet couldn’t twist Little Zhou even a fraction. Meanwhile, Little Zhou’s fist was already hurtling toward Li Yan’s chin.

“A master!”

At this moment, Li Yan finally confirmed that this triad punk he’d encountered on the Kowloon Walled City’s underground boxing stage was actually a master who had fully grasped the essence of the Du Family Fist’s false-and-true force.

He released Little Zhou’s wrist and pulled back, flying into retreat.

Hua Shanjiu leaned forward, eyes fixed deadly on the stage. Only when he saw Li Yan retreat first did his clenched fist relax.

On the stage, Little Zhou stared coldly at Li Yan and said slowly: “You’re pretty arrogant.”

Li Yan squinted with a smile: “I just didn’t expect that a little triad punk would actually be a Du Family Fist master. Pity—the Wensheng Fist’s true transmission of the Tang Mu stance, yet you’ve taken up a crooked trade.”

These words seemed to hit Little Zhou’s sore spot. He spat and sneered at Li Yan without end.

“You’re a mainland murderer who smuggled himself into Kowloon—what right do you have to say I’ve taken a crooked trade? If Dong Haichuan knew he had a grand-disciple like you, he’d probably jump out of his coffin to clean house.”

Li Yan didn’t take Little Zhou’s mockery to heart at all. Smiling, he said: “Then I’ll go for real now.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The moment Little Zhou’s words fell, Li Yan—at least five steps away—had actually flown to right in front of him in an instant! That pale, cold face pressed straight toward his eyes!

Like a ghost!

Just then, a clear, bright voice carried over.

“It’s rare for Ninth Brother to grace our Kowloon to watch a kung fu match, but I don’t recall hearing that a red pole from Wo Hop Sing had joined our Kowloon’s stable hands.”

The moment these words were spoken, they drew the eyes of everyone on and below the stage.

Outside the hall, about thirty-odd figures appeared in vague silhouette, wearing black suits, faces unfriendly, each with a pistol tucked at the waist.

At the sight, Hua Shanjiu’s face rapidly darkened.