ebookslot Chapter 48 White Ape Dragging its Blade
Chapter 48 White Ape Dragging its Blade
Zhou Xing left the warehouse and did not return to the old city wall, but went directly to the lower reaches of the Haihe River.
The night breeze carried the fishy smell of water, cool and refreshing on my face. In the distance, the sparse lights of the dock reflected on the river, making the water surface shimmer like scattered gold.
He found a secluded river bend with an abandoned threshing ground on the bank. The ground was spacious, and weeds grew in the cracks between the stone slabs.
Stand still and close your eyes.
The last trace of warmth from Han Muxia's ring in his arms dissipated. Immediately, a torrent of "something" crashed into his mind.
The muscle memory of countless times: the soles of the feet brushing the ground, twisting the waist, and rotating the hips;
The "mud-walking" motion where the soles of the feet grip the ground and then rub off;
The waist rotates left and right like a millstone, driving the "twisting" intention that runs through the shoulders, elbows, and wrists;
The "cold and crisp" sensation of the palm edge cutting through the air, from loose to tight, and then suddenly exploding.
Baguazhang (Eight Trigrams Palm).
Walk first, change is in the feet; turn like a millstone, every step is like a lotus flower. The palm changes with the body, the body moves with the steps.
Twisting, wrapping, drilling, and flipping, like a dragon playing in the water; advancing, retreating, dodging, and spreading, like a hawk darting through the forest.
As the boxing proverb says, "With the unified energy of Hunyuan, one can roam the world; the truth of Bagua is my home. Every move is inseparable from the changes in the feet; standing firm is like a flower landing on the ground."
All the foundational knowledge of Bagua that Han Muxia practiced, comprehended, and passed on in the first half of his life is contained here.
There are also three deadly moves, imbued with the burning intensity of blood and fire:
The white ape drags its blade, the green dragon turns its head, and the swallow skims the water.
Zhou Xing opened his eyes and exhaled a long breath of white air.
Back then, Han Muxia used Baguazhang to beat the Russian strongman Kantel to death on the Tianjin stage, making a name for himself and giving Chinese martial artists a sense of pride.
Today, in the underground boxing cage, he killed "Iron Fist" Andre. Although he used Wing Chun, his spirit of punishing foreigners and promoting Chinese martial arts was exactly the same.
Time and space intersect, and thoughts connect.
Zhou Xing's feet moved.
No need to think, the body remembers naturally.
Each step was taken with the soles of the feet scraping the ground, as if plowing through mud, heavy and sticky.
With a turn of his body, his waist became like a millstone, his right arm swung out, the edge of his palm like a knife, and a low whistle rang out in the air.
Then came a continuous stroll around.
The steps are always moving, and the body is always twisting.
With both palms, whether pushing, supporting, piercing, or cutting, always protect the central gate and never stray from the vital point.
The circles underfoot seemed light and agile, but each step carried a backward "pushing" force.
When fast, it's like a whirlwind sweeping across the ground, its clothes fluttering in the wind; when slow, it's like an old ox plowing a field, each step firmly planted in place.
It was clearly just basic palm movements, yet it felt as if they had been practiced countless times. The stretching of muscles, the twisting of joints, and the trembling of fascia were all executed with practiced ease and frightening precision.
After completing a set of palm strikes, Zhou Xing stood up, his breath long and steady, his eyes gleaming with a restrained sharpness.
He raised his hand and drew the Gong family's short sword from his lower back.
The blade was like autumn water, reflecting the waning moonlight.
Baguazhang (Eight Trigrams Palm) originated from swordsmanship. With a single sword, the focus is on the hand; with two swords, the focus is on movement. The palm is the sword, and the sword is the palm.
Previously, Zhou Xing used a knife in a straightforward manner, quickly entering and exiting, seeking "speed, accuracy, and ruthlessness," without any fancy moves.
At this moment, the "intention" of Baguazhang entered, and the feeling of holding the knife was immediately different.
The knife seemed to come alive, becoming an extension of the arm, an integral part of the movement, turning, twisting, and flipping.
He walked in circles, the knife following his movements.
Whether slashing or stroking, stabbing or cutting, the blade's light is no longer a sharp, straight line, but takes on an arc, wrapping around a circle, like a dragon coiled around a pillar.
With a shift in footwork, the sword's momentum changes; with a twist of the waist, the blade is concealed.
As he walked, he suddenly stopped, as if he had lost all his strength and was leaning forward.
The next instant, as if stepping on a spring, he pushed off the ground with all his might, his waist and spine connected segment by segment, twisting his body and turning his hips. Using this twisting momentum, the arm holding the knife swung up from a very concealed spot under his ribs, from bottom to top!
The blade sliced through the air with a backward "dragging" force, as if a heavy weight was being pulled behind the blade.
White ape drags its blade!
"laugh--"
Beside it, an old willow tree, as thick as a bowl, had silently acquired a smooth cut about an inch deep on its trunk. The stubble at the break was fresh and moist.
Zhou Xing sheathed his sword, glanced at the knife mark, and turned to leave.
……
The attic is on the edge of the old town, next to a cluster of messy, low-rise houses, but on slightly higher ground.
It was originally a warehouse used by a small business to store dry goods, but it later fell into decline and was bought by a distant relative of Li Wenyong, and has remained empty ever since.
From here, the outline of the Guo family's several courtyards is clearly visible in the night, and you can even glimpse the reflection of the weapon racks next to the martial arts training ground in the backyard.
The place Li Wenyong chose was indeed very particular.
Zhou Xing reached downstairs and was about to take out his keys when he stopped.
A strand of hair he had tucked into the door frame before leaving was gone.
Someone has been inside.
Zhou Xing's eyes turned cold. A charity? They've gotten their hands on us so quickly?
He took a few steps back and looked at the two-story building.
There is a narrow alley on the side, piled with debris, and old drainage pipes and brick seams on the walls.
He took a deep breath, and using both hands and feet, he climbed up the iron pipe like a cat, his body pressed against the wall. Using the windowsill and the gaps between the bricks for leverage, he moved upwards silently.
There is an extremely narrow veranda on the outside of the building, which was built for drying goods in the past. It is no more than half a foot wide, and the wooden strips are somewhat rotten.
Zhou Xing tiptoed on the wall, feeling as if he were walking on thin ice. His body was almost suspended in mid-air, and he moved little by little to the outside of his room by gripping the cracks in the wall and the windowsill with his fingers.
Hold your breath and listen carefully.
There was only the sound of breathing in the room.
The breathing was rough, scattered, and phlegmy. There were also slight chewing sounds mixed in with the breaths.
He doesn't seem like a trained martial artist.
Zhou Xing placed his fingers on the window frame, exerted a little force, and with a soft "click," the old latch inside was shaken open.
He gently pushed open a crack, slipped inside, and landed as softly as cotton.
There were no lights on inside, only a few rays of light from outside filtering in through the window.
A figure was sitting casually in a tattered rattan chair, legs crossed, holding a piece of bread in his hand, which was his prepared dry food, and he was chewing it with relish.
As if hearing a noise, the man turned his head and saw Zhou Xing. He wasn't surprised at all; instead, he rolled his eyes and mumbled:
"Oh, you're back?"
The man was in his forties, with a sallow complexion, sunken eyes, wearing a black jacket with a front opening, and an oddly shaped wide-brimmed Southeast Asian hat on his head.
He had an ordinary appearance, but his eyes were unique; the pupils were old and yellow, giving off a sinister vibe.
Seeing that Zhou Xing remained silent, he swallowed the biscuit, clapped the crumbs off his hands, and spoke in a matter-of-fact tone:
"I like this place. It's quiet and has a good view. I'll stay for a couple of days to take care of some things. Go, boil some hot water and get some clean bedding."
He pointed to the empty oil paper package on the ground:
"This pastry is too hard; it's tough on my teeth. I'll get something more delicate tomorrow."
Seeing that Zhou Xing remained silent, the man's brow furrowed.
"Are you deaf? I'm talking to you! I'm 'Yin En' from the 'Yi Guan Dao' sect. Serve me well, and you'll get your share of the rewards. Hurry up and don't upset me!"
Zhou Xing didn't move, but used the dim light to examine him.
The man was relaxed and unguarded, clearly taking him for the original owner of the attic, the unlucky fellow who had been sent on a "long trip" by Li Wenyong.
He had also heard of Yiguandao, a cult in Southeast Asia that claimed to have 100,000 followers and great supernatural powers.
What a coincidence.
The attic offers a panoramic view overlooking the surrounding streets and alleys.
This person chose this place probably for the convenience of observing the surroundings. Unfortunately, the original owner was "not here," and this newcomer has taken over and become an easy target.
Zhou Xingqi laughed.
He's always been the one scheming against others and stealing from them. This is the first time someone has broken into his territory, eaten his food, and then bossed him around like this.
Just as he was about to speak, suddenly,
"Waaah... Waaah..."
A very faint, high-pitched, and eerie cry came from a basket covered with a black cloth in the corner of the wall.
Like a baby, or a cat being choked.
The Southeast Asian man's expression changed slightly, then he relaxed and spat in the direction of the basket on his back:
"Keep your voice down! If you keep making noise, I'll refine you!"
Seemingly sensing Zhou Xing's fear, he turned his head, a wicked smile spreading across his face, and lowered his voice:
"What are you afraid of? It's a spirit child, a concocted one, very obedient. If you don't provoke it, it won't hurt anyone..."
He didn't finish his sentence.
A flower in front of you.
He instinctively reached out to raise his hand, but felt a chill in his chest. Looking down, he saw an ancient-looking knife hilt embedded in his shirt.
The blade was completely submerged, leaving only the hilt.
He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but only a mouthful of bloody foam escaped. His finger trembled as he raised it, pointing at Zhou Xing, his eyes filled with shock and resentment.
"...Yi...Guandao...will...not...let them go..."
Zhou Xing twisted his wrist and drew his sword.
Blood spurted out, splattering onto the mottled wall. The man from Southeast Asia stiffened, slid off the wicker chair, curled up on the ground, twitched twice, and remained motionless.
Zhou Xing shook the blood off his knife, walked to the corner of the wall, and used the tip of his knife to lift the black cloth.
There was no baby in the basket.
Inside, a small black cat was curled up, skin and bones, and was tightly bound by several ropes stained with dark red runes.
It opened its bewildered eyes and let out a high-pitched, intermittent cry like a baby, with a ring of blood rapidly seeping from the edges of its eye sockets.
Zhou Xing recalled the scattered notes in Mr. Qin's journal:
They take newborn infants, process them with evil methods, mix them with animal fetuses, and use them to create animals... Their resentment and malice penetrate to the bone, making them neither human nor animal, and they are called "spirit children".
He gripped the knife and remained silent for a moment.
"This is the state of the world."
He cursed under his breath, flicked his wrist, and the tip of the knife precisely pierced the black cat's heart.
The crying stopped abruptly, and a hint of relief seemed to flash in those reddening eyes.
Zhou Xing stood still for a moment.
He walked back to the body, squatted down, took out the charity plaque he had obtained from Mr. Qin from his pocket, and stuffed it into the body's pocket, pretending it had slipped out from the inner pocket.
"I don't care about your Yiguandao sect, go seek revenge on the charity."
After doing all that, he got up and walked to the window.
Pushing open the window, the night breeze rushed in, washing away the stench of blood and the cloying, musty smell inside.
In the darkness, the outline of the Guo family's mansion was deep and indistinct, with only a few scattered lights.
In his arms, Guo Zhen's tiger tally token was cold and hard.
He was like the most patient hunter, hiding himself in the darkness of the attic, his eyes like a falcon's, firmly locking onto the prey in the distance.
The night breeze ruffled the stray hairs on his forehead, and moonlight streamed in through the slanted window, casting a soft silver glow on his profile.
The "Fishing for the Toad" technique operates silently, the breath gradually becoming long and subtle, as if merging with the cool moonlight.
It transformed into an old toad that inhaled and exhaled moonlight, awaiting the thunder.