Chapter 34: Midstream Pillar, Wind and Water Rising

Once the agreement was made, Chief Wu seemed even more cheerful.

At the evening’s song and dance gathering, neither side mentioned the Caiyun Flute again, merely resting and enjoying themselves fully.

The fiery dance moves by the bonfire, the loud singing of men and women, illuminated half the night sky.

Chu Tianshu focused solely on eating, devouring one grilled fish after another—alternating between one with bones and one without, changing his method to change the texture.

Some young girls in the village, seeing that he was the youngest among their group and possessed a calm, refined demeanor, wanted to pull him into the dance.

But once he started eating, others saw his ravenous manner and suspected he must have been starving terribly—so they hesitated to disturb him.

Wu Tugu, seeing his eating style, grew even more pleased, picked up a wine jug, and sat down beside him.

“True hero, I can’t say about the other two trials, but in mine, you’ll definitely be the one to face me.”

Wu Tugu also grabbed a grilled fish slightly longer than an adult’s palm, swallowed it in two bites, and muttered, “The three trials left by our ancestors are also performed as entertainment every New Year.”

“But back then, no outsiders came to challenge me; those in the village were all weaker than me—I got bored of winning.”

Chu Tianshu ground his molars, crushing the fish bones, and smiled: “So tomorrow we’ll test our strength—don’t get too drunk, or you’ll blame it on not being sober enough when you lose.”

Wu Tugu glared at him: “You’re awfully arrogant—but tomorrow isn’t even my turn.”

“Tomorrow’s first trial is called ‘Midstream Pillar’—it should be overseen by Ze Wa.”

Chu Tianshu pondered: “‘Midstream Pillar’—just from the name, does it mean standing under a river waterfall or something similar, enduring the current to see who lasts longer?”

“Hahahaha, it’s not just that— they’re probably preparing now. I’ll take you to see.”

Wu Tugu pushed off the table with his palm and rose like a house standing upright.

When Chu Tianshu stood, his head barely reached Wu Tugu’s chest; unaccustomed to being so close, he waited a few steps before following.

The two circled around the mountain base and reached the mid-slope on the other side.

This spot was close to the village, with no tall bamboo or trees—only stubborn, hard-to-cut roots and vast stretches of grassland.

A river five to six meters wide rushed down from the mountain peak, its water clear enough to see the stones at the bottom.

Wu Ze Wa was leading a group here, making preparations.

They transported large quantities of green bamboo from farther away, cut them into lengths of three to four chi, carved notches at the nodes, filled them with crushed stone and soil, then sealed the notches with wooden plugs.

Normally, bamboo would float on water, but with the soil and stones inside, it became partially submerged and partially buoyant.

That is, if placed gently and flatly into the water, it would float on the surface.

But if pushed slightly harder or angled wrong, it might sink temporarily and be swept downstream—by the time it reached the mountain’s foot, it might never resurface.

Wu Ze Wa and his men were repeatedly testing, adjusting the exact amount of soil and stone to fill.

The river’s current was swift.

Chu Tianshu watched the bamboo, partially submerged and bobbing, accelerate after entering the water until they shot downhill like crossbow bolts—his heart stirred slightly.

“This is...”

The next morning, the sun blazed overhead.

“This is the first trial.”

“Ten thousand arrows downstream—the brave stand as midstream pillars!”

Chief Wu arrived at the riverbank with a large crowd, briefly explained the three-trial contest, then announced loudly:

“Ze Wa, let our guests see the power of the first trial.”

Wu Ze Wa ordered his men to tie several sacks filled with soil and stones by their necks and throw them into the river.

The river, besides its speed, was not very deep.

After the sacks were thrown in, part of each remained above water, resembling a fat man standing in the current.

Upstream, dozens of bamboo poles were released; carried by the current, they bobbed and sank, accelerating rapidly.

At first, everyone could clearly see the bamboo entering the water; by the last ten meters, it was nearly impossible to count how many were rushing toward them.

Puff! Puff-puff-puff!!!

The sharp tips of the bamboo plunged deep into the sacks, dark water oozing from the ruptures.

The crowd immediately pulled the ropes, dragging the sacks ashore.

The bamboo had pierced half a foot deep into the sacks—making everyone shudder at the thought of what would happen if they struck a human body.

Chu Tianshu had seen this the night before; now, he remained calm.

Old Yu’s face grew grave; he whispered: “The ones on the surface are one thing—but those rising from underwater? Extremely dangerous!”

After traveling together this long, Chu Tianshu knew Old Yu’s real name was Yu Zhi—he had once been a famed wandering swordsman.

But his right arm had been severed; what he now called his right arm was a wooden prosthetic.

Hidden inside the prosthetic was a blade—the wooden palm served as the hilt; when needed, he gripped his “right hand” with his left and drew the blade straight from the “arm,” his fighting style fierce and not to be underestimated.

Yet his body was unbalanced; water combat was extremely disadvantageous for him.

Little Huo was a gunner named Huo Ming, a soldier by training; during his time at the Martial Academy, he broke through in fist cultivation, excelled in evaluations, and became Cai Shanjun’s bodyguard—his gunnery skills had continued to improve, and were highly impressive.

At his best, he carried eight fine guns on his person, with a whole suitcase of magazines beside him; now, only the two pistols in his side holsters still held full magazines.

Facing the “Midstream Pillar” trial, fine lines creased his brow; he pressed his lips shut, saying nothing.

“Once this trial begins, three hundred bamboo poles will be released from upstream in batches. The challenger must stand on this stretch of riverbed and ensure he is not struck at all from start to finish.”

“But this is merely the requirement for the annual New Year performance. Now, since we’re competing for victory, if neither side is injured, it’s hard to determine superiority—so we add one more rule.”

Chief Wu pointed downstream and continued:

“We’ve stretched five layers of hemp nets downstream, their mesh becoming finer—enough to catch the bamboo poles rushing down.”

“The challenger carries no weapons, relying only on hands and feet. He must not only avoid injury but also break or snap the bamboo poles. Downstream personnel will retrieve them afterward, assess their condition, and count how many the challenger successfully broke.”

Chu Tianshu’s eyes flickered—this rule was new to him, not mentioned yesterday.

Breaking bamboo on the water’s surface is harder than breaking it on land.

A strike sends the bamboo swaying; the current dissipates the force.

Hitting bamboo beneath the surface demands punching through the water first—energy loss is immense.

The villagers, who had watched these performances during past New Years, had never found them remarkable—but now, with the added rule, they buzzed with chatter, crowding forward.

Some couldn’t push through, so they walked to the riverbanks upstream and downstream, standing on tiptoe, eager to watch.

Wu Ze Wa stepped to Cai Shanjun’s side, bowed, and said: “Respected benefactor, I admire you—but these three trials are witnessed by the Cave Goddess and our ancestors. I will give my all.”

Cai Shanjun replied: “Giving your all is only right. Those bamboo poles are dangerous—be careful.”

Wu Ze Wa raised an eyebrow and laughed: “Good!”

He turned, stripped off his shirt, pants, and shoes, and walked into the water, unwinding the hemp ropes from his forearms and tossing them ashore.

The moment his bare feet touched the stones, clear ripples washed over the fine hairs on his calves.

When Wu Ze Wa reached the river’s center, the water reached his chest—and the current splashed white foam against his chest.

It was now unmistakable how swift the river truly was!

Wu Ze Wa took a deep breath, slightly raised his toes, then settled his stance firmly, raised his arm, and shouted upstream: “Release!”

Batches of green bamboo plunged into the water.

On the glittering surface, flashes of green appeared and vanished, accelerating rapidly.

Even as opponents, Chu Tianshu and the others felt growing tension for the man in the river.

The villagers on shore fell utterly silent, eyes fixed, not a sound—afraid to disturb Wu Ze Wa.

Whoosh!!

Wu Ze Wa’s arm suddenly slashed into the water.

White waves erupted around him in a frenzy of sharp cracks.

Bamboo poles were constantly knocked aside, shattered.

Shattered bamboo shards flew into the air, some landing on shore—those too close scrambled to evade.

Chu Tianshu flipped his palm, flicked a flying shard away with his fingernail, eyes locked, not an inch of ground yielded.

He realized Wu Ze Wa’s hands were not using fists or palms to fight the bamboo—they formed a snake-fist posture.

When plunged into water, this gesture caused bubbles to surge and burst, producing a whistling sound like a bamboo flute blown underwater.

Water’s resistance did not feel as thick to Wu Ze Wa as one might imagine.

His arms moved like a venomous snake flicking, then like a waterbird diving to snatch prey.

This fist style must have been designed specifically to gain its rhythm in water.

Soon, no more bamboo floated down from upstream.

Downstream, besides intact poles, the water’s surface was covered in bamboo fragments.

The villagers assigned to retrieve them began hauling in the nets and counting.

Chu Tianshu closed his eyes, pinched his nose bridge, and said: “One hundred forty-four.”

After a moment, the villagers shouted their count—excluding the intact poles, exactly one hundred forty-four had been broken.

Three hundred floating arrows—less than half broken—yet even Chu Tianshu felt considerable pressure.

The river had considerable width; the bamboo poles untouched weren’t unbreakable—they simply lay beyond Wu Ze Wa’s reach.

A man’s arm span is limited; while busy breaking bamboo on one side, he couldn’t intercept those on the other.

Wu Ze Wa walked ashore, his hands red; he quickly picked up the hemp ropes and bound them tightly around his forearms—clearly accustomed to this training.

Chief Wu was pleased with his skill and asked Cai Shanjun: “Who from your side will go next?”

Chu Tianshu was about to step forward when Zhong Jinqiu moved ahead: “I’ll go.”

Chu Tianshu exclaimed: “Uncle Zhong, your hand isn’t fully healed yet.”

Zhong Jinqiu picked up a dried radish, chewed twice with puffed cheeks: “You forgot what I cultivate?”

Chu Tianshu’s eyes flickered, glancing at Cai Shanjun.

Cai Shanjun merely smiled: “Do you think my few days of observing you can rival your own understanding of yourselves?”

Chu Tianshu patted Zhong Jinqiu on the shoulder: “Then let Uncle Zhong give it a try—but take it easy.”

Zhong Jinqiu chewed on dried radish as he walked silently into the water, leaving his clothes and pants on, only rolling up his sleeves a few times around his forearms.

The villagers of Wu Jiazhai, seeing this, followed him into the water, puzzled; some called out kindly, warning him to be careful—wet clothes weighed a thousand catties, and this was no joke.

That layer of clothing and pants offered no protection against bamboo, only drawbacks, no benefits.

Zhong Jinqiu glanced at those people, offering a faint smile, and shouted upstream: “Release them!”

Wu Zhaizhu bellowed the command again, and the people on shore fell silent.

As the bamboo first touched the water, Zhong Jinqiu spread his legs, turned slightly, and began practicing fist forms right there in the current.

Initial posture: Lazy Wash Coat, both hands push forward and pull single whip. Raise hands to gaze into emptiness, white crane spreads wings and flies skyward.

Step forward, strike the facing palm; shift and block, hammer strikes the chest. Like sealing, like closing, press forward; withdraw body, embrace tiger, push mountain…

Zhong Jinqiu’s movements were slow, limbs extended, body rising and falling, his head sometimes sinking beneath the surface; all watched, bewildered, hearts clenched with worry.

Suddenly, a streak of greenish-blue arrived beside him.

Floating bamboo shot like arrows, yet just as they came, his palm lifted, sweeping them sideways across the water, diverting them to the side, where they blocked two more bamboo poles, producing sharp crackling sounds.

A flood of bamboo shot in succession, and the air filled with continuous thuds and cracks.

Batch after batch of bamboo struck sideways, interweaving, moving with the flow, forming a circle around Zhong Jinqiu.

Only when the circle took shape did they realize: the water level around him seemed slightly lower than elsewhere.

As he practiced his fists, his figure moved back and forth, creating a vortex in the river.

Cloud Hands guard the entire body; even underwater leg movements could deflect bamboo.

The second batch of bamboo arrived, striking the circle of bamboo, only increasing its number.

Zhong Jinqiu did not break the current, did not chase the bamboo.

He merely followed the flow—Cloud Hands, wipe, press, spin, guide—the bamboo, making the vortex more distinct; the upstream force reached here and precisely pushed this heavy bamboo vortex, sustaining its rotation.

Vast quantities of bamboo rotated and rubbed together, producing a loud, rushing sound.

“Thus, use emptiness to control fullness, use softness to overcome hardness, use slowness to defeat speed…”

Zhong Jinqiu’s waist and abdomen trembled as he chanted aloud, stepping yin-yang steps in the water, executing Cloud Hand techniques.

Every bamboo pole rising to the surface was gently brushed aside by his palm.

The wooden plugs sealing the bamboo’s gaps suddenly burst open; cracks raced from the gaps straight through head to tail, splitting the bamboo into two pieces, mud and stone pouring out.

Clear water surged downstream and met the greenish vortex; the river water turned murky.

In the vortex, a blue-clad fist master’s technique grew smoother, flowing like clouds, natural as water finding its channel.

Long after—at least four or five times longer than Wu Zewa’s time—the bamboo still spun in this stretch of river.

Zhong Jinqiu leapt suddenly, stepping on the tightly packed bamboo fragments on the water’s surface, using their resistance to launch himself onto shore.

The vortex in the water immediately deformed and collapsed rapidly; a great heap of bamboo fragments surged downstream.

Zhong Jinqiu turned slowly, white vapor rising from his forehead; even soaked through, it was clear he sweated like paste, hands closing the posture.

“Cloud Hands borrow momentum—wind rises, water stirs.”

“And thus—Taiji!”

The people on shore fell utterly silent.

Chu Tianshu’s smile could no longer be hidden; he raised his left hand, thumb, index, and middle finger extended, voice loud and clear.

“Uncle Zhong succeeds—three hundred!”

(End of Chapter)