Chapter 61: Ye Wen

After bidding farewell to Sun Lutang, Wang Yan left Shanghai and continued southward.

This time, he departed much faster; powerful figures like Gong Baosen, Li Shuwen, and Sun Lutang—all influential in both martial and political circles—had vouched for him, and with his own strength, by now virtually no one remained ignorant of his reputation. He primarily visited renowned masters for brief exchanges: if they were willing to teach, he accepted; if not, he did not force them.

Until now, the items in his space, the knowledge stored in his memory, and the insights gained along this journey amounted to an immense reservoir. He had engaged in nearly a hundred battles with weapons and bare hands, and none of his opponents were weak.

By September, when he arrived in Foshan, Wang Yan’s combat skills had reached Level 4. At this point, reaching Level 5 would require only steady, patient refinement—not something achievable overnight.

Stepping out of the train station, Wang Yan saw someone holding a sign bearing his name, waiting to greet him.

Status and seniority were taken seriously, especially in this era. Without exaggeration, he was currently the most prominent figure in the martial world, and everyone watched his every move. Indeed, many had no real skill yet still put on airs of seniority, holding themselves high. He had seen enough of this on his journey.

Arriving in Foshan, he found the reception acceptable; though they likely came for the influence behind him, they had still shown him proper respect.

Walking to the man’s side, Wang Yan said: “Brother, greetings. I am Wang Yan. May I ask which elder invited me?”

“Mr. Wang, greetings. Chairman Chen of the Jingwu Association sent me. Please follow me—he has already prepared a banquet.” With that, he nodded to Wang Yan and turned to lead the way.

At the destination, Wang Yan gazed at the six-story building before him, its facade bearing a large golden plaque inscribed with the characters “Gonghe Lou” in bold, swirling calligraphy.

This must be the Golden Building from the film.

Among the dust of the martial world, there are surely passionate souls? Yet even the softest embrace can be a hero’s grave.

Today, the Jingwu Association had rented the entire building, so nearly everyone inside was from Foshan’s martial circles.

As Wang Yan entered the grand hall on the top floor, all eyes turned toward him—they wanted to see the young man who had forged his reputation through sheer fists.

Striding forward, Wang Yan stepped into the center and bowed to the middle-aged man seated at the main seat: “Your humble disciple, Wang Yan, greets Chairman Chen.” After speaking, he rose and bowed in a full circle to all present: “Greetings to all esteemed fellow martialists here.”

“No need for such formalities. Sit down,” Chairman Chen gestured.

After Wang Yan sat, Chairman Chen continued: “Everyone here knows your intentions, and your purpose is understood by all. There is no issue. The elders before you have set the example—we cannot let the martial world laugh at us.”

“But you have traveled from north to south—Foshan is your final battle. What do you plan to do next?”

Wang Yan set down his teacup and said: “I intend to remain in Foshan for a while to organize what I have learned over the past year.” Then, recalling the matter of opening a school, he added: “However, rest assured—I, Wang Yan, will not open a school or teach students in Foshan.”

Before Chairman Chen could speak, a burly man holding a woman blurted out: “What nonsense, Brother Wang! Opening a school is no problem at all! But since you’ve said it, we’ll take you at your word.” This man, impatient, rushed to cement Wang Yan’s promise not to open a school.

Others joined in, echoing the burly man’s words. They were afraid—Wang Yan’s undefeated record from north to south meant that if he opened a school, what chance would they have? Martial arts were a livelihood—what did they eat and drink?

Chairman Chen glanced at Wang Yan, who sipped tea indifferently, then turned to the crowd with a grim face—they had disgraced Foshan’s martial reputation.

Gradually, the crowd noticed Chairman Chen’s expression and fell silent. Yet they paid no mind—they had chosen Chen as chairman for their own interests; otherwise, why even have him?

“Enough. Let’s move to the main matter,” Chairman Chen said. He understood the situation perfectly—he could not control them, so he swallowed his anger.

Wang Yan nodded, set down his teacup, stood, stepped to the center, and bowed: “I humbly request your instruction.”

A thirty-something man with thick eyebrows and bright eyes stepped forward—it was undoubtedly Ye Wen. Ye Wen was actually quite reluctant, but with so many elders present, he had no choice but to step up.

Ye Wen stepped opposite Wang Yan, bowed, and said: “Yongchun, Ye Wen. Please instruct me.” He stepped back, assuming his signature Wen Shou stance.

Wang Yan had long grown tired of such formalities—he launched a whip kick directly. Ye Wen raised his arm to block, but the immense force sent him staggering sideways several steps—he lost the initiative immediately. Though Wang Yan had used only a fraction of his strength, the power was still beyond what most could endure. Wang Yan did not press the advantage. Ye Wen shook his numb arm, regained his stance, and focused intently on Wang Yan’s movements.

Wang Yan stomped his left foot and delivered a straight punch toward Ye Wen. Ye Wen, prepared, sidestepped and blocked Wang Yan’s arm, then opened his stance and thrust a Biao Zhi finger strike at his throat. Wang Yan calmly blocked with his other arm, redirected Ye Wen’s force with a slight pull, then stomped his left foot again, stepped forward with his right, and closed in with a Tie Shan Kao shoulder strike. Ye Wen spun away, then kicked diagonally at Wang Yan’s shin. Wang Yan dodged—no success. Simultaneously, Ye Wen launched twin fists in rapid strikes.

The two exchanged a few more moves. Through this brief exchange, Wang Yan assessed Ye Wen’s level—he was still far behind his own. Wang Yan swung his left fist from right to left, absorbed two strikes, then swept Ye Wen’s fists aside. As Ye Wen shifted his stance, Wang Yan drove a top elbow straight into his chest.

Ye Wen was too slow to dodge—it was impossible. He gritted his teeth and took it. Seeing Ye Wen’s condition, Wang Yan quickly retracted his elbow and twisted his waist, pushing Ye Wen back several steps. Wang Yan had no choice—he hadn’t used full power, but the technique had been too forceful to stop. Fortunately, he had altered it slightly; otherwise, that elbow strike might have broken ribs. Compared to that, this was the best outcome.

Wang Yan bowed to Ye Wen, who had just steadied himself: “Your courtesy.”

Ye Wen straightened his robes and returned the bow: “Thank you.”

“Excellent skill!” The crowd erupted in cheers now that the outcome was clear.

No one blamed Ye Wen—they all knew Wang Yan’s level. They merely felt relieved: thank heavens he won’t open a school.

“Excellent! Truly formidable,” Chairman Chen said. “You’ve sparred enough. Brother Wang, you’ve traveled far and must be hungry. Let’s eat and talk.”

Wang Yan nodded in agreement, then turned to Ye Wen: “Master Ye, we must drink properly.”

“I’ll drink with you till the end,” Ye Wen replied. Though he had lost honorably, he was still displeased—no one liked losing.

Wang Yan nodded and followed them to the banquet.

Martial artists eat and drink heartily—the table was littered with dishes, and merriment ran high.

Yet during the meal, Wang Yan noticed a dish of snake soup. He forced himself to eat a bite, savoring it—it was indeed delicious, and clearly made from ingredients aged for decades.

During a pause, Wang Yan slipped quietly to the kitchen and addressed the figure’s back: “Disciple Wang Yan. May I ask if you are surnamed Ding?”

When Wang Yan first arrived, though he moved softly, Ding Lianshan had immediately noticed—he was a man whose survival depended on vigilance, a trait ingrained in his bones.

Slowly turning, Ding Lianshan fixed Wang Yan with piercing, murderous eyes: “You are mistaken.”

Wang Yan bowed respectfully and smiled: “Don’t frighten me, Elder. I cannot believe such a commotion in the Golden Building would go unnoticed by you.”

Ding Lianshan smiled, his expression instantly softening: “You’re a good lad.” He added a log to the stove and continued: “I know your ambition—it’s good. But in life, steel that is too rigid breaks easily. You must know when to yield and when to hold. It’s time to temper your edge.”

Wang Yan nodded in agreement. He had no choice—he had been undefeated from north to south, and even with his godlike perspective, he had outwardly shown humility and courtesy. Yet inwardly, he had grown a little arrogant, his sharpness too visible—he might as well have written “If you disagree, fight me” on his face.

Then Ding Lianshan asked Wang Yan about the current situation in Northeast China and the recent state of the Gong family, and they spoke for a while.

As if losing interest in conversation, Ding Lianshan turned back to the stove and said: “Go. Don’t tell Baosen I’m here—he’ll worry.”

Wang Yan understood: Ding Lianshan missed home and didn’t want to talk further. He knew how hard it was to leave one’s homeland. Besides, Ding Lianshan’s current situation was precarious—if anyone recognized him, he’d be forced into hiding again. He had no real connection with Ding Lianshan; the man had spoken to him only out of respect for Gong Baosen. He didn’t seek anything from Ding Lianshan—he already possessed all those skills himself.

He did not press further: “I will remain in Foshan for some time. If you need anything, find me. I take my leave.”

He returned to deal with the others, and the day passed.

The next day, Wang Yan awoke in his inn. After packing, he rented a courtyard near Ye’s mansion, bought miscellaneous supplies, and officially settled in Foshan.

In the following days, Wang Yan visited local elders as usual. He had no status to warrant formal banquets, so none of them had been present at the Golden Building.

One day, Wang Yan brought wine, tea, and cooked meats to the Ye family mansion.

He knocked on the gate. Soon, an old servant opened it.

Wang Yan held up his gifts and said: “Please inform your master—Wang Yan has come to call.”

The servant nodded and said, “Wait a moment,” then turned and entered.

Wang Yan waited patiently, then saw Ye Wen hurry out with the servant, bowing from afar: “Brother Wang, you came without warning—I should have greeted you! Please come in.”

“Haha, Brother Ye, you’re too kind,” Wang Yan said, handing his gifts to the servant and following Ye Wen inside.

As they walked, Ye Wen asked: “What brings you here, Brother Wang?”

“After our last sparring, I found your techniques extraordinarily refined. I’ve come to discuss them further.”

“Of course, of course.”

As they spoke, they reached Ye Wen’s main hall, where Ye Wen’s wife, Zhang Yongcheng, sat eating with their child.

Wang Yan apologized: “Oh dear, I’ve come at a bad time. My apologies, Brother Ye.”

“No matter. Have you eaten? If not, join us?”

“That would be too much trouble, Brother Ye. I brought a roast chicken and braised pig’s trotters—let’s share.” Wang Yan accepted immediately.

Ye Wen froze. I was just being polite! He accepted right away? And brought extra food? Shouldn’t he have refused once or twice before reluctantly agreeing?

“Very well,” Ye Wen said. “Xiang, bring the food up and add another set of chopsticks.” He invited Wang Yan to sit, then turned to the servant. A meal was nothing to him.

Wang Yan sat and greeted Zhang Yongcheng: “Sister, hello. I’m Wang Yan. And Brother Ye, don’t be formal—call me Ayen.”

Zhang Yongcheng nodded politely to Wang Yan, said “Okay,” then returned to her meal in silence.

Ye Wen added: “Then don’t be formal either. I’m a few years older—call me Wen Ge.”

Wang Yan also greeted Ye Wen’s son, Ye Zhun, who was only seven years old.

The meal was quiet—they were still unfamiliar and needed time to adjust.

After eating, they sat to drink tea. Ye Wen offered Wang Yan a cigarette, which Wang Yan accepted with thanks.

They smoked in silence, then began talking.

Ye Wen primarily spoke of his understanding of Yongchun—its power techniques, subtle details. Each person had unique insights—even when practicing the same art, outcomes differed. This process truly benefited Wang Yan.

“Enough, Wen Ge. Don’t see me off—I live just two streets away. I’ll surely trouble you again.”

“Don’t be formal, Ayen. I welcome you anytime. Goodbye.”

After Wang Yan left, Zhang Yongcheng said: “This friend of yours is decent—he brings gifts when visiting, even if he eats them all himself.”

Ye Wen shook his head, saying nothing. He suspected Wang Yan had come just for the free meals.

Wang Yan strolled down the street, thinking. He still needed time to grow closer to Ye Wen—they were still somewhat distant.

In 1931, on September 18, the Japanese army bombarded the Beidaying barracks. The next day, they seized Fengtian.

Whether it was Zhang Xueliang or Chiang Kai-shek who gave the order didn’t matter—the policy of non-resistance was already set. News spread, and the entire nation erupted in outrage—protests, marches, public fury. But in the end, it was all futile. At root, weakness was the original sin.

Wang Yan wrote to Gong Baosen in Fengtian to inquire about his safety and sent letters to his elder acquaintances to check on them. The matter passed. He could do nothing—perhaps he could kill a few dozen or hundred Japanese soldiers if he returned to the Northeast, but it wouldn’t change the overall situation. Worse, his killings might provoke Japanese reprisals against local civilians.

Political matters were beyond the reach of a mere martial artist.

A ripple stirred in Foshan’s martial circles, then quickly faded—the Golden Building remained as it always was.

In the following weeks, Wang Yan spent his days refining techniques and occasionally practicing calligraphy. Sometimes he visited Foshan’s renowned clinic to study medicine—a privilege he had earned through generous gifts. He had long studied sports medicine, both to understand his own body and to learn how to strike harder and kill faster. He knew massage and bone-setting. But now, learning from the clinic’s masters, he studied authentic medicine—from memorizing texts, identifying herbs, preparing prescriptions, to understanding medical theory.

Occasionally, Wang Yan would drop by Ye Wen’s home for meals—his relationship with them had grown steadily warmer. Ye Wen was no petty man—he could accept defeat. Moreover, Wang Yan’s knowledge far surpassed Ye Wen’s; their exchanges often resembled Wang Yan giving Ye Wen a one-sided lecture.

As always, the more Wang Yan was known, the more magnetic he became. Ye Wen was captivated—he was a martial addict. Had Wang Yan not been so busy, Ye Wen would have followed him around all day.

Through Ye Wen, Wang Yan met his friend Zhou Qingquan. With intent to connect, they became instant friends and started a business together. For the past year, Wang Yan had never been wealthy—he traveled everywhere with elders showing him favor, and they were all wealthy men.

But in Foshan, it was different—he was settling down, not visiting. No one took responsibility for him.

To do business, he needed staff—and to support staff, he needed money. So he borrowed funds from Gong Baosen and, with Ye Wen and Zhou Qingquan, launched a venture: Wang Yan provided guidance, Zhou Qingquan handled operations, and Ye Wen simply enjoyed the ride—everyone was pleased.