Chapter 65

(Today’s light drinking left me slightly drunk; I’m too sluggish to write clearly, and even I’m confused by what I wrote—don’t bother reading it.)

The fifteenth day of the ninth month in the twenty-sixth year of the Republic of China; October 18, 1937, in the Gregorian calendar.

Wang Yan’s wedding day.

At Foshan’s wine house, guests poured in that day, the scene bustling and lively.

The wedding was simple; even Gong Er and Gong Baosen said nothing. Given the times, it was already good enough.

Amidst gunfire and shouts, the ceremony concluded; Wang Yan delivered Gong Er home, then returned to the wine house to entertain guests who had come from all over.

The guests chatted about the martial world and the nation, some distracted, others furious. Some sensed something was off and left midway under false pretenses.

When most had finished eating, the staff cleared the tables and served tea; the atmosphere instantly cooled, no longer the earlier bustle.

Wang Yan, dressed in his wedding robes, stood at the front, scanning the room: representatives from the Foshan Jingwu Association, the Shanghai Jingwu Association that had risked their lives to come, branches of the Chinese Martial Arts Association, the Central National Martial Arts Institute, and delegates from martial arts organizations in Tianjin, Shandong, Sichuan, and elsewhere, along with masters or leading disciples of Taiji, Xingyi, Bajiquan, Baguazhang, and other schools, seated in their respective groups. At this critical juncture, the finest of the martial world—aside from those who had joined the army—were all here.

Wang Yan himself, no matter how skilled, could never command such respect. This was due to his own deeds over the years, the endorsement of veteran elders including Gong Baosen, and even Li Qiankun, the Li family’s heir, who had called in a favor from Li Shuwen.

As Wang Yan scanned the room, silence fell. He said: “Today is my great joyous day; thank you, elders and fellow martial artists, for coming to honor me.” He then bowed deeply with clasped fists, paying his respects.

Below, everyone returned the bow in unison, but no one spoke—they all knew this was not the point.

Wang Yan straightened and continued: “In 1931, the Japanese shelled the Beidaying camp and gradually seized all of Northeast China. The elders trusted me, Wang Mou, and sent elite disciples to join me in the Northeast, where we fought for over five years. During that time, nearly a thousand died—they were all worthy men.” He bowed deeply toward the north, then bowed again to several elders seated before him.

The elders, unable to hide their grief, waved their hands silently.

Wang Yan pressed on: “I, Wang Mou, have always led from the front—I am no coward, and I have never sought fame by sacrificing my brothers’ lives.” He then stripped off his wedding robe, then his inner shirt, revealing his muscular frame and the network of scars crisscrossing his body, turning slowly to show them all.

The crowd below stared at the countless scars, gasped in shock, and fell silent.

One elder, displeased, said: “What are you doing? Humiliating us? Put your clothes back on.”

“Yes. We’ve all seen it.”

“Put them on.”

Wang Yan dressed himself—he knew, even without thinking, that some had doubts.

“The results need no explanation—you’ve all heard them. These were won with blood and lives. I tell you this: I, Wang Mou, have no regrets.” He raised his voice sharply: “Now, over a million people in Shanghai are in chaos….” He then laid out facts and logic, explaining the current situation. Seeing the crowd stirred, he asked: “I, Wang Mou, believe that when the nation falls and the family perishes, I will not be a slave to a conquered land. What of you?”

Someone shouted from below: “We won’t be slaves!” Wang Yan had arranged several people to lead the cry—otherwise, the emotion wouldn’t have been stirred.

More voices rose in agreement; soon, the cries merged into one.

Wang Yan nodded, motioning for silence, then said: “Since all of you share this resolve, I ask for your aid.”

Someone replied: “Whatever you need, just say it.”

Seeing one speak up, others quickly voiced their willingness to help.

Wang Yan said: “What we need is people. I hope you’ll send some disciples. Allowances and compensation will not be lacking. Of course, many schools and organizations have already sent disciples to join the army—I won’t force you. War means bloodshed and death. Give what you can.”

The group discussed further matters, then dispersed. Wang Yan stood at the door, bidding each guest farewell individually.

He knew well: though their words sounded noble, how many would actually come remained uncertain. Not all here were motivated by patriotism—many acted for family or sect. As long as they didn’t defect, their choices were understandable.

When everyone had left, Gong Baosen arrived with Ma San, Ye Wen, and others: “Go home. Mei has waited long enough. It’s your wedding day—talk tomorrow.”

Wang Yan nodded, watching Gong Baosen and the teasing Ye Wen and others walk away.

Seeing the crowd gone, Li Qiankun stepped forward: “Ah Yan, it’s all settled. You worried for nothing—only two squads, a few dozen men came.”

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“Better safe than sorry. Alright, go settle the brothers. I’ve got a bridal chamber to enter.”

Li Qiankun grinned mischievously and left with his men.

Back at the residence, Gong Er sat quietly on the bed.

Wang Yan asked: “Have you eaten?”

Gong Er nodded: “I’ve had a little.”

“Such a fine night must not be wasted. Let’s begin.” With that, he pushed her down as she cried out “Ah…”

Gong Er, trained in martial arts since childhood, had a strong constitution… a night of passion…

The next day, Wang Yan served Gong Er breakfast, chatted awhile, then went to Gong Baosen’s temporary lodging.

Seated in the main hall, Lao Jiang poured tea for everyone, then sat aside to play with a monkey.

Wang Yan said: “Master Gong, you may soon be needed as an instructor.”

“No problem. I’ve done this before, back in the palace.” Gong Baosen set down his teacup and sighed: “I’ve seen your methods—they hurt both others and yourself.”

“There’s no other way. The nation is in crisis—we have no time to let them grow slowly.” Wang Yan said: “But… Master Gong, there will be no peaceful place left. You might invite some veteran elders here—it would be safer. We could pool our wisdom, develop effective methods together. You know, over the years I’ve studied herbal formulas. After we win, if we spread them, we’ll improve our people’s physical health—a great benefit to the nation and its people.”

Gong Baosen listened, pondered a moment, then said: “What you propose is feasible. I’ll reach out and see.”

Wang Yan nodded and turned to Ma San: “Master Ma, you’ll also serve as an instructor. Master Gong is old—you’ll have to manage things.”

Ma San grumbled: “I know that without you telling me.”

Wang Yan smiled unconcerned: “Alright, that’s all. Master Gong, I’ll take my leave.”

Gong Baosen waved dismissively, not answering—he was already thinking whom to invite.

In the following days, disciples and students arrived in waves from all over, coming to support Wang Yan. It took considerable time to settle them all.

November 11: the Nationalist forces suffered heavy losses; Shanghai fell; the Japanese launched a major offensive.

December 13: Nanjing fell; the massacre began.

Affected by this, some of the martial artists who had come earlier joined the army directly, some brought their families to join Wang Yan, some sent their disciples away… some guarded coffins; others did nothing at all, their intentions unclear.

Many of the veteran elders invited by Gong Baosen arrived with their families; many others did not.

Wang Yan began training his men and relocating those who had come to join him. He didn’t just help those who offered aid—he owed debts to those who had helped him on his journey south, and he could not refuse them.

Barely married, Wang Yan had to part from Gong Er and head to the battlefield.

Now he commanded several thousand men, but most had never fought; weapons and ammunition were scarce. The Japanese troops were of high overall quality, well-equipped, with planes and artillery the Nationalists couldn’t match—hence why 800,000 Nationalist troops, facing 200,000 Japanese, suffered over 300,000 casualties.

So they could only roam the southern front, launching small-scale Mobile Corps Commander raids, expanding their strength, and delaying Japanese advances.

The Japanese had no solution: large units couldn’t catch them, and weren’t worth chasing; small units couldn’t defeat them. Frustrated, they could do nothing. The Japanese total force was over a million, fighting on multiple fronts simultaneously. Encirclement was impossible—their main forces were already engaged elsewhere, and they lacked sufficient manpower.

In 1938, what must come would come—he could not control the grand tide. Before the Canton Campaign, Wang Yan led his troops back to Foshan.

After so long, his force had grown well; coupled with Zhou Qingquan’s continued business ventures—even amid war, there was some surplus—so weapons and ammunition were never lacking.