Chapter 67

Wang Yan comforted the group, who regretted the filthy surroundings, with an inspiring, passionate speech that reignited their hope for the future.

He then organized everyone to assign rooms, restore water and electricity, and thoroughly clean the entire fortress, keeping them busy for many days.

In a large room cleared out, Wang Yan stood in the center, surrounded by Gong Baosen, Ding Lianshan, and veteran elders from the medical and martial arts sects, key members of his team, respected family representatives, as well as Ye Wen, Zhou Qingquan, and others, while Ma San and other flagship disciples stood behind.

Giving speeches alone was useless; he had to properly assign roles to those present to make it work.

“You’ve already explained what’s going on,” shouted a martial elder. “Now we need something concrete—lay out a plan. Everyone followed you here because they trust you. Don’t let them lose heart.”

All eyes turned to Wang Yan, waiting for his reply.

After scanning the room, Wang Yan bowed his hands. “Senior Zhou is right—we all know this. Everyone here knows what kind of man I, Wang Mou, am. I would never deceive you.”

“I’ll be frank: we have over ten thousand people here who need food and shelter. In the early days, we’ll endure hardship. But once we get past this phase… we’ll eat well and drink boldly.”

Wang Yan explained his ideas, his plans, and what they could achieve, completely captivating the crowd, leaving them spellbound.

He sharply broke their daydreams and called out: “Brother Quan!”

Zhou Qingquan rose from his seat. “Yan, speak.”

“Brother Quan, you’ll lead the trade operations again—reconnect your old networks and rebuild the business. We’ll rely on you in the early days.”

“Don’t worry, Yan. No problem.”

Wang Yan nodded, gestured for Zhou Qingquan to sit, then turned to the family representatives. “Please carefully count your families: men, women, elderly, children—how many, what ages. Soon we’ll build factories to ensure everyone has work. Education for the children is vital—we can’t delay it. Once you’ve compiled the data, I’ll send for teachers.”

The family representatives nodded vigorously. These were exactly their concerns—and now they were mostly resolved.

Wang Yan looked at the veteran physicians and others from the original base. “Senior medical elders, establish a clinic first. With so many people, illnesses are inevitable—treat the families. Otherwise, continue your research. Later, pick a location and list everything you’ll need.”

“Original work” meant refining and improving herbal formulas, and assisting Gong Baosen’s group in developing efficient, simple body-training methods. When Wang Yan brought them to Macau, they had already reorganized themselves: veteran elders from medical and martial arts sects each led younger disciples into two groups, researching separately yet occasionally exchanging insights—making modest progress.

The medical group remained silent; their elder leader nodded to show understanding.

“Master Gong, you’ll continue as before.” After receiving a nod, Wang Yan addressed Gong Baosen’s group: “You have veterans from both north and south here. This is a matter of great benefit to the nation and people—please give it your full effort.”

Gong Baosen and the others had no objections; they all nodded. Their old bones and joints could still contribute in this way.

Leading the team were Li Qiankun, Jin Shanzhao, and others. Li Qiankun, due to domestic political turmoil and family allegiances, had not returned home but followed Wang Yan. Jin Shanzhao simply had incredible luck—he’d endured injuries worse than Wang Yan’s and still climbed to the upper ranks.

Wang Yan told them: “The team must not disband. Stay vigilant—we’re not safe yet. Unidentified individuals should be contained if possible, not killed outright. Maintain training—but stop practicing the techniques I taught. Pick up your own martial arts again. So many elders are here—learn from them.”

Seeing them nod, Wang Yan turned to the group. “That’s mostly it. Does anyone have questions?”

The room fell silent. No one spoke.

After a long pause, an elder hesitantly asked: “Can we… ever go back?”

At these words, others perked up, their eyes filled with hope as they stared at Wang Yan.

“Yes.” Wang Yan knew deep-rooted homesickness couldn’t be dismissed with words—the pain of leaving home was real. After a moment’s thought, he said: “When the domestic situation stabilizes, those who wish to return may do so.”

By then, after two years of development, when they compared their new lives with the old, few might even want to leave.

After speaking, Wang Yan dismissed them: “That’s all for now. Come to me anytime with questions. Everyone, get to work.”

Watching the crowd disperse, Wang Yan sat down and drank several large cups of tea, his throat parched.

“Master Gong, is there anything here you find uncomfortable?” Only close associates remained. Wang Yan set down his teacup. “I’ll try to fix it.”

Gong Baosen waved his hand and smiled. “Nothing uncomfortable. Everything’s fine, fine.” His daughter Gong Er and Wang Yan had always been deeply affectionate; his family line had continued. Ma San, though less capable, had matured with age. He spent his days studying martial arts with old comrades and teaching disciples. Now, with peace within reach—even if conditions were poor—he no longer lived in constant fear. He was more than satisfied.

It was late. Wang Yan chatted with them a while longer before dismissing them.

Others needed no oversight—they were all doing well. After decades of friendship, they knew his character. If they had problems, they’d already told him.

Ye Wen’s fate had changed: his wife and children were safe, untouched by hardship. In Macau, he spent his days discussing martial arts with veteran elders. They never withheld their secrets—every family’s ultimate techniques were open to him.

Though he’d never endured his original fate, Ye Wen remained Ye Wen. Based on Wang Yan’s compiled material, he developed his own system. His goal differed: Wang Yan sought to kill; Ye Wen sought to duel. So while his techniques lacked lethality, they were otherwise sound—causing little bodily harm, not shortening lifespan.

But he was saddened when teaching his system to Wang Yan’s men: they praised it enthusiastically, yet never practiced it again. He couldn’t blame them—Wang Yan’s men had trained for years, killed countless times, hardened into fighters who believed every strike must be fatal: you die, or I die.

That’s why Wang Yan told them to stop practicing those techniques—years from now, they’d be retiring. Better to train in steady, health-preserving methods to live longer.

Ma San was over forty now, with many children. Years serving beside Gong Baosen had improved his skill—he was far stronger than at thirty, even showing the bearing of a martial master. He’d challenged Wang Yan countless times, yet never lasted three moves. He knew he’d never surpass Wang Yan—acceptance came, whether he liked it or not.

…………

The fortress had lain abandoned for years; living quarters were poor. Wang Yan’s quarters were merely larger—not much better than others’. With so few people now, compared to the historical population of fifty thousand, they were luxuriously spacious.

Back in his clean, tidy room, he saw Wang Zhilan chasing Gong Ji around the room, shrieking with delight. Gong Er sat nearby organizing belongings, glancing up occasionally.

Gong Ji was now five, always cared for by Gong Er. The boy had been quiet and easygoing since childhood. Gong Baosen never overindulged him—just played with him occasionally, enjoying family moments.

Wang Zhilan was four. Gong Baosen said she was just like Gong Er had been as a child—always rowdy and unruly. That’s why she looked after Gong Ji: she was the elder.

Seeing Wang Yan enter, Wang Zhilan screamed, “Dad!” and leapt into his arms. Wang Yan caught her easily, spinning her twice as she giggled. Gong Ji, after calling “Dad,” stood watching, head tilted up.

Wang Yan set down the pouting girl, scooped up Gong Ji, and spun him several times—much more vigorously than before. Gong Ji feigned solemnity, silent, but his grinning mouth betrayed him.

After playing with the children, he let them tidy up and prepare for bed, then turned and embraced Gong Er, who had been smiling quietly for a long while.

Gong Er leaned into Wang Yan’s arms. “Everything settled?”

“Mostly. Now we wait. No matter how much I say, they’ll still doubt.”

“Do you really believe it? Your plans—I can’t even imagine them.”

“Trust me. When have I ever lied to you? You love opera, right? Soon I’ll build you a grand stage—let you sing your heart out. Use this time to practice—you don’t want to embarrass yourself later.”

Feeling slighted, Gong Er sniffed. “I’ll wait for your grand stage.” Then she pushed him away to soothe the children to sleep.

Wang Yan was thirty-five; Gong Er was six years younger, twenty-nine. They were old married couple with two children—still playful, sometimes acting like little girls.

Amused by her dainty back, Wang Yan washed up, picked up a book, and leaned against the pillow to read.

It was an ancient, hand-bound medical text he’d taken from the old masters—old, now priceless; in sixty or seventy years, it would be beyond value. He’d studied medicine halfway before war interrupted him, leaving his mind in chaos. Now that things were calm, he picked it up again.

He hadn’t read long when Gong Er returned, having put the children to sleep. Others cared for them at night—no need for them to stay awake.

Gong Er pulled the book from Wang Yan’s hands and set it aside. She swung her leg over him, straddling his waist, feeling the slow rise of his arousal. With a sultry smile, she said: “Let’s have another child.”

She saw peace now and wanted another son to carry on Wang Yan’s lineage. He understood—it was all for him. He said nothing, flipped her over, and pinned her beneath him…

In the following months, the fortress developed quietly, unwatched—perhaps deliberately ignored.

Zhou Qingquan, following Wang Yan’s guidance, used his old connections to run shipping, earned money, then gradually bought land near the fortress to build factories—low-tech, but designed to support large numbers. Life in the fortress improved greatly. He also bribed police officials to secure official identification documents for the families.

Wang Yan also sent men north to recruit teachers and bring them to educate school-age children among the families.

Naturally, many homeless locals from Hong Kong and migrants from the north drifted toward the fortress. Wang Yan didn’t drive them away—he settled them on the outskirts.

In 1946, after years of research, Gong Baosen’s group finally produced results. Their system required sixty minutes per session, activating most major muscle groups. Consistent practice genuinely improved physical fitness and offered some offensive capability. But optimal results still depended on herbal formulas—which they hadn’t yet improved, and which could never be widely adopted.

The system was largely useless. If a common person could sustain continuous, full-body movement for an hour, they wouldn’t need to train. If practiced in segments, it helped—after all, it was exercise—but offered less benefit than running two laps.

Still, it was progress. After much debate, they named it “Qiangshen Wucao.” Wang Yan had wanted to call it “First Set of Radio Calisthenics,” but wisely stayed silent—it lacked musical rhythm.

That winter, Gong Er gave birth to a son as desired. Wang Yan named him “Xing”—to invigorate martial arts; by the time the boy came of age, martial vigor would flourish.

In 1947, the historical event—Hong Kong authorities expelling stateless residents from the fortress—never occurred. After learning their origins and strength, they abandoned the idea. Not because they couldn’t defeat them—Hong Kong’s army, navy, air force, with planes, tanks, and artillery, could surely crush ten thousand men. But they weighed potential losses and international repercussions, and ultimately chose inaction, letting them fend for themselves.

The fortress remained a lawless enclave—but cleaner, more orderly than before.

That year, Gong Er turned thirty-one. Wang Yan fulfilled his promise: he built an opera house outside the fortress. Gong Er performed on stage, surrounded by close friends. Gong Baosen watched, smiling, eyes soft with pride. Wang Zhilan pulled Gong Ji, jumping and shouting—fulfilling Gong Er’s childhood dream.

While Gong Er sang on stage, one of Wang Yan’s men approached: “Master, someone’s come to the fortress looking for you. Says he made a promise with you on a train years ago.”

Wang Yan nodded. “Bring him in.”

Soon, a man in a suit with slicked-back hair entered, led by the guard. A chair was added; the guard bowed and left.

“Sit.” Wang Yan kept his eyes fixed on the stage, where Gong Er performed.

Yixiantian ignored the curious glances, sat silently.

Long after Gong Er finished, Wang Yan smiled, took the children, and sent flowers onstage. He gently wiped away her tears, and the children comforted her with chatter.

She returned to the stage to thank the audience, then the gathering dispersed.

Wang Yan let Gong Er take the children home first. Only then did he return to Yixiantian, who sat quietly sipping tea. “You came just to settle who’s better?”

Yixiantian set down his teacup, stood, and faced Wang Yan. “Just to settle who’s better!”

He flung open his razor, assumed a stance.

To show respect, Wang Yan patted himself, drew a dagger, and gestured: come.

Yixiantian was direct—he knew Wang Yan had never lost a fight. He struck first, seeking advantage: he lunged forward, razor slicing upward toward the throat.

Wang Yan reacted swiftly, his dagger clashing sharply against the razor. He blocked the blade, flipped his wrist, and struck Yixiantian’s right wrist. Pain shot through Yixiantian’s hand—he dropped the razor. Instantly, he pivoted, using the force from his arm to twist his body, delivering a thrusting elbow to the chest. Wang Yan sidestepped, thrusting his dagger forward.

Yixiantian held the elbow pose, feeling the blade’s edge at his throat. Slowly, he lowered his stance. “You win.” He turned to leave.

Wang Yan blocked him. “The fortress needs a barber. Will you take the job?”

Yixiantian froze. He turned, stared at Wang Yan, then spoke slowly, each word deliberate: “My name is Zhang Li.”