Chapter 68: Trouble Comes to the Door

From 1945 to 1949, except for a tense moment in 1947, it was generally a period of stable development.

With Wang Yan guiding from behind, Zhou Qingquan led Zhou Guangyao to thrive, bolstered by military backing, enabling rapid growth. Factories and companies were continuously built, with large numbers of families from Chengzhai recruited and retrained. Through this, Wang Yan fulfilled his initial promise, achieving a preliminary improvement in the quality of life for Chengzhai's families.

Life now was vastly better than before; those who once clamored to return home had almost all vanished, save a few elderly who could not bear to leave their homeland.

Under the Hong Kong government's tacit approval, vast tracts of land around Chengzhai were purchased and uniformly planned for development. The impoverished masses gathering nearby were mostly hired into factories, becoming self-reliant.

Along a street outside Chengzhai, dozens of martial arts schools opened collectively, decorated with lanterns and streamers, setting off firecrackers and performing lion dances.

Wang Yan strolled along the street with Gong Baosen and other elder masters, watching the grand spectacle.

"Excellent! Excellent!" Gong Baosen exclaimed.

Gong Baosen could never tire of this scene. He had long wished to spread Northern fist styles southward and Southern fist styles northward, but fate was cruel. After elevating Ye Wen, he had barely begun to act when war erupted. His lifelong dream remained unfulfilled; to say he was not heartbroken would be false.

Ye Wen was also deeply troubled. He had once vowed to make a grand splash, only to see it end in mediocrity—his heart remained unquiet.

He had thought this dream dead, yet fortune turned. In 1937, Gong Baosen followed Wang Yan south to escape the war, where his life found a second spring.

The masters Gong Baosen invited were all skilled; their sparring and exchange became a process of absorption and integration. Constantly improving their own arts by taking strengths and compensating weaknesses, his Gong family Bagua and Xingyi underwent repeated revisions. Others did the same—there was no longer any distinction between Northern and Southern fist styles.

The other elder masters were equally content. At their age, fame and fortune were no longer lacking; they had only this one remaining hope.

"Looking back now, our old sectarian divisions seem laughable," an elder master remarked, gazing at the throngs.

Someone beside him laughed: "Haha, why dwell on that? Just focus on the path ahead."

Gong Baosen stared blankly: "Yes… focus on the path ahead."

Ye Wen, noticing Gong Baosen's mood, quickly said: "Don't overthink it, Master Gong. You once told me: 'Never forget, and there will be a response.' Now the response has come—there's still much for you to do."

Wang Yan had wanted to speak just then, but Ye Wen interrupted him; he merely smiled and watched.

Ma San added: "Ah Wen's right, Master! You taught me: 'Better to advance a single thread than halt for a single thread.' You still need to improve."

Gong Baosen paused, then burst into loud laughter. Without speaking, he strode forward with light, steady steps.

Wang Yan and the others exchanged glances and laughed heartily, catching up to Gong Baosen ahead.

Gong Er's life had grown ever more brilliant—she hadn't been boasting; she truly was exceptional. In just two years, she had become a star. Of course, her status as Chengzhai's Lady inevitably added to her appeal—this could not be changed. People came for varied reasons: some to curry favor, others merely for spectacle. Regardless, every show was sold out, wildly popular.

The three children were growing strong. Gong Ji and Wang Zhilan were nine and eight years old respectively. When Gong Ji turned six, Gong Baosen personally began training him in his signature Bagua and Xingyi. Once Gong Ji started martial arts, Wang Zhilan refused to be left behind, throwing tantrums until she was allowed to join. Gong Baosen, after thought, decided to train them both.

Wang Zhilan had always been wild; after training, she became even more unruly. Among the children of Chengzhai, she was the undisputed ringleader. Wang Yan had specifically instructed other families not to remind the children of their status or titles like "Young Master" or "Young Lady." No one ever spoke such things to them, so they had no concept of hierarchy—they attended school together, carefree and oblivious. Whether they whispered it among themselves or not, among children their age, Wang Zhilan had no equal.

Gong Ji, needless to say, pretended to be serious. Wang Yan had watched them spar; he estimated Wang Zhilan wouldn't last three moves. But of course, the result would always be Wang Zhilan's victory—this was mandatory.

The youngest, Wang Xing, was only two and a half. Her mother was busy performing, so Wang Yan raised her. She was just as mischievous as Wang Zhilan had been at that age.

Notably, Li Zhao, who had followed Wang Yan since the beginning, was placed by him into the Kowloon Police Department, conveniently located in their area.

With the surge of martial arts schools, a martial atmosphere spread across Hong Kong Island. Many came to enroll. This influx inevitably affected local practitioners, drawing attention from native masters. They earned little, were exploited by the foreigners, and harbored resentment—but they were powerless to resist.

That day, at Wang Yan's home, he stared helplessly at Wang Xing, whose face was smeared with ink, while Wang Xing giggled and reached for him.

Wang Yan had placed the child on the large desk to play while he wrote calligraphy. He hadn't noticed, and now the entire desk was a mess. This was a patriarch—heaven forbid Gong Er returned and saw this. After all these years, her daughterly shyness was long gone; she would never tolerate such mischief.

Sighing, Wang Yan picked up the giggling Wang Xing to clean her up. Just then, Gong Er hummed a tune as she entered.

Gong Er saw Wang Xing, dangling under Wang Yan's arm, kicking and grinning at her. She glared at Wang Yan: "How do you watch a child? Look at her—covered in ink…"

Wang Yan pretended not to hear, glaring at Wang Xing, who clapped and howled. Seeing this, Gong Er grew angrier: "I'm telling you—"

Fortunately, just as Gong Er was about to launch into a long tirade, a servant knocked and entered, stifling a laugh: "Mr. Wang, a martial artist surnamed Hong claims to represent the Hong Kong martial arts community and wishes to meet you."

Wang Yan glared at the servant, ordering him to bring the man in. He turned to Gong Er: "See? Someone's here—I'll go check." Without waiting for her reply, he walked out.

Gong Er shot a resentful look at Wang Yan's back. Unable to scold the husband, she scolded the child. Regardless of whether Wang Xing understood, she turned and began lecturing the flailing toddler, needing to vent her pent-up frustration.

Wang Yan entered the reception hall to find a servant leading in a slick-haired, fat man, then retreating to serve tea.

Once the servant left, Hong Zhenan bowed: "Mr. Wang, greetings. I've long heard of your name—meeting you today proves your reputation is well-deserved."

"No, no, too kind," Wang Yan returned the bow, inviting: "Please sit."

Hong Zhenan thanked him and sat upright.

After the servant served tea, Wang Yan sipped, set down the cup, and said: "I hear Master Hong comes representing the Hong Kong martial arts community. What brings you here?"

Hong Zhenan knew merely being received was a favor—he wouldn't waste time on flattery. He grew serious: "To be frank, Mr. Wang, we struggle under the foreigners' rule…" He detailed their hardships, then added: "I know it's presumptuous to come unannounced, but we have no choice—we beg you for a chance to survive. Whatever conditions you set, I can agree to."

His words were blunt, but suited Wang Yan's taste—he hated indecision. After a moment, Wang Yan said: "Opening martial arts schools is acceptable. One condition: follow the rules. Can you do that?"

As long as they followed his rules, Wang Yan didn't care. Survival of the fittest—competition drives progress. If you can't beat them, you have no right to complain.

Hong Zhenan nodded eagerly: "No problem! No problem! Thank you, Mr. Wang! Thank you!"

Wang Yan nodded, accepted the thanks, and lifted his tea. Seeing this, Hong Zhenan respectfully took his leave.

From then on, all martial arts schools in Hong Kong gathered along Wujie outside Chengzhai.

To regulate the development of Hong Kong's martial arts community, Wang Yan, the elder masters, Ye Wen, Zhang Li of Yixiantian, Hong Zhenan, and others re-launched the Chinese Martial Arts Association. Wang Yan became President; Ye Wen and Zhang Li became Vice Presidents, continuing the creed: "Strengthen the race, protect the nation; strengthen the people, defend oneself."

Those who wield weapons inevitably develop murderous intent. With these diverse individuals now possessing combat skill, brawls and rivalries became unavoidable.

Wang Yan couldn't—and wouldn't—interfere elsewhere. But within Chengzhai's vicinity, the Chinese Martial Arts Association was the law. His men were still fierce and alert—anyone causing trouble would be dealt with. Yet suppression was worse than guidance; martial arts knew no high or low, but men did. Thus, arena duels emerged. Wang Yan set only one rule: no strikes to lethal vital points. Everything else was permitted—no weight classes, no restrictions. If you're strong, step up. Fight however you like.

Wang Yan had already consulted the elder masters on this matter, making clear: while teaching combat techniques, no secret killing methods could be passed on to anyone outside direct disciples.

The elders understood perfectly and said nothing. Thus, the schools taught three sets of techniques: traditional, improved, and arena-adapted.

The traditional set preserved each school's foundational art, ensuring transmission. All styles shared common roots—someone might one day emerge, building on their base to forge their own path, just as they themselves had done.

The improved set was each master's personal evolution—lifelong innovations they refused to let die.

The arena-adapted set removed all lethal techniques—eye gouges, throat stabs, groin kicks—entirely redesigned for the rules of the ring.

Wang Yan did his best to protect duelists' lives. Still, many died in combat—this was unavoidable. No one cried out about humanity; those who gained fame, wealth, and glory knew the risk. If you lost and died, don't complain.

The stakes were high, tempting greed. Wang Yan didn't want trouble. He had gifted gifts to the Hong Kong government and police. The foreigners feared unrest and dared not overreach—content if they got a share.

In September 1949, the mainland's outcome was decided. The defeated, fearing retribution, fled with resources to Taiwan and Western nations. The powerless were abandoned: some followed orders to join Liang Shan, others were captured, some crossed the sea to Hong Kong.

These arrivals brought no good intentions. Though broken troops, they arrived armed. Seeing Chengzhai flourish, they coveted it. Who had the bigger fist? Clearly, Wang Yan's was bigger. A band of opportunistic soldiers couldn't match his elite men.

After losing some men and eliminating their officer leaders, Wang Yan sent the remaining soldiers to factories as forced laborers—three to five years of hard work before any consideration. Seeing this brutality, others who hadn't joined backed down. Their status meant nothing here; they quietly became common civilians.

As for the commotion from the fighting, the foreigners saw only dogs fighting—better if they all died. They sent observers to check the outcome. Finding it unsatisfactory, they ignored it entirely.

Of course, there were still many professionals here—doctors, teachers, and others—who were screened and placed in schools, hospitals, and other institutions.

In April 1950, the border was closed.

That day, Wang Yan, Ye Wen, and Zhou Qingquan sat together for a meal for the first time in a long while. Now Zhou Qingquan was utterly swamped with work and refused all persuasion. Wang Yan and Ye Wen, by contrast, often spent time together; Ye Wen occasionally went to Wujie to teach his disciples, while Wang Yan was truly idle—besides taking care of the children, he had nothing to do.

On one side, Gong Er, Zhang Yongcheng, and Zhou Qingquan's wife chatted, while several toddlers crawled on the floor and toddlers learning to walk fought; on the other side, the well-behaved children whispered quietly among themselves, like Gong Ji, Ye Wen, and Zhou Qingquan's children—all roughly the same age—pretending to be serious together.

It must be said that Zhang Yongcheng truly had a gift for childbirth; their youngest child was now rolling on the floor with Wang Xing.

Inside the house, chaos reigned, punctuated by the women's occasional shouts—utterly unruly. The three men were accustomed to this scene, not annoyed but instead finding it warm, calmly sipping tea as Ye Zhun and Zhou Guangyao served them.

Ye Zhun was now over twenty, long married. Zhou Guangyao, older than Ye Zhun by several years, was even more so.

Wang Yan sipped his tea and said, "Brother Quan, the border is closed now—that's a critical matter. Hand your duties over to Guangyao; his kids can already run around—he's capable."

Beside him, Zhou Guangyao's eyes lit up with hope; having followed his father's heels for so many years, he'd never made a decision himself. He'd always been calm since childhood—if not, he'd have exploded long ago.

"But Ah Yan, Guangyao is still..." Zhou Qingquan, having raised him for so long, still couldn't trust his son.

Wang Yan cut in: "What 'but'? Children have their own fortunes. I've told you before to step down, but you never listen. Look how easy it is for me and Brother Wen. Toil half your life, then come home to dandle your grandchildren and enjoy life—isn't that better?"

Ye Wen nodded solemnly beside him—he managed nothing, big or small; Zhang Yongcheng handled everything. Even Ye Zhun never came to him for help—he knew Ye Wen's advice was useless.

Ignoring Zhou Qingquan's half-formed protest, Wang Yan said: "It's settled. This time, you go with him first to meet the people; after that, you have nothing more to do. From now on, Guangyao runs the company." Having said that, Wang Yan turned to Ye Wen beside him: "Brother Wen, what do you think?"

Wang Yan had fought Mobile Corps Commander warfare for so many years—he couldn't possibly have no connections. All his relationships were strong, and their positions were all still available.

Ye Wen nodded: "Ah Yan is right. We're old now. It's time to let the younger generation step forward. Brother Quan, step down. Nothing to do but practice martial arts with me and sip tea—it's fine."

Zhou Qingquan had no reply. His two closest brothers and friends both said this—and one of them was even like an elder brother. He sighed and nodded reluctantly in acceptance.

Seeing Zhou Qingquan nod, Zhou Guangyao's hand trembled as he poured tea—his heart raced with excitement.

Wang Yan scolded with a smile: "Don't just be happy. If anything goes wrong, I won't care—but look at your father's Wing Chun. What level is that?"

"Don't worry, Uncle. I guarantee there won't be any problems," Zhou Guangyao vowed firmly.

Zhou Qingquan grunted, saying nothing, already thinking he'd need to pick up his martial arts again—might come in handy.

Everyone dispersed, each to their own business.

After Zhou Guangyao took charge of the business, Wang Yan advised him on transporting goods northward, applying for TV licenses, registering film and television companies, security firms, and more. Once he'd laid out these matters, Wang Yan left it all to him—by now, as long as one wasn't an idiot, the enterprise would flourish.

Wang Yan quietly enjoyed life, occasionally drinking tea and chatting with Gong Baosen and others. He took the children for walks around town, watching the neighborhood change daily. In daily life, he trained them in martial arts, calligraphy, and medicine. His life was comfortable, leisurely.

He didn't get to enjoy it long—though he sought no trouble, trouble sought him.

One day, Fatty came with Little Fatty—Hong Zhenan arrived with the police officer from *Ip Man 2*, named Fei Bo.

Wang Yan invited the two to sit, but both shook their heads and refused. Wang Yan didn't press; he simply looked at Hong Zhenan in silence.

Hong Zhenan hurriedly said: "Mr. Wang, this officer is from my old district—he's here representing the foreign devils." He regretted coming in, but couldn't refuse—the old friend who'd once helped him had begged him to come.

Wang Yan gestured for Hong Zhenan to sit—his presence was no longer needed. He turned to Fei Bo: "One foreign devil or many? What rank?"

"R-Report to Mr. Wang... it's... one... one foreign devil," Fei Bo, noticing Wang Yan's furrowed brow, stammered on: "H-he's... the... Police Commissioner."

Wang Yan waved his hand—he had no interest in hearing more. This was clearly trouble.

He walked to the telephone, dialed a few numbers, waited, then spoke when it connected: "Hello, Director Mai, this is Wang Yan. Did you instruct your subordinate to send a junior officer here to humiliate me? What are you trying to do? Hmm?"

After listening for a moment, Wang Yan turned and asked: "What's the foreign devil's name?"

Fei Bo quickly replied: "M-Mac." He was stunned. He'd known Wang Yan was formidable—even aware of the battle six months prior—but he never imagined Wang Yan would be this bold. Hearing a Police Commissioner had come to harass him, he went straight to their boss.

Wang Yan gave the name, listened for two sentences, then said: "Fine. I'll wait for your explanation."

He hung up, sat down, and told the two: "You may go. This has nothing to do with you."

The two felt as if released from prison, thanked him quickly, and turned to leave.