Chapter 30: Han Sword

After gaining concrete understanding, you find it hard to believe that a nation once devoted to martial supremacy of the flesh has become what it is today—without prosthetics one is as weak as being unable to truss a chicken, and nowhere can the two characters "martial way" be seen anymore.

Although martial way far exceeds the limit of prosthetics, equipping a prosthetic matches ten years of bitter training; under the beast tide, prosthetics firmly suppress martial way, and more and more youths choose to amputate limbs to install prosthetics, which severely damages bodily potential.

In other words, secondhand goods can never compare to original ones.

But the wheels of history have proven everything—an ordinary person without prosthetics is someone easily manipulated, and once again the image of your father being crushed single‑handedly by a prosthetic surfaces in your mind.

You suddenly think of your father—before he ever installed a prosthetic, was his daily fist‑pounding and iron‑lifting considered martial way?

You don't realize that your grasp of the term "martial way" is still shallow; perhaps in your impression there is no such thing as Taiji or Baji boxing—only the punches your father throws day after day.

You realize you may not know your father as well as you think; he clearly has many things he hasn't told you.

After this understanding of martial way, your interest in him grows day by day, so you again request to learn boxing, and once more your father asks why you want to learn.

"Because I want to learn boxing—no reason needed!"

Your answer brightens your father's eyes; although it isn't the answer he most wanted to hear, he acknowledges your spirit.

Thereafter, after the first day's training, your father looked at your effort and was very pleased.

"Son, do you know what my teaching of martial way is called?"

In your doubtful gaze, your father slowly said, "This is called inheritance, the essence of the continuation of human civilization."

You only remember that day your father gave you many grand principles; though you didn't understand them, you silently kept them in your heart.

At age ten: in the city, posters for the preliminaries of the Golden Thunder Fist Tournament covered the sky and earth; the Golden Fist Tournament, held every five years, was about to begin officially next year, and the preliminaries had already started preparations in every district's gyms, with your family's gym also qualifying for evaluation.

The preliminaries take the form of platform matches; obtaining the title of Arena Master in any designated gym and holding it for one year grants eligibility for the Golden Fist Tournament.

And your father, equipped with a prosthetic, was like a god descending; none who came to challenge him could withstand three moves, and having settled in, he naturally could free time to teach you boxing.

You began to follow your father's systematic study of boxing; physical strength, core, reaction, and technique are the four elements he summed up.

Boxing training was arduous yet plain; your father only taught you to train strength, reaction, and technique, deeming you too young to condition yourself with dumbbells.

Thus you truly became your father's personal disciple; as his only son, he imposed stricter demands on you and passed on his secret experience—hard but warm.

When you had time you would also watch instructional boxing videos, or, during holidays, visit other gyms to observe how others train.

Your original intention was to sneakily learn from others, observing how they did things, but you unexpectedly discovered that your father's training method differed greatly from that of other gyms.

What exactly that difference is, you cannot yet discern, but you firmly believe your father is correct.

Under his careful guidance, your understanding of boxing deepened; your talent rivals a monster, and in less than a year you could trade blows with your father, who restrained his strength.

Your father couldn't help but marvel at your monster‑like talent; in other words, if you possessed the same strength and stamina as him, you could even steadily overwhelm him.

At age eleven, the Golden Thunder Fist Tournament officially opened; as Arena Master, your father naturally secured a slot, advancing all the way—first the preliminaries, then the 128‑to‑64 round.

You were entrusted to the beautiful woman who had once taken a liking to your father; she would bring you to watch his 128‑to‑64 match, and you precisely noticed how his boxing differed from his opponents'.

In prosthetic boxing matches no gloves are worn; the opponent's punches feel like a contest of strength, reaction speed, and durability, whereas your father's technique is different—it resembles an entirely separate system, a skill transcending the whole era: palm, elbow, pull, thrust, sweep, pierce, chop—each move and form can be called perfect.

Only when you heard the announcer declare your father's victory did you understand what this era‑transcending skill actually was.

Boxing match, the arena watched by tens of thousands, the hottest event in District C.

Above the boxing ring, the sound of fist‑to‑flesh strikes rang out; after the final elbow strike KO'd the opponent, the referee counted down and ended the bout, and your father raised his sturdy arm high.

"Let us congratulate the Gym Master from City 17! The final Martial Way Successor, Mr. Zhang Hongsheng! Winner of this match!!!"

The cheers below rose like mountains and seas; the beautiful woman seated beside Zhang Jie stood up to cheer, and Zhang Jie also clapped.

But at that moment he was somewhat absent‑minded, his mind filled only with those four words: Martial Way Successor.

The final Martial Way Successor...

Zhang Jie was certain his father had never taught him this when training him, and they had never used these moves in their sparring.

"I had planned to wait until after your father finished all his matches to ask, but the unexpected arrived early."

"Your father's record was too outstanding, and his next opponent, the boss, wanted to bribe him into throwing the match; after your father refused, they resorted to behind‑the‑scenes manipulation."

"They had the previous boxing champion— the man whose only flesh is on his head— replace your father's original opponent, and they faced off in the round of sixteen."

"Relying on an extremely powerful prosthetic, his speed became so fast that afterimages appeared—a speed human reaction could never reach; you are more inclined to believe the prosthetic interfered with time."

"Your father's sturdy body, before such a mighty prosthetic, became a living target; like raindrops, iron fists pounded wildly upon him. Knowing he could not prevail, he wanted to surrender, but the opponent's lightning‑fast blows to his face left him unable to speak, and his spine was literally shattered into three segments."

"It happened all too suddenly; when you rushed back from school, you saw your father again—now a corpse covered head to toe in bruises, an inhuman shape, cold and lifeless."

"Your father was thus beaten to death on the platform itself, and this Golden Platform Tournament never concerns itself with competitors' lives or deaths; you also learned the full story from the uncle who accompanied your father."

"The opponent even publicly mocked your father, saying the Martial Way Successor was trash, a pitiful child abandoned by the era; when the news aired on television, your father's body still lay with eyes unclosed."

"You could not accept this reality at all; you could not accept your father leaving you like that, but the fact is set, you are powerless to change anything, and you only know that the one who killed your father is named Weis."

"During his life your father did many good deeds, and many people respected him; with their help you held a grand funeral for him."

"Your father had no other relatives; as his son you inherited his gym and prosthetic surgery clinic, but as an eleven‑year‑old you lacked the ability to guard such a large gym."

"Soon the gym attracted ill‑intentioned people; they threatened you, and you were forced to transfer the gym to them for free, they not even willing to give you a single cent."

"You asked to tidy up your father's belongings before the transfer, and those people, in a good mood, graciously agreed."

Zhang Jie originally thought his father left behind few belongings, but he discovered he was wrong.

After breaking open the door he had long assumed was a storage closet, the scene inside shocked him greatly.

Countless golden trophies filled the room, various photos hung on the walls, a table draped with red cloth stood there, laden with items concerning your father's past.

Most striking was a Han Sword placed on the red‑cloth table, with a few physical books set at the corner.

In this age of ubiquitous holographic screens, Zhang Jie had not seen a physical book in a long time.

Zhang Jie tiptoed, strained to lift the Han Sword; its blade was heavy, and he strained to draw it out.

Swish!

The Han Sword left its sheath, eight‑fold cold light flashing, mighty and awe‑inspiring, gripping the soul.