Chapter 42

Wang Yu shook his hands; not a single finger was injured.

On the Blue Star, there were people who could break stones with one hand.

In Huáguó alone, there were claims of hard qi gong, but those who achieved this level were all masters who had trained their hands for years, thickening their finger bones through external conditioning and toughening their skin to an abrasive roughness, as if sandpapered.

Yet he had achieved this merely by practicing a few forms of the Tiger Pounce Diagram—and surpassed it.

Thinking of the Blue Star, Wang Yu felt a pang of gloom.

After so long, his consciousness had not been summoned back to the Blue Star—was something wrong? Could he truly never return?

His mind was restless; he knew he could no longer cultivate, so he returned to his room to rest.

The next morning, he left the courtyard and went to a nearby tavern, ordered four dishes and one soup, ate his fill, then strolled slowly to the front gate of a grand building in the northwest corner of Tongzhou City.

“Black Tiger Boxing Hall.”

Wang Yu glanced at the silver plaque above the gate and walked in without hesitation.

“Wang Shidi, you’re back again.”

A young man in short-sleeved training gear, arms crossed at the entrance, greeted him warmly.

“Li Shixiong, it’s your turn on duty today.” Wang Yu smiled.

“Yeah, I can’t compare to you, Wang Shidi—you can’t afford to pay too much tribute, so I have to do more work for the hall just to stay longer.” The youth sighed.

“Thirty taels of silver per month for tribute? Even I’m starting to feel the strain.” Wang Yu’s face twisted in pain.

“Hah! Who doesn’t know you’re loaded, Wang Shidi? You’ve stayed here four or five months straight, and you always drink your medicinal broth until you’re full.” Li Shixiong waved dismissively.

“Li Shixiong, you’re teasing me.”

Wang Yu yawned, said no more, bowed slightly, and stepped inside.

The Black Tiger Boxing Hall was one of the few martial schools in Tongzhou City that taught real combat techniques for silver.

This hall taught the true killing art of Black Tiger Fist, and the school itself was said to have deep connections, with a history of several hundred years in Tongzhou.

Another puzzling thing about Tongzhou was the sheer number of martial schools—thirty or forty of them—some teaching flashy, useless forms, others like the Black Tiger Hall offering genuine combat techniques.

The real reason Wang Yu chose this hall was his desire to integrate the Four Beasts Diagram into actual combat; Black Tiger Fist, modeled after the tiger’s movements, was perfect for mutual refinement with his Tiger Pounce Four Forms.

With his hyper-synchronized comprehension, after months of study, he had already fused the first three forms of the Tiger Pounce Diagram into Black Tiger Fist, and nearly completed the integration of the final form.

Today was the monthly day when the headmaster personally explained the essence of Black Tiger Fist—his last visit here, as he no longer intended to waste his silver.

Over the past half-year, whether renting housing, buying books, or seeking a master, everything required money—he had spent every ounce of gold he owned, even exchanged two spirit stones at a reputable pawnshop for gold.

As soon as Wang Yu entered the hall, he heard the sound of fists and feet striking.

Behind the gate was a courtyard of about an acre, paved with sand, where nearly a hundred youths pounded thickly wrapped fists against simple wooden posts, drenched in sweat—some even slender young women among them.

Wang Yu did not pause; he walked straight through a gravel path between them.

On both sides, some students paused their drills and called out, “Wang Shixiong!”

Most of these disciples were outer-court students who paid only a pittance; they could only practice basic stances and power generation, and had to pass a test within two months to learn true Black Tiger Fist.

But he was different—he paid a large sum upfront and became a full disciple from day one, allowed to sit in on inner-court instruction.

Wang Yu bowed to each in turn but kept walking, passing through the rear gate and a small garden to reach another, smaller courtyard.

The inner courtyard was lined with stone weights and weapon racks; at its center stood seven or eight wooden dummies, thicker than the outer ones, their surfaces marked with fine white lines outlining countless acupoints. Around them stood two dozen men and women dressed like Li Shixiong.

Some wielded swords and spears, others held rigid horse stances, while others sparred barehanded.

But most gathered around a thirty-something giant, watching him execute a ferocious fist form.

The giant was broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, half-naked, his body agile and powerful; every twist and step radiated a savage aura. His fingers curled like steel hooks, each claw strike seeming capable of tearing open chests and splitting bellies, chilling the onlookers.

Suddenly, he retracted both hands and spun, delivering a sweeping kick.

“Crack!” One of the wooden dummies split cleanly in two.

“Impressive! No wonder Master Zhu is called the best in the hall—his Black Tiger Fist is already perfected. Even the headmaster couldn’t do better.”

“That final move, the Evil Tiger’s Tail Kick—if it landed on a man, he’d spit blood and die instantly. Master Zhu is truly second only to the headmaster.”

…

The crowd erupted in applause and cheers.

Master Zhu stared at the broken dummy, stretched his kicking leg, and nodded with satisfaction, then began demonstrating key points and precautions of Black Tiger Fist to the surrounding disciples.

Wang Yu stood among them, listening silently to Master Zhu’s gestures and explanations. His face showed no expression, but deep within his eyes, faint glimmers of light flickered—his hyper-synchronized mode had activated.

When the giant finished, voice hoarse, and left the courtyard, Wang Yu’s face finally showed thoughtful stillness.

He exited hyper-synchronization, walked to a wooden dummy in the corner like the other disciples, stripped his shirt, and began slowly circling the dummy, practicing the fist form.

The same Black Tiger Fist form—each movement identical to Master Zhu’s—but Wang Yu’s posture rose and fell with unnatural looseness, each motion awkward, strangely off-putting.

Nearby full disciples watched: some looked pained, others sneered—but none interfered.

Wang Yu was completely absorbed in his own understanding of the fist form, ignoring all glances, continuing his rhythm, occasionally pausing to adjust his angle and stance—each adjustment making him seem even more awkward.

He practiced Black Tiger Fist again and again.

After a long while, as Wang Yu finally finished his horse stance and drew his fists back, his face lit up with joy—when a loud voice rang out beside him.

“Good, good. Your Black Tiger Fist has some character. I remember your name is Wang Yu, right?”