Practicing martial arts

Zong Chentian’s expression was grave as he spoke, his tone curt. “You started too late. If you wish to catch up to the geniuses of your generation, this is the only way. Without strength, you wouldn’t survive long in a place like the capital, and you’d only bring shame to your father’s name.”

“My father? From the way you say it, he must be someone remarkable.” Zhang Ling’s face flickered with uncertainty. This was the first time Zong Chentian had ever mentioned his father in front of him.

Zong Chentian replied, “I can’t tell you yet. It would do you no good. For now, your only task is to break through as quickly as possible.”

Zhang Ling didn’t care much either way. In his eyes, none of this had anything to do with him—he just wanted to wander and see the world.

“Are you ready?” Zong Chentian had already begun to channel his energy. Without any obvious movement, a surge of true energy sent his sleeves fluttering. Even separated by a distance, Zhang Ling could feel the pressure, though it wasn’t as oppressive as yesterday. The force weighed on different parts of his body, now heavy, now light. Zong Chentian shouted lightly, “Run.”

The moment Zhang Ling heard the command, he instinctively broke into a run. The sensation of shifting pressure became even clearer, and he felt his blood surge. With each step, he could sense subtle changes in his muscles and bones—real, tangible progress every so often.

Zhang Ling could hardly believe it. Was it really possible for the body to grow stronger in such a short time? The changes were slight, but undeniably real. His confidence soared. “It seems breaking through the first aperture in half a year isn’t impossible after all. This world is mine for the taking.”

From dawn to the blazing midday sun, Zhang Ling ran for hours, driven by sheer force of will. Not only did this train his body, but it also tempered his spirit.

Still, Zhang Ling couldn’t understand the purpose of running. He asked, “Uncle Zong, what does any of this have to do with opening the dantian?”

Zong Chentian answered, “Breaking through the three dantian is fundamentally a test of physical resilience. Otherwise, how would you bear the power of inner strength in the future?”

“That’s enough for today. We’ll continue tomorrow.” Zong Chentian withdrew his energy and walked ahead.

Zhang Ling understood the importance of balancing work and rest. In his current state, he couldn’t endure for long. Besides, mastering martial arts was a lifelong endeavor—there was no need to force himself. He dragged his exhausted body down the mountain after Zong Chentian.

The next day, Zong Chentian didn’t make Zhang Ling run. Instead, he sat beneath a waterfall. Dozens of meters of water crashed down, pounding Zhang Ling’s body. It wasn’t as heavy as before, but the relentless pressure was oppressive and uncomfortable. Even with spiritual strength to bolster his will, the discomfort didn’t fade. Each time Zhang Ling tried to leave, Zong Chentian forced him back under. This ordeal lasted until dusk.

On the third day, Zong Chentian taught Zhang Ling a set of boxing techniques. Practicing required constant focus on an opponent’s movements, total mental concentration, and coordination of eyes, hands, and feet—an exercise meant to sharpen his reflexes.

After finishing, Zhang Ling felt there was nothing special about it. In fact, it seemed like the kind of routine you could buy for a handful of coins on the street. What baffled him even more was that Zong Chentian had him punch the air, alone. Puzzled, he asked about it, but Zong Chentian’s response was as stone-faced as ever: his word was not to be questioned. Zhang Ling was left speechless.

In the days that followed, Zong Chentian had Zhang Ling do all sorts of strange exercises—hanging, crawling, leaping—each one more bizarre than the last. Every time, Zhang Ling would ask, and each time, Zong Chentian’s answer was the same. Fortunately, after days of grueling training, Zhang Ling had grown used to it.

On the seventh day, as dusk bathed the Luochuan Commandery in a rosy glow, Zhang Ling climbed the western mountain as instructed, carrying a basket of rocks on his back. All day he had climbed, and he joked to his uncle that if it were a basket of silver, he’d gladly carry it for a year. Zong Chentian ignored him and walked away. Still, Zhang Ling could feel the methods were working; before, he could never have lasted a whole day. Each step was a struggle, both physically and mentally.

“Ten steps, nine, eight… three, two…” Zhang Ling stopped. He had reached the summit. Suddenly, a strange emptiness welled up inside him, and his exhaustion vanished. The basket of stones, weighing over a hundred pounds, felt suddenly light. He knew he had opened the upper dantian. “At last! These days of hardship weren’t for nothing. I’ve finally opened the upper dantian.” His confidence grew even further.

At the base of the western mountain, a middle-aged man, shrouded in true energy, gathered strength in his legs and leapt over thirty yards in the air. Landing lightly on the steep rocks, he ascended the mountain in a few agile steps.

Zhang Ling sensed someone to his right, turned, and called out with a broad smile, “Uncle Zong!”

Zong Chentian approached, his face as impassive as ever. He examined Zhang Ling and said, “You’ve opened the upper dantian.”

Zhang Ling only nodded in reply. “Mm.” He found this sort of conversation awkward, but when faced with his uncle, he never knew what else to say—one question, one answer.

To his surprise, Zong Chentian spoke again, this time differently. “Let’s talk. Is there anything you’d like to ask?” With that, he sat down.

Seeing his uncle settle in, Zhang Ling also sat, gazing at the setting sun. “Uncle Zong, I want to know: why is the ‘Return to Origin’ realm called ‘Carefree’? Does reaching that stage truly mean one can roam the world unfettered?”

“I knew you’d ask that. The book you have describes the first grade in the most ordinary terms.” As he spoke, Zong Chentian’s face showed a rare, proud smile. “At that level, you can sense the world and command its power. Compared to your own inner strength, it’s far more abundant—unless you act recklessly, it’s nearly inexhaustible. The ‘Return to Origin’ realm was originally called the ‘Carefree Realm.’ The first person to reach it named it so. At that time, across the Central Plains and beyond, he alone had attained it. No one in the martial world could match him—so he fancied himself able to traverse the four seas and roam the world as he pleased, thus giving the realm its name. But as more and more people reached it, they found that even at the ‘Carefree Realm,’ true freedom was elusive. At best, they stood at the pinnacle of martial arts, but rivals remained—today you win, tomorrow you lose. Some places were still beyond reach, and, in truth, it was an inner barrier that held everyone back. So, it was renamed ‘Return to Origin,’ meaning to return to one’s true self. Ordinary people only know the name ‘Carefree,’ but among those at the peak, it’s believed there are still higher realms. At last, one day, someone reached the level all martial artists dreamed of. He called it the ‘Heavenly Being Realm.’ That man was the emperor of the Empire of Light and Shadow five hundred years ago. He was the first to break through ‘Return to Origin.’ That’s the origin of the four martial realms.”

After he finished, Zong Chentian looked at Zhang Ling and saw him staring, a smile on his face. “What is it?”

Zhang Ling hadn’t paid much attention to his uncle’s words; what struck him was seeing Zong Chentian smile for the first time—rarer than anything else. Grinning, he said, “Uncle Zong, you should smile more often. It suits you so well—you shouldn’t always wear that stern face.”

Immediately, Zong Chentian’s fleeting smile vanished, replaced by his usual severity. “Did you remember what I told you?”