Chapter Fifty-Eight: Tai Chi Fist, Thousand-Hand Buddha Fist

The whole night—an entire night.

Yang Wenhao barely slept at all. Had it not been for the sake of his daughter, he would never have endured such discomfort. Yet, even with a poor night’s rest, a brief adjustment was all he needed to dispel his fatigue. Such was the benefit of cultivation.

Because of today’s breaking of the formation, Master Fang Zheng had been waiting outside for quite some time.

“Please, follow me to breakfast,” he said.

They arrived at the dining hall, where only plain noodles were served—hardly appetizing. Fortunately, Yang Wenhao had brought plenty of provisions with him; though they were not sumptuous, they were far preferable to the bland noodles before him.

After their meal, everyone proceeded to the Shaolin Temple’s martial training ground. It was a vast space, usually reserved for the monks’ martial practice. Glancing at the monks nearby—each one’s skin a bronze hue, as if gilded in copper—the visual impact was striking. There were eighteen in all, not one more, not one less: the Eighteen Bronze Men of Shaolin.

“Please enter the formation,” Master Fang Zheng said with a faint smile, gesturing for Yang Wenhao to stand in the very center.

Legend had it that the Eighteen Bronze Men were enshrined for their meritorious service in saving the Tang Emperor, though Yang Wenhao knew little of the specifics. All who managed to pass through the Eighteen Bronze Men were hailed as heroes and admired by all of the martial world.

Yang Wenhao entered the formation unarmed; even the long sword he had carried up the mountain now rested with Dongfang Bubai. Dongfang Bubai looked at him with puzzled eyes. Yang Wenhao’s greatest strength was clearly his swordsmanship, yet he chose not to use his sword. It was a mystery.

Master Fang Zheng stood calmly by, observing with serene eyes.

Suddenly, the previously motionless Bronze Men let out a mighty shout and lunged at Yang Wenhao in unison.

As expected, Yang Wenhao thought. Though he was hardly a master of formations, he could see that the Bronze Men attacked from all directions—east, south, west, and north—intending to trap him within.

“Taiji Fist!”

The Eighteen Bronze Men were renowned for their sheer force, and reality lived up to the name.

Thus, Yang Wenhao chose to meet them with Taiji Fist. The Eighteen Bronze Men never acted alone; they ate, trained, and lived as one, their hearts and minds perfectly attuned. Every move Yang Wenhao made, the Bronze Men closed in by a step. Dodge a punch, and another would follow.

Individually, none of these monks were Yang Wenhao’s match, but united in formation, they could battle him for hundreds of rounds without yielding.

Hundreds of rounds passed, and still, the outcome was undecided.

To the untrained eye, it seemed an even match, but the two masters standing nearby could see the truth at a glance. Yang Wenhao, wielding Taiji Fist, moved effortlessly through the formation. The Bronze Men relied on unyielding strength, while Taiji Fist specialized in overcoming force with softness. The outcome had been decided from the very start.

The reason the contest dragged on so long was simply to give Yang Wenhao more experience and to hone his mastery of Taiji Fist. Under the relentless assault of the Bronze Men, his proficiency visibly increased.

At last, one Bronze Man, his internal strength spent, was struck and sent flying by Yang Wenhao’s borrowing-force technique. In that instant, the formation was broken and lost its integrity.

Yet the remaining seventeen Bronze Men, unconvinced, still yearned to defeat him.

“Enough,” came Master Fang Zheng’s deep, resonant voice, instantly halting the monks.

“Our Eighteen Bronze Men are not your match. Please, rest a while before the next challenge,” he said.

Yang Wenhao looked somewhat disappointed. He had just begun to enjoy himself, and now it was over—there was little satisfaction in that.

“Master Yang, if this old monk is not mistaken, the martial arts you used just now were Wudang’s Taiji Fist, were they not?”

Yang Wenhao was unsurprised that Master Fang Zheng had seen through him at once. The abbot was a close friend of Wudang’s Abbot Chongxu, so naturally he would recognize the sect’s techniques.

“That’s right, Master. I will not conceal it: it is indeed Taiji Fist,” Yang Wenhao nodded.

“May I ask the name of your master?” Fang Zheng inquired.

Yang Wenhao smiled lightly. “My master is a free spirit, wandering the world, and has never told me much.”

Master Fang Zheng nodded and did not press further. “Please rest for a moment.”

Next, Yang Wenhao would face the Arhat Formation—a great protective array of the Shaolin Temple.

There were two forms: the Lesser and the Greater Arhat Formations, the difference being the number of monks. Given Yang Wenhao’s victory over the Eighteen Bronze Men, Master Fang Zheng chose to deploy the Greater Arhat Formation this time.

The Greater Arhat Formation comprised one hundred and eight Shaolin disciples, each wielding a staff, arrayed for battle. If Yang Wenhao could break through this array, he would earn the right to enter the Sutra Pavilion as promised.

After a short rest, the participants were ready.

Dongfang Bubai called out to him, “Your sword.”

After all, Yang Wenhao’s greatest strength lay in his swordsmanship. Without it, his power would be halved.

“No need,” Yang Wenhao shook his head. He did not regard this challenge as a life-or-death struggle, but rather as a trial. Regardless of victory or defeat, he would benefit from the experience.

Entering the arena, surrounded by the encircling Shaolin disciples, Yang Wenhao remained calm.

A hundred and eight monks shouted in unison, forming a pincer attack aimed directly at him.

Yang Wenhao did not evade but met them head-on. As the Shaolin staffs came at him, he generated a gust of wind with his palm, striking out.

Though it seemed a single strike, midway through the motion his hand suddenly trembled—one palm became two, two became four, four became eight.

“This is—!” Master Fang Zheng’s eyes filled with surprise he could not conceal.

Dongfang Bubai noticed his astonishment. Neither the Eighteen Bronze Men nor Yang Wenhao’s Taiji Fist had moved him thus, but now Master Fang Zheng was plainly shocked by the technique Yang Wenhao was displaying.

Dongfang Bubai remarked, “If I’m not mistaken, this should be your own Thousand-Handed Tathagata Palm, Master Fang Zheng?”

“That’s correct,” the master admitted.

A youth with no sect or affiliation, yet proficient in both the secret arts of Wudang and the abbot’s own supreme technique of Shaolin—such a thing was beyond belief.

Watching Yang Wenhao, Dongfang Bubai’s interest grew ever deeper.

Unaware of the conversation outside, Yang Wenhao was still locked in fierce battle.

(End of chapter)