Chapter 5: Hooligan Technique

The old monk finished speaking and turned to walk toward the inner courtyard. Although Liang Yan was filled with doubt and wished to ask questions, seeing that the monk had no intention of providing answers, he had no choice but to let it go and follow him.

In the inner courtyard, the two stood facing each other.

"Amitabha. The person who killed your father has been brought to justice. The remaining one is merely a blind man who never actually struck a blow. Can you not let go of this grudge and devote yourself to the Dao?"

"I wondered what it was. It turns out the old monk has come to act as a mediator. In that case, there is no need for further words. The hatred of a murdered father is irreconcilable; how could I not seek vengeance?!"

The old monk had long since regarded Liang Yan as a half-disciple of his own. He had intended to offer some guidance, but hearing these words, he couldn't help but feel secretly annoyed, cursing inwardly, "What a brat."

The two fell into silence, standing opposite each other in the courtyard. Suddenly, the old monk raised his right hand and extended his index finger, tapping Liang Yan on the forehead. Liang Yan felt a sudden sting and instinctively reached out to block it.

But in the next moment, a passage of incantations surfaced in Liang Yan's mind—mysterious and obscure, appearing to be a method for circulating Qi to practice cultivation. Realizing that the old monk was imparting a technique to him, Liang Yan immediately lowered his hands and stood still, offering no resistance.

A moment later, the old monk withdrew his hand. A complete set of incantations surfaced in Liang Yan's mind. Taking a deep breath, Liang Yan sank his knees, preparing to kneel in a formal gesture of apprenticeship.

The old monk reached out and pulled; an invisible force surged upward, supporting Liang Yan's legs and preventing him from kneeling.

"There is no need for such formality. What I have passed to you is merely the superficial surface, a method for entry. I say this beforehand: I am not your master, and you are not my disciple. In the future, when traveling abroad, you must not address each other as master and disciple. Do you understand?"

Liang Yan was momentarily stunned and could only nod blankly.

"Go outside and greet the others first. We depart immediately."

"Where are we going?"

"To find an old acquaintance."

Liang Yan's mind was filled with confusion. Why would the old monk teach him immortal arts yet refuse to be called master? He thought and thought but could not understand. While lost in thought, he found himself back in the main hall.

Suddenly, a fragrant breeze brushed his face. A charming and gentle young girl with twin braids came running up to him—it was Wan'er.

She grabbed Liang Yan's hand and said in a pleading tone, "Brother Liang, please come to the capital with me to wander around. The capital is so much fun!"

"That won't do. I have other things to do right now."

Wan'er looked disappointed, her small face full of grievance, but she forced herself to stay spirited. "Then promise me that you will definitely come to the capital to find me later."

Liang Yan gave a distracted "Mhm."

Only then did Wan'er's expression brighten like the sun after rain. She let out a giggle and hooked her pinky finger around Liang Yan's.

"Then it's a promise! Pinky swear, a hundred years without changing!"

Coming to his senses, Liang Yan stared blankly at Wan'er. His face flushed inexplicably, and this time, he gave a serious "Mhm."

Wan'er seemed to have heard the happiest news in the world; her lovely face turned a rosy hue, looking incredibly adorable. Just then, Lin Ziqing's call drifted from outside the courtyard. Only then did Wan'er reluctantly let go of his hand and walk toward the exit, glancing back from time to time.

"You must come to the capital!"

Liang Yan nodded silently and looked out. The woman in red had already finished preparing with the others. She had helped Wan'er into the carriage and was preparing to set off. Seeing Liang Yan's gaze, she nodded to him, then mounted her horse and led the group away slowly.

After a moment of silence, Liang Yan turned back to the inner courtyard and said to the withered silhouette, "Old monk, let's go too."

***

Winter passed and spring arrived; in the blink of an eye, a year had gone by.

On this day, under a vast, clear sky, a caravan was stationed on a path through a dense forest.

Among the caravan, a young scholar dressed as a literatus held a water-ink folding fan, reciting poetry with a rhythmic sway of his head, seemingly lost in his own world.

In the rear of the caravan, a middle-aged man looking like a steward frowned with a look of disdain. Someone beside him said, "Steward Lu, this young master is becoming more and more ridiculous. His poetry is utter nonsense."

"Hmph. The young master is young and playful; he has no love for books and prefers seeking out those rogue heroes and enlightened immortals in bustling markets. I don't know how many deep mountains he has visited or how many temples he has donated to these past years."

"Exactly. That old monk we met on the road yesterday—who knows which temple he belonged to—even had a little disciple. Looking at how skin and bones he was, he hardly looked like an enlightened high monk. Yet the young master insisted on dismounting to show him respect and even brought them along on the journey, providing them with fine food and drink. It's simply nonsense."

Steward Lu coughed and said, "Enough, stop gossiping. You know the young master's temperament; he has a penchant for these 'enlightened high monks'." He emphasized the words "enlightened high monks" and glanced toward an old monk sitting cross-legged in the back, the mockery in his eyes unmistakable.

After a pause, he added, "The young master has been extremely pampered by the Madam since childhood. We, as servants, should just do our duty and not offer unsolicited opinions!" Hearing this, everyone hurriedly nodded in agreement.

At that moment, a swordsman in green at the very front of the caravan suddenly shouted loudly, "All hands on deck! Prepare for combat!"

Like a stone stirring a thousand waves, the dozen or so guards who were munching on dry rations drew their weapons almost simultaneously, forming a defensive circle with wary expressions.

A strange laugh echoed from the woods: "Jie jie! The kid's reflexes are quite sharp."

Then, a burly man stepped out from behind a tree, carrying a massive copper hammer weighing dozens of catties on his shoulder. He was followed by four bandit thugs—one with a saber, one with an axe, and the other two with swords.

Upon seeing the appearance of the five men, the green-clad swordsman's heart sank as if struck by a heavy blow. He cupped his fists and smiled bitterly, "So it is the Five Tigers of the Wind and Cloud Fortress. I have heard much of your fame."

"Haha, the little brat has some knowledge. Since you know our names, why not quickly hand over your gold and silver? We won't go as far as to wipe you out completely. Hand over the wealth, and we shall leave you a way to live."

The swordsman felt a sense of gloom. If he were to face one of the Five Tigers one-on-one, he wouldn't be certain of victory. Now that all five were here, although he had many subordinates, none of them were a match for these men in a group. If a real fight broke out, likely not a single soul would survive.

However, there was something vital in the carriage. It was a direct order from the City Lord that must not be lost. If he surrendered it, he would certainly not survive the City Lord's accountability upon returning to the city, and his wife and children in the city would also be unable to escape punishment.

*It seems I have no choice but to fight with everyone's strength and use the chaos to take the item. Hmm, if circumstances permit, I should also take the City Lord's illegitimate son with me,* the swordsman thought.

The Five Tigers, however, were growing impatient. The bandit with the saber was particularly hot-tempered. Seeing no response, he shouted loudly, "Big Brother, this kid is being indecisive and still clinging to hope. Let me go and take a few heads first!"

Without waiting for an answer, he charged straight at a guard and swung his saber. The guard, having never seen such speed, frantically drew his sword to block. *Clang!* The blade and sword collided, and the longsword snapped instantly. The saber continued its momentum, sweeping toward the guard's neck.

Just as the head was about to be severed and the body fall, the saber suddenly jerked to a halt, stopping an inch from the neck, unable to move a fraction further.

Everyone looked up to see a youth of about ten years old standing atop the blade. He had black hair and wore black clothes, with a tree branch resting on his right shoulder. A half-roasted, fragrant wild boar was skewered on the branch; he looked as if he had just returned from hunting and barbecuing.

The saber-wielding bandit was drenched in sweat, using all his strength to pull the blade back, but the saber was as if nailed in mid-air, motionless. Terrified, he shouted, "Big Brother, this one is a tough nut! Brothers, charge together!"

Someone in the caravan leaned toward the green-clad swordsman and whispered, "Leader, should we go up and help?"

The swordsman pondered for a moment and said, "No rush. This kid was hiding his strength before; clearly, he was playing the pig to eat the tiger. Let us observe first and see his true strength."

While they were talking, the Five Tigers had already swarmed forward.

The hammer-wielder charged from the front, the axe-wielder had already silently circled to the rear to deliver a killing blow, and the two swordsmen—who were brothers and had been taught a combined strike technique by a master—attacked the black-clad youth from the left and right.

The black-clad youth seemed unconcerned. Instead, he untied a yellow wooden gourd from his waist and took a gulp. Then, he leaped into the air. The bandit with the saber, now free, felt a surge of joy and swung his blade at the youth.

While mid-air, the youth remained unhurried. His left leg whipped through the air with a loud "*Slap!*" hitting the bandit's face. The bandit was sent flying like a leaf in the wind, crashing into a massive rock. His face was a bloody mess, and he died instantly.

Immediately after, the youth twisted his waist and turned his head, spitting out a cloud of white mist—likely the wine he had just swallowed. His target was the axe-wielding bandit behind him. The bandit's expression changed, and he frantically swung his axe to defend himself.

But the white mist was as fast as lightning, striking his body instantly. *Puchi puchi!* Like a hundred needles piercing paper, countless bloody holes erupted on the bandit's body. The life faded rapidly from his eyes; he had been killed by a single breath of wine.

As the youth spat the wine mid-air, his body descended. His right foot landed on the ground, and a transparent ripple seemed to spread out from beneath his feet. The two swordsmen suddenly felt a massive, overwhelming force surge from beneath them, instantly shattering their heart meridians. They remained in their lunging poses, taking two more steps toward the youth before their heads slumped, and they fell dead.

In the time it took for the black-clad youth to perform a single flip in the air, he had kicked one to death, spat one to death, and shocked two to death. It sounded like a long process, but in reality, it had taken only a few breaths.

Four of the Five Tigers were gone. Only the hammer-wielding "Big Tiger" had just reached him. Seeing this scene, he was struck with absolute terror and immediately turned to run. But the black-clad youth gave him no chance, rushing forward and ending his life with a single punch.

After the black-clad youth finished off the Five Tigers, the remaining members of the caravan stared at each other in silence, not daring to breathe a word. This youth's methods were so terrifying; if he harbored ill intent toward them, likely not one of them would survive.

The green-clad swordsman wiped the sweat from his brow, stepped forward to offer a flattering salute to the youth, and was about to speak when an old voice drifted from the rear of the caravan: "These men were only seeking wealth, not lives. To leave no survivors from the very start is, in the end, a bit too much."

The black-clad youth glanced at him sideways and said indifferently, "These five were born in bandit camps; there must be accomplices nearby. If I let them go today, won't they bring more bandits in the future, causing endless trouble?"

The black-clad youth was, of course, Liang Yan. Behind the carriage was the old monk who had imparted the incantations to him that day. The two of them carried on a question-and-answer session as if no one else were there, yet no one dared to interrupt. The old monk seemed to have known his temperament all along; once Liang Yan finished speaking, he fell silent. Liang Yan ignored him as well, climbing onto a carriage and tearing off a leg of the wild boar to eat voraciously.

The people outside looked at each other. The leading swordsman coughed and said, "We cannot fathom the actions of a master. Since they are willing to stay on the carriage, we shall not disturb them." He then commanded the man to his right, "Pass the order: no one is allowed to approach the last two carriages!"

"Yes!" The man received the order and immediately went to relay it.

After a period of rest, the caravan began to wind its way southward again. What they did not know was that in the early hours of the third day, as they passed a lush green mountain peak, two figures swiftly departed from the caravan.

At the foot of the green mountain, an old man and a youth walked slowly toward the path—it was Liang Yan and the old monk.

Seeing the sun beginning to rise, the old monk walked unhuriously toward a large rock by the roadside. After sitting cross-legged, he said to Liang Yan, "Begin. Do today's lessons once through."

Liang Yan curled his lip and walked to the roadside. He stood on his left leg, hooked his right foot behind his ankle, leaned his upper body backward to hang in mid-air, supported his head with his left hand, and arched his back with his right. The posture was incredibly bizarre, yet Liang Yan seemed well-trained; he simply closed his eyes and remained silent, holding the position without change.

About an hour passed. Liang Yan changed to another posture, which was even more eccentric—he lay face down, his left hand reaching back to hold his head, and his right hand grasping his left knee.

If a passerby saw this, they would surely point and gossip, but Liang Yan was long accustomed to it. In fact, he had trained this way for the entire year.

Ever since the old monk had taken him away from the teahouse a year ago, the monk had used great divine powers to guide Qi into his body, helping him reach the first level of Qi Refinement, officially marking his entry into the path of cultivation.

However, since then, the old monk had not taught him immortal arts or secret techniques as Liang Yan had imagined. Instead, he had only taught him eight strange postures. These eight postures could be described as defying human habit, being as awkward as they could possibly be.

Yet, the old monk insisted he practice them every day until he knew the eight postures perfectly, down to the smallest detail. Then, he required him to circulate Qi according to the nameless incantations imparted to his mind while holding these strange poses.

Initially, Liang Yan had questioned it, but after a few days of holding the poses and circulating Qi, he discovered that his bones and flesh felt as if they had been reborn. While running or walking, he possessed boundless strength. In his joy, he abandoned his doubts.

It was just that the postures the old monk taught were far too bizarre, and since the old monk never explained them in detail—only supervising his practice—Liang Yan, feeling annoyed, had given them random names. For instance, the first two were named the "Napping Pose" and the "Rolling Pose," along with the "Street-Cursing Pose," the "Punching Pose," and so on.

The youth focused on his training while the old monk sat in meditation. The two remained in silence for half a day. When Liang Yan finally finished, the old monk slowly stood up, nodded to him, and turned to walk up the mountain.

Liang Yan had a hunch that the old monk had something on his mind regarding this trip to the Green Mountain, but the monk was always a man of few words, and Liang Yan disliked asking too many questions, so he could only follow sullenly behind.

After walking half a day on the mountain path, Liang Yan suddenly said, "Old monk, you've been teaching me for a year now. Can you tell me now what kind of technique I am practicing?"

"The Thug Technique," the old monk said without looking back.

Liang Yan was stunned for a moment, then immediately realized the monk was annoyed that he had given the taught postures such ridiculous names. He couldn't help but clap his hands and laugh

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! This technique of yours—if you aren't cursing in the streets, you're rolling on the ground. You're a living street thug! Calling it the Thug Technique couldn't be more fitting! Hahaha!"

Liang Yan laughed for a long time, but seeing no response from ahead, he finally couldn't help but ask, "Old monk, what are we doing here at the Green Mountain?"

The old monk's unhurried voice drifted down the empty mountain path

"To find someone."