I Am Lian Youming, Enlighten Me!

Unexpectedly, there were only two people in this final passenger car. One was an unkempt child of about ten, and the other was an old woman dressed in tattered rags. The elder sat curled in the corner, coughing incessantly, her back bent double as she huddled into a ball. The child was carefully feeding her water from a faded military canteen. Between the old woman's heart-wrenching coughs and the sour stench wafting from the two of them, it was no wonder no one had crowded into this carriage. Moreover, it looked as though the child had rolled in a pigsty—she reeked terribly, yet her eyes were bright and clear. Seeing a stranger, she made no move, but deep caution lurked beneath her gaze. Lian Youming glanced at the canteen in the old woman's arms, on which a few faint characters could still be discerned: *Presented to the Most Lovable People.* His eyes flickered. "Did you two hop the train to sneak on?" In times like these, plenty of people hopped trains midway through their travels across the country. Seeing how both were covered in soot and coal dust, they had most likely climbed out of a freight car. The child stared fixedly at him, gripping a short knife in her hand, and said nervously, "I'm warning you, we have tuberculosis. Whoever catches it dies! If you dare come over, I'll spit right in your face!" Her voice was clear and crisp—she turned out to be a girl. "Tuberculosis? No wonder... But silly girl, tuberculosis can be cured nowadays." Lian Youming chuckled, the wariness in his heart easing a little. Seeing that the men behind had not rushed to surround them just yet, he had Yan Tao take a seat in the rearmost corner, separated from the grandmother and granddaughter only by the aisle. By then, the girl also spotted the crowd at the other end of the carriage—a dense, dark throng. Her grimy little face instantly went pale, and she whimpered with tears in her voice, "Granny, those paihuazi are back. We can't get away!" Lian Youming smiled gently. "What are you crying for? They're here for me." The girl blinked her large eyes, tears welling up as she froze in bewilderment. Then she yanked at the old woman, turning to crawl back toward the freight car. Seeing this, Lian Youming called out, "Don't run! It's freezing out there, and your granny's illness is so severe she can't take the strain. Just sit tight right here. Once this is sorted out, I'll buy your tickets. And next time, don't smear manure all over yourselves. It's foul and filthy, and it's bad for your granny's condition, too." The little girl halted in her tracks and stared at Lian Youming with curiosity. The stench of dung on her had not come from tumbling into a cesspool; she had smeared it on herself deliberately. The dirtier and fouler she smelled, the more disgusted the paihuazi would be with her. She had not expected Lian Youming to see right through it in a single sentence. Lian Youming set his luggage aside, draped his overcoat casually over the back of a seat, and slowly rolled up his shirt sleeves while asking the pair as they sat back down, "What's your story? Visiting relatives, or fleeing famine?" Having caught her breath after the coughing fit, the old woman rasped feebly, "Disaster struck back home... we couldn't make a living... *cough, cough*... I brought my granddaughter out to beg for a way to survive, only to be targeted by paihuazi, and then I caught tuberculosis." Lian Youming nodded in understanding. Once he had rolled both sleeves to his elbows, he lowered his brow and turned sideways, squinting toward the carriage he had just come from. Watching the gang of thieves file inside, he lightly pinched his collar with his right thumb and forefinger, undoing two buttons. Under the lights, the exposed patch of his chest looked cast in molten bronze—firm as iron, lean, and commanding. Outside the window, the night suddenly shifted. Glistening crystals drifted with the wind, falling thicker and faster. Snow was beginning to fall. Feathery flakes drifted down profusely. While not as wild and frantic as the snows of the Northeast, they were dense, like a white curtain unfurling to frame the murderous intent within the carriage. A middle-aged man wearing aviator sunglasses stepped forward from the crowd, his hands tucked inside his sleeves as he approached. "The surname is Song. How should I address you, little brother? Which path do you hail from, hero?" Lian Youming swept a glance past him at the mob behind him, then simply walked a circuit through the carriage, throwing open every window along with the rearmost door. As the wind and snow blasted against his chest, he curled his lips into a smile. Without answering, he asked, "Too much talk wastes energy. Does anyone want to get off the train now? I'm only saying this once: jump down right now, and you might just keep your worthless lives." The middle-aged man in aviator sunglasses showed neither pleasure nor anger, merely letting out a dry "Heh." "Big words." Lian Youming stood tall and burly, looking down with drooping eyelids like a tiger dozing with slitted eyes. "So you're that Eighth Master? Heh, what era is this, and people still call themselves 'Master'?" Eighth Master's cheek twitched in a cold, mirthless smirk. Wiping the condensation from his lenses, he drawled, "A newborn calf truly knows no fear of tigers. Today, I'll teach you the height of the heavens and the depth of the earth." Lian Youming raised an eyebrow. The moment he did, his eyes snapped wide open, flashing with vicious light. "Aren't you just a stray remnant of feudal rot? Believe it or not, in a moment I'll beat you so hard onto the wall that nobody will be able to scrape you off." Words were exhausted; there was no need for further talk. He clenched his left hand into a fist and wrapped his right hand around it, the sinews and bones of both arms standing out in sharp relief. Slowly raising his arms to chest height in a fist-and-palm salute, he spoke in a light, slow tone from his throat, yet the words sent chills across the skin of all who heard: "I am Lian Youming. Enlighten me!" There was a distinction in fist-and-palm salutes. Typically, the left was honored and the right was humbled; wrapping the left hand around the right was proper etiquette, regarded in martial circles as a civil salute. However, the right hand was commonly stained with blood, wielding blades and axes, and was thus considered ominous and deadly. Wrapping the right hand around the left hand in martial circles signaled a fight to the death—a martial challenge. Seeing this funerary posture, Eighth Master's pupils contracted, the muscles of his cheeks tightening. Cupping his hands, he replied, "Song Fei. I ask for your instruction!" In the brief time they had spoken, the doors to the two rear carriages had both been pulled shut. The moment Eighth Master finished speaking, he retreated, sitting down squarely on a seat by the carriage entrance without budging. He lightly tapped his thigh while calmly humming an opera tune, entirely at ease. Almost the instant he fell back, two figures leaped from the seats on either side, lunging forward. At the same time, two swift shadows shot from their hands, flashing with a sudden gleam—they were the iron balls that elderly men in the alleyways often rolled in their palms. Lian Youming's expression shifted slightly. With a roll of his shoulders, his arms swept up into the air, his fleshy palms cupping inward. Going with their momentum, he took the two iron balls into his grip, channeled his strength, and flicked his wrists midair. The two iron balls, which had torn through the air with ferocious momentum, were deflected straight back along their original paths. The two assailants advanced aggressively, their eyes widening as they raised their hands to fling two more iron balls. *Clang! Clang!* The four iron balls collided in midair, instantly producing two loud cracks. Tumbling and leaping, the two threw the iron balls and moved to attack again. But suddenly sensing a fierce, sinister gust of wind rushing at their faces, their pupils quivered, and strange yelps tore from their mouths as a fist thrust out from behind the iron balls. The palm of this fist was left hollow, the five fingers not clenched tight. As the forceful draft whistled past, it produced an eerie howl, like a thousand-catty sledgehammer crashing straight ahead, or like Li Yuanba from the storytellers' tales striking directly with fists swung like mallets. The man on the left had a dark, gaunt face and looked about thirty, wearing a heavy gray padded coat. He had looked domineering just moments ago, but upon seeing this fist, his scalp prickled with dread. Jolted with shock, he blurted out, "The hammer technique of the Taiji School?" In his panic, he had only enough time to cross his arms before his chest. Yet in the very next second, all sensation vanished from his arms. The padded cotton jacket over his chest suddenly caved inward with an enormous fist imprint, his back bulging silently as a section of bone jutted out. He was not sent flying backward by the blow; instead, he hung impaled upon Lian Youming's fist. Clumps of cotton spilled like snow from bursting seams, scattering across the carriage. Whether he was dead or alive was unknown. Seizing the opening, the other man ducked low, rolling across the floor to close the distance, throwing both fists upward from below. "Ground-Tumbling Fist? Heh, cheap parlor tricks!" Lian Youming's eyelids drooped. Sweeping his left arm through the air, internal force erupted from within him, sending the cotton drifting in front of him spinning violently. Reaching out with his large hand, he reined in the incoming attack, his palm twisting and wrapping around the man's fist. With a squeeze of his fingers, sinews and bones instantly cracked and shattered. The man's face turned iron-green, his eyes filled with terror. Gripped by agonizing pain, he was about to cry out when three cold gleams flashed before Lian Youming, blade light descending straight toward his head. Unhurried, Lian Youming pushed off with both feet and leaped backward into the air, taking the two men beneath his fists along as their bodies flew horizontally with him. While airborne, he flicked and shoved with both hands, sending the two men sailing out the carriage window and plunging into the vast blanket of snow outside. The instant he touched the floor, Lian Youming tapped with a single foot, springing off the ground. Burly as he appeared, his leaps were as light as a swallow's. Crouching low as he pounced, his arms swept across like a spinning top, catching the three attackers beneath their armpits. All three figures tumbled backward through the air. The opera tune choked in Eighth Master's throat. He barked sharply, "Kill him!" In an instant, shadows surged and blade light rose like a sea, engulfing the towering figure standing firm amid the wind and snow.