Just as Lian Youming and Eighth Master were on the verge of clashing, a young girl elsewhere on the train was peering cautiously toward Lian Youming's carriage, stealing glances at the thugs guarding the doorway.
It was Zhao Xiaozhi.
She was supposed to have gotten off at Tianjin, but having sensed that something was amiss with Lian Youming's situation earlier, she had followed along as if possessed by a ghost. She was all the more astonished when she saw people jumping from the train, especially from the very last car.
Only when Zhao Xiaozhi looked through the door's glass and watched that sweeping, domineering figure inside wreaking havoc in all directions did she slump back into her seat as if dreaming, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
Her pretty eyes darted, and she suddenly caught sight of a man stepping out of the carriage—a man with a handlebar mustache.
Inside the carriage.
"Let's wrap this up early. Once I finish you off, I can still make it back to Tianjin for morning tea before dawn."
Eighth Master rolled up his sleeves, laughing unscrupulously.
Lian Youming smiled as well. "You're full of hot air."
With that, he tipped his chin toward the thugs outside the carriage. "What, they aren't coming in?"
Eighth Master replied evenly, "Being the boss isn't easy. Who knows if there's someone else's mole among them? I don't want the treasure that's about to land in my hands slipping away to an outsider. Besides, you've shown all your tricks, but you haven't seen mine yet. Facing a worn-out kid at the end of his tether, if I still cowered in the back, I wouldn't be able to keep anyone in line afterward."
"A piece of scum who treats human lives like grass, and you actually care about following rules."
Lian Youming swallowed the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, his eyes full of unmasked mockery.
Eighth Master twirled the archer's ring on his thumb and sighed. "Can't do without rules. If the boss doesn't follow rules, who knows what kind of chaos the men below will stir up? They'd rebel, clash openly and in secret, and in the end, I might not even know how I died... Besides, I only do business; I rarely kill people. You're an exception."
With those words exchanged, both men shifted their tone at once.
"Come on!"
"Bring it."
A few seconds later, across the aisle, Eighth Master struck first. With a swing of his hips, his right arm brushed past his ear, driving a heavy elbow straight toward Lian Youming's face, his expression turning vicious and terrifying.
A master's move spoke for itself.
With just this single strike, his shirt snapped and the wind tore through the air, revealing the ferocious force packed within.
Lian Youming felt a sharp, needle-like prickle across his face. The heavy elbow was already upon him, radiating cutting pressure. He gathered his breath, tilted his upper body, and the instant he dodged the elbow tip, he swung a fist straight toward the man's chest like a heavy hammer.
Unexpectedly, Eighth Master raised his left arm—another heavy elbow. Elbow point smashed into fist, and at the collision, both their expressions shifted.
Feeling the force shuddering through his left elbow, Eighth Master grew solemn.
For a martial artist, unleashing internal force severely depleted vital energy. In a sudden explosive burst, blood surged and the heart and lungs pumped fiercely, draining stamina at an alarming rate.
Lian Youming was young, and having just endured a coordinated siege, he should have shown at least some fatigue by all rights. Yet his striking power remained ferocious and domineering, shockingly heavy, as robust as an ox.
And what kind of monster was this kid? Using the soft-overcoming-hard Taiji hammer technique so aggressively was completely unorthodox—was he trying to walk the path of Yang Luchan?
"Boy, I've been guarding against you."
Lian Youming's heart tightened as well. A sharp pain shot through the back of his hand, and his silk-reeling force was largely scattered by the shock.
The penetrating force from the other man was formidable, thrusting forward like a spear, fierce and sharp.
Yet he had no intention of shrinking from battle. A weak opponent made things boring; without a worthy rival, how could one ever measure one's own standing?
Besides, with Xue Hen and Gong Wu'er ahead of him, how could he not strive to catch up?
The instant fist and elbow collided, both men seemed intent on meeting hard with hard. Pivoting on their heels, they squeezed into the aisle like two crabs, shifting sideways and throwing fists and elbows once more without a word.
Lian Youming clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes slightly. The wind rushed over his knuckles with an unending drone.
Still the Taiji hammer.
Li Da had told him that if he mastered this single move thoroughly, he could roam the martial world unchecked.
Without flashy feints or unnecessary variations, Lian Youming swung his fists. Combined with his imposing, muscular frame, his fist shadows flew like Li Yuanba reborn, each blow cracking the air, deafening the ears and suffocating with pressure.
Opposite him, Eighth Master whipped his elbows in rapid succession, the sleeves of his padded cotton coat stretched taut and round, his face as cold and pale as iron, meeting hard with hard.
Fighting as they moved toward the rear of the carriage, the seats along the aisle shook and groaned under the strain of their clashes, as though some ravenous beast were forcing its way through.
*Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang...*
Tremendous concussions erupted between them in rapid succession, sounding like claps of thunder.
Lian Youming had taken an iron mountain lean from his opponent earlier, leaving the blood in his chest and belly churning. Now, under this intense collision, it was like pouring oil on fire. A sweet taste rose in his throat, and scalding blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Yet his aura did not weaken in the slightest; instead, it surged with mounting frenzy. His fists drove straight forward and back in a wild torrent, and his eyes grew bloodshot from the churning vitality, glowing with terrifying ferocity as he grinned wide.
"Thrilling!"
Eighth Master looked equally menacing, his face shifting from white to a sickly green. After only a few exchanges of elbows, his taut sleeves silently burst open, exposing bruised, purple flesh.
Lian Youming's fists rapidly swelled red under the opposing forces, blood splattering, though neither could tell whose it was.
"That's what you get for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong!"
Eighth Master was still as a stone until he moved, then swift as a tiger or leopard. While parrying with his elbows, his momentum climbed step by step. His legs whipped like tiger tails, kicking, sweeping, and stomping, blending the techniques of Tantui and Chuojiao in an effort to force an opening.
In the narrow, cramped aisle, Lian Youming's movements were restricted. With a momentary lapse, he took several hits to his legs. Yet his face showed no anger or alarm; his battle lust only burned brighter.
Eighth Master had initially felt smug about seizing the upper hand, but looking at Lian Youming's manic expression, an inexplicable trace of dread flickered in his eyes. What was more, as the fight dragged on, he sensed that something was wrong. Ordering his thugs to swarm earlier had been intended to probe Lian Youming's depth—he had feared that terrifying Taiji hammer most of all, which was why he had resolved to break the fists with elbow points, keeping many counter-strategies in reserve.
Yet what good were plans? Facing Lian Youming's towering barrage, he could only block head-on; if he dared to switch moves, he would invite instant doom.
*Damn it, I walked into a trap. Is this kid relying on his bottomless stamina to grind me to death?*
An old hand after all, Eighth Master grasped Lian Youming's intention in a single thought.
"Down!"
Seeing Lian Youming's vitality surging like a tiger's, Eighth Master thundered a shout, eyes widening as he sank his center of gravity. Seizing the instant their bodies crossed, he crossed his arms horizontally and vertically, channeling the mountain-leaning force through his elbows and ramming forward with brutal power.
This move sacrificed one thing to gain another: he gave up taking a heavy punch to seize the initiative for a counter.
*Thud!*
Lian Youming drove his fist like a hammer, striking dead center into Eighth Master's flank.
"Hm?"
The moment the fist landed, the cotton coat at Eighth Master's waist caved inward in a bowl-sized crater. Yet a blow that should have ruptured liver and kidneys had much of its penetrating force bled off.
It turned out Eighth Master had bent his torso outward in that split second, shortening the distance of Lian Youming's strike.
Even so, a flare of agony shot through his ribs.
A shortened strike naturally delivered its force to the surface.
His ribs were broken, yet Eighth Master laughed wildly. Trading two ribs for the chance to defeat his foe was a bargain.
As for Lian Youming, struck by this sudden mountain-leaning check, his heavy frame was knocked backward off balance despite his weight.
*Sacrificing himself to buy an opening?*
Such a tactic reminded him of Xie Laosan trading an arm for an eye.
Lian Youming narrowed his eyes and braced his arms, his muscles rippling as he fought to stabilize his center of gravity.
"Hah!"
Eighth Master—Song Fei—had planned for this exact moment. Stepping forward, he kicked off a seat back and leaped into the air, driving his right knee down viciously.
Falling backward in the narrow aisle, unable to find purchase or dodge, Lian Youming felt a sharp pain in his chest as Eighth Master descended with crushing weight, his right knee plunging toward his sternum with the force of ten thousand jin.
Feeling the immense force bearing down on his chest, Lian Youming sank his breath. He could have blocked with both hands, but doing so would leave him no chance to counter; hitting the floor would be his death, and a direct hit from that heavy knee would make him vomit his heart and lungs out.
Neither panicked nor rushed, as the floor drew closer, Lian Youming lightly pressed his left hand against the incoming knee. His narrowed eyes suddenly snapped wide under the dim light, brilliance exploding like an enraged tiger opening its eyes. The fine blood vessels in his eyes seemed to fuse into pools of crimson, radiating a terrifying aura of slaughter as his gaze locked onto Eighth Master through the air.
"What?"
Outside the window, snow fell thick in the dark night; inside the carriage, the lights were even dimmer.
Eighth Master was gloating as his lethal strike drew near, but the moment Lian Youming's gaze locked onto him, his vision seemed to narrow until only that pair of eyes remained—soul-snatching and captivating, momentarily shattering his focus. Though he snapped out of it in an instant, the grin on his face had vanished, replaced by chilling dread.
*What kind of technique is this?!*
Lian Youming's feet were already planted, rooted to the floor. His body arched backward in a bizarre posture, nearly parallel to the floor, yet refusing to fall.
This was thanks to the rooting method passed down by Li Da.
With one above and one below, Lian Youming kicked off with a single foot, his waist whipping like a pendulum to snap his body upright with unstoppable power. His left hand clamped onto Eighth Master's right knee, while his right palm pressed against the man's chest, lifting him clean into the air.
"Damn it!"
Eighth Master turned deathly pale. A split second of distraction meant the difference between life and death.
Lian Youming lowered his brows and curled his lips into a silent grin. The body that had just stood firm dropped backward once more.
Planting his feet earlier had been to anchor his center and exert leverage; falling now was like the heavens collapsing and the earth splitting. Force rises from the ground—grasped in Lian Youming's hands, Eighth Master was swung overhead like a windmill and slammed violently toward the floor!
"Wrestling?!"
Terrified out of his wits, Eighth Master tried desperately to break free. But hanging in midair, with the strange force pulsing from the palm on his chest throwing his balance into disarray, his body went numb and his arms temporarily lost their strength. Struggling frantically, he could only drive his left knee repeatedly into Lian Youming's chest.
"Let go of me!"
*Bang, bang, bang...*
Within moments, Lian Youming absorbed three heavy blows, coughing blood. Yet his wild grin only broadened; far from letting go, his grip tightened further.
Accompanied by two soft toad croaks, the floor rushed up before Eighth Master's terrified, pale face.
Together, both men crashed heavily to the ground.
*Crash!*
*Gah!*
Falling from on high, Eighth Master felt his internal organs shift. Bone-cracking pops echoed through his body, and hot blood surged into his mouth and nose, coughing out in a spray.
Yet almost at the same instant, Eighth Master exhaled sharply and scrambled to his feet—he could not let Lian Youming seize him again. Tightening his muscles and bones, he threw up his arms into a Liangyi stance, driving straight toward the figure rising swiftly before him.
Yet battered by that heavy slam, his form and spirit were fractured; how much strength remained in this elbow?
Lian Youming arched his spine like a drawn bow and sank his feet, neither dodging nor parrying, intent on taking the blow head-on.
If the other man could trade injury for victory, why couldn't he?
"Ah!"
Seeing Lian Youming's stance, Eighth Master's expression twisted in horror. But things had come to this; he had no choice but to brace himself and thrust his elbow with all his might.
Yet the moment a large hand cupped his abdomen, Eighth Master's pupils shrank to pinpricks.
*It's over.*
The next second, a tall, lean figure flew backward, limbs flailing, and slammed hard against the carriage wall.
Before he could react, the burly figure followed like a falling star. A single palm twisted like lightning, slamming against the man's chest.
Pinned against the carriage wall, Eighth Master looked at the fleshy palm against his chest, his face like ash. "Heh... in this world, the rich always look down on the poor, the tall sneer at the short, the wicked bully the good. Even if you kill me, someone else will do this work. Can you kill them all?"
Lian Youming raised his gaze to meet the man's eyes and replied offhandedly, "Then I'll kill every one I see. Kill you first, then we'll see."
With that, hollowed palm suddenly tightening, his right arm bulged thick, pressing down hard. A domineering, brutal force surged through the palm, slamming into Eighth Master's chest!
*Pfft!*
Eighth Master's tense, struggling body instantly went limp against the wall. His cotton coat burst open like a trumpet flower, cotton wadding cascading like snow.
Limbs dangling, pinned against the wall, his eyes could still move, looking as though he wanted to struggle to his feet. "Cough... s-spare me... I'm a Baji..."
Lian Youming stepped back half a pace, meeting the man's eyes with an expressionless face. "Disappointing."
Before the man could finish, Lian Youming snapped his right fist forward and back in a flash. A punch crater caved into Eighth Master's chest; the man flattened against the wall, his head lolling to the side, completely lifeless.
Having done all this, Lian Youming sat down beside Yan Tao.
To his surprise, the filthy little girl suddenly crept up to Eighth Master's corpse, pulled the archer's ring from his thumb, and even took the money pouch from his pocket.
Lian Youming wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, watching quietly.
Only when the girl hauled open the carriage door and began dragging Eighth Master's body out with great difficulty did he realize she intended to use the act of disposing of the corpse to earn the right to keep the money.
Lian Youming stopped her, shot a glance at the thugs outside the carriage, and pointed smilingly at the corpse on the floor.
Before long, two thugs plucked up their courage, carried Eighth Master's body, and jumped from the rear door of the moving train.
Yan Tao finally came back to her senses and asked haltingly, "Y-You... are you all right?"
Lian Youming shook his head. "Don't worry about me. The night is long; get some sleep. We'll talk at daybreak."
Yan Tao had been gripped by fear and exhaustion; hearing this, she felt as though a heavy burden had been lifted. Curling up in her heavy coat, she closed her eyes, and before long, soft snores drifted from her.
"Was that qigong you used just now?"
Someone in the carriage was still awake.
The unkempt girl guarding her grandmother was staring at him with bright, burning eyes, her dirty little face flushed red with excitement over whatever thoughts were running through her head.
Lian Youming chuckled, but soon paused—she looked rather like he had when he first met Xue Hen in the countryside.
"It's called internal martial arts, not qigong."
The girl looked thoughtful, but then seemed to recall something. "I stole a glance earlier. There seemed to be someone standing behind that Eighth Master, but he vanished in the blink of an eye."
Lian Youming was taken aback, then narrowed his eyes in thought, his face slowly turning grim.
He remembered: there seemed to have been a man wearing a skullcap with a handlebar mustache, dressed in an animal-skin vest.
That person indeed hadn't been among those who had fought earlier.
Something wasn't right.
If that man was Eighth Master's subordinate, he shouldn't have been standing behind him.
Eighth Master himself had said he was wary of moles among his men; how could he comfortably leave his back exposed to someone else?
That meant Eighth Master had been aware of the man's presence.
If so, that mustachioed man was no ordinary lackey.
A trusted confidant, or something else?
Lian Youming's eyes flickered, and another possibility crossed his mind. *Could the one I just killed have been a decoy?*
With that thought, he steadied his breath, amusement creeping into his gaze.
After that fierce battle, the thugs who could still move were either crippled or maimed, and several had suffered fatal internal injuries to their livers and kidneys, their lives running out.
If that man truly was the ringleader, he would bide his time for another chance; if not, he likely wouldn't show his face again.
All he could do was wait and see.
"Are you folks from Shanxi?"
Lian Youming wiped the blood from his hands, intending to chat with the girl, but she had already fallen asleep clutching her grandmother, thoroughly worn out by terror.
Watching the two sleep embracing each other, he shook his head, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes to rest.
Time slipped by. The train stopped at several stations along the way, passengers coming and going, yet hardly anyone took a seat in their carriage.
Gradually, the darkness outside the window receded. A warm golden sun hung over the distant mountains, morning light bursting forth like ten thousand sword-gleams, piercing the clouds to bathe the world in brilliance.
Another new day.
"Cigarettes, melon seeds, boxed lunches!"
The train attendant's hawking drifted from a distance.
The boxed meals on the train were not expensive; if Lian Youming remembered correctly, they cost about thirty cents, required no ration coupons, included meat, and came in generous portions.
Yet looking at the middle-aged female attendant before him, he felt something was off.
Last night, this woman had looked upon the grandmother and granddaughter with utter disgust; now she was actually willing to push her meal cart over here?
Lian Youming pressed his lips together and gave a light laugh. "Eighth Master, you've blown your cover!"
The female attendant froze, then put her hands on her hips and snapped indignantly, "What Eighth Master, Ninth Master! Let me tell you, young comrade, your ideological awareness needs serious improvement! What era do you think this is..."
Lian Youming froze in turn. Looking two carriages ahead, he saw an identical female attendant standing there.
"Who's that over there?"
The attendant nearby said impatiently, "That's my older sister! Haven't you ever seen twins? Do you want a boxed meal or not? She refused to come over because of the stink here, but I was worried you folks might be hungry."
Lian Youming felt a headache coming on. Turns out he had guessed wrong—wild overthinking really was no good. "We want them. Give us one for each person here."
Chapter 59