Chapter 34: The Sorrow of the Age of Declining Martial Arts

Perhaps it was because the opening bout between Yang Sheng and Lei Gong had been so intense and explosive, the matches to narrow the field from ten to five proved exceptionally brutal, leaving almost every participant injured. One pair even fought until both sides suffered broken bones and torn tendons, resulting in only four fighters advancing after the three-day break.

Just as the crowd prepared to disperse, a middle-aged man with a crooked mouth from the Number Gang spoke up: "I say, Senior Song, since the four fighters who advanced are all practically crippled, why not hold two more matches today? It would only be fair. We could start the finals three days from now. What do you think?"

This man was Yin Tiancheng, the boss of the Number Gang. The Number Gang did not originate from the Hung Mun lineage; its early composition was chaotic, and its business interests were concentrated overseas, with connections in Taiwan, North America, and Japan. They were, to put it mildly, wealthy and powerful. While their numbers were not vast, their strength was on par with syndicates like Wo Yee Hing.

Song Changli pondered for a moment. This would save effort, and with only two matches left, it would save everyone another trip. "What are the opinions of the four fighters?"

Yang Sheng nodded immediately. Although his fists were injured, his recent death match with Lei Gong had left his spirit and energy at their peak; he could easily fight again. The others felt the same. Since their injuries would not heal in three days anyway, it was better to fight now. If a competitor recovered faster, waiting three days would only put them at a greater disadvantage.

Once the four agreed, Song Changli drew lots again and announced loudly, "Number Gang versus Hongsheng United! Will both fighters please take the stage!"

Ghostly Wen nudged Yang Sheng, whispering, "Brother Sheng, you're at a bit of a disadvantage. The Number Gang has sent Tan Bokuan, a disciple of Wong Shun Leung, one of the Four Heavenly Kings of Wing Chun. He has a leg injury, but he can still use his Wing Chun techniques. Your fists are injured—are you going to rely solely on your kicking techniques?"

Yang Sheng stood up and said calmly, "Wing Chun has kicking techniques too. Besides, poor balance affects power generation regardless of injury. Neither of us has the upper hand." With that, he walked straight onto the ring.

Tan Bokuan was a short, slight youth in his thirties, a head shorter than Yang Sheng and appearing almost frail. Yet, the thick calluses on his knuckles suggested he had likely shattered countless wooden dummies. His left leg had been heavily struck in the previous match, and he still limped as he climbed the stage. Yang Sheng’s fists were also wrapped in bandages, with spots of blood seeping through. Both men looked utterly battered.

Tan Bokuan smiled bitterly. "After watching your fight with Lei Gong, I really didn't want to draw you. We're both injured, so there's no need to fight to the death. How about we spar within a single step's distance? Whoever moves a step first loses."

The condition Tan Bokuan proposed seemed favorable to himself, as his legs were already hindered. However, within a single step, Yang Sheng’s poking kicks could easily exploit the range, so he was not at a disadvantage. Yang Sheng smiled and agreed.

The two stood their ground, and Yang Sheng launched a fierce whip kick. With no room for maneuvering beyond a single step, Tan Bokuan had no choice but to take the hit. But the moment the foot reached him, Tan Bokuan twisted his body in an awkward, spring-like motion, allowing Yang Sheng’s kick to graze his clothes by a hair’s breadth.

"Wing Chun 'listening to the bridge'? Such keen perception!"

The next moment, Tan Bokuan grabbed Yang Sheng’s right leg and thrust his fingers toward Yang Sheng’s knee joint. Yang Sheng suddenly reversed his body, kicked Tan Bokuan’s fingers away with his other foot, and upon landing, used a short, explosive half-step to deliver a crushing punch!

Tan Bokuan crossed his arms to block, but the force of the half-step punch was so immense that, hampered by his injured lower body, he was forced back half a step. Shocked, he settled into his stance, springing forward like a coil to unleash a flurry of chain punches.

Wing Chun was a standard Southern martial art, excelling in close-quarters, rapid-fire combat. Unfortunately, his leg injury prevented him from coordinating his lower body, robbing his movements of their usual precision. But when it came to raw, violent power, who could surpass Yang Sheng, a master of Northern styles?

*Baji Fist! Rain of Arrows!*

Ignoring the pain in his fists, Yang Sheng struck like a torrential downpour, pinning Tan Bokuan down. Tan Bokuan was short and lacked the reach to counter inside the pressure. Without realizing it, Yang Sheng switched from punching to chopping, incorporating the techniques of the Zuo Kun Tongbei Pi Gua style. There were no clear boundaries between martial arts; while saying one method unlocks all is an exaggeration, they all eventually lead to the same destination. After battling a master like Zuo Kun, Yang Sheng had absorbed the essence of the style.

"I yield! I yield!" Tan Bokuan’s left leg could no longer bear the pressure, shooting with sharp pain. He dared not continue, fearing he would be crippled.

Yang Sheng slowly withdrew his hands, his knuckles now stained with fresh blood. Tan Bokuan smiled bitterly. "What you practice isn't traditional martial arts; these are killing techniques only suitable for the Longcheng tournament ring. On any other stage, you’d be disqualified in the first round."

Yang Sheng replied coolly, "That is why I do not fight on other stages. I am curious, though, why you are here. As a disciple of one of the Four Heavenly Kings of Wing Chun, you should be in a martial arts school teaching, not fighting for your life in the Longcheng tournament."

Tan Bokuan’s skill was not weak; he had inherited ninety percent of Wong Shun Leung’s true teachings and had fought in many underground matches. He was a master-level fighter. But he lacked the sharp, murderous intent of a killer. He had offered a truce the moment he stepped on the ring—a tactical move, perhaps, but one that signaled a lack of killer spirit. His temperament was too gentle for the underworld, which made his presence as a mercenary for the Number Gang strange to Yang Sheng.

Tan Bokuan sighed. "Even disciples of the Four Heavenly Kings have to eat. My father has cancer, my newborn son was diagnosed with congenital heart disease, and my wife looks like an old woman from exhaustion. Teaching one student pays only a pittance. If I don't fight in these underground rings, I can't save my father or my son! Not everyone who learns Wing Chun can become Bruce Lee. If you can't save your family, what use are sharp fists?"

Yang Sheng was silent. In a sense, this world was in the twilight of martial arts. Today, martial artists could still trade their lives for money on the ring, but in a few decades, traditional martial arts would become a joke, replaced by the rising popularity of Karate and Taekwondo. Who was to blame for this was a complex question with no simple answer.

"Brother Cheng, I'm sorry, I can't continue. If I go on, my leg will be ruined." Tan Bokuan looked ashamed and nervous, fearing Yin Tiancheng would withhold his pay, which would cost his family their lives. Without the money, they would be kicked out of the hospital the next day.

However, Yin Tiancheng did not blame him. The Number Gang was not an old-school syndicate; they had their own enforcers, but none had a competitive edge, which was why they had hired an outsider like Tan Bokuan. Since the tournament didn't forbid outside help, no one could object. Yin Tiancheng was already satisfied that Tan Bokuan had reached the final four.

"Don't worry, you'll get every cent we agreed on. I'll add a 100,000-dollar bonus to help you get your father and son into a better hospital."

"Thank you, Brother Cheng!" Tan Bokuan was overwhelmed with emotion.

Yin Tiancheng asked, "Is that Yang Sheng really that strong? Even injured, he forced you to surrender?"

Tan Bokuan said solemnly, "He is very strong. His mastery of martial arts is already on par with a grandmaster, and he is proficient in both Northern and Southern styles. Most importantly, his strikes are vicious and lethal; everything he knows seems honed for the sole purpose of killing. Such a person is terrifying. It is strange that someone with such a mindset could reach the grandmaster level, but he has. If it were a fight to the death, I would be no match for him; I would end up like Lei Gong—beaten to death. Not just me—even my master, Wong Shun Leung, would face the same fate. We practice martial arts; he uses a killing art."

Yin Tiancheng watched Yang Sheng and his group leave early, rubbing his chin. "No matter how sharp the fist, it’s not as sharp as a gun. My men are cold-blooded killers too. Still, this guy has stood his ground against 'Lame Ho' and even dragged 'Lui Lok' into the fray; he is no simple character. Interesting, very interesting. I’d like to see if that old cripple can swallow this insult!"