Chapter Eighty-Nine: Chen Ding'an's Memories

Chen Shaotian looked surprised. He had never imagined that the old master would identify someone from a single name so quickly.

“Who is it?”

Chen Ding'an shook his head.

“I only have a suspicion. I still can’t be sure, and I’m not even certain whether that girl was really named Dong Xin. I need to check. I wonder if that old bastard still has the same number...”

He muttered under his breath, while his thoughts had already drifted back many years.

Chen Ding'an could no longer remember the exact time, only that he himself had just turned thirty, and Chen Hao was merely seven or eight years old. By then, Chen Hao had already been training in martial arts under him for some time.

It had been summer vacation, and because Chen Hao was still in elementary school, his schoolwork was not especially heavy. He had plenty of free time during the holidays.

So Chen Ding'an took him traveling from place to place, always visiting the homes of martial artists he knew. Most of those martial artists either had bad blood with him, or at least were the sort of people who refused to yield to one another.

The father of the girl Chen Ding'an suspected might be Dong Xin was one of them. He and Chen Ding'an had known each other since childhood, and the reason they had met was, in truth, much the same as Chen Hao’s. Their fathers had brought them along on martial arts journeys, and that was how they had come to know one another.

He remembered that when he was still a child, his own father, who was also Chen Ding'an’s grandfather, had taken him to visit their household, and naturally the two of them had then sparred in earnest.

Back then, his studies had not been nearly as burdensome as Chen Hao’s were now, so he had plenty of time to practice martial arts and often traveled with his father to exchange techniques with others.

Thus, when he was young, he had spent quite a lot of time with Dong Xin’s father, the man named Dong Jianguo. Their dealings with each other had begun, in fact, with martial contests and friendly bouts. They were both young and both martial artists, so neither was willing to admit defeat.

Their matches had gone back and forth, each winning some and losing some, and in truth their abilities were more or less evenly matched. As they grew more familiar with each other, their contact was no longer limited to sparring. After the matches were over, they would sit down together, chat, and discuss whatever subjects most interested children at the time.

Later, as the two gradually grew older and entered adolescence, they even argued fiercely over which Hong Kong or Taiwanese actress was more beautiful.

Whenever their opinions clashed, a fight was inevitable. By their own reckoning, the winner got to decide which actress was prettier.

Those famous stars, long celebrated by the public, had their beauty judged so easily by the outcome of two youths’ sparring.

But that was all long ago. Even Chen Ding'an himself could no longer clearly remember whether the one he had once liked was Lin Qingxia or Lin Fengjiao...

Over the years, the relationship between the two men had remained much the same as in their youth: they admired each other, yet never ceased competing. Their contests were chiefly about whose martial skills were better, and whose family tradition was more profound.

In terms of reputation, Dong Jianguo’s Hong Fist, inherited from the Northern Shaolin tradition, was certainly far more famous than the martial arts of Chen Ding'an’s family. Yet in actual combat, it was Chen Ding'an who usually prevailed.

For that reason, Chen Ding'an had long mocked Dong Jianguo’s magnificent martial art as nothing special in his hands, calling it nothing more than monkey tricks.

And the other man, in turn, constantly sneered that Chen Ding'an had come up through an unschooled, back-alley path and would never amount to much.

This sort of rivalry had continued all the way to the present. Of course, there was no longer any question of the two of them meeting every so often for a duel. Once they had both married and started families, too many duties and too much time were consumed by domestic affairs and work.

So the two had made an agreement: the contest their generation could not settle would be decided by their descendants. That meant Chen Ding'an’s son, Chen Hao, and Dong Jianguo’s daughter, Dong Xin.

Traditionally, martial arts families preserved the old rule that the art was passed from father to son, not to daughter. So when Dong Xin was born, Chen Ding'an had assumed Dong Jianguo would surely have another son and pass the family art on to him.

Unexpectedly, after an incident during a challenge match in which Dong Jianguo was severely injured, he lost the ability to have more children. With no other choice, he could only place his hopes in his daughter and his disciples.

But Chen Hao had seen all of Dong Jianguo’s disciples. Though their talent was not poor, they were merely ordinary; none could be called a genius of the martial path.

And this was the age they lived in. Traditional martial arts had gradually been abandoned, and hardly anyone was willing to invest the time and labor to learn them anymore.

It should be understood that the martial arts of his country were unlike the quick-fix systems of other nations. In some places, after a year or two one might achieve some small success, but the martial arts of his homeland required time and experience, slowly accumulated and tempered.

Some traditional styles, even after five or ten years of study, might not show results in short-term combat as clearly as the martial arts of other countries learned in only one or two years.

But the two could not be compared. To put it bluntly, the martial arts of other nations were mostly water without a source, or else mere fragments borrowed from Chinese martial arts. The techniques they had borrowed were nothing more than simplified versions of Chinese forms.

Naturally, such martial arts were quicker to learn and showed results faster. That was why more and more people chose to study taekwondo, karate, and the like.

In the eyes of other countries, or of most people who did not truly understand martial arts, what were martial arts? They were merely traditional military techniques from ancient warfare, meant for strengthening the body or defending against enemy attacks.

But in truth, Chinese martial arts were far more than that. Within them lay endless principles of life and wisdom.

To comprehend those principles through martial arts required time, patience, and opportunity. Not everyone could reach such a level.

For all these reasons, it had become extremely difficult for Dong Jianguo even to find a disciple with real talent. In the end, pressed by necessity, he decided to break through the old limitation that martial arts were passed from father to son and gave the family art to his daughter.

To be honest, this was entirely a forced choice on Dong Jianguo’s part. He had never expected his daughter to achieve anything extraordinary. He simply could not bear to see a cultural treasure handed down through so many generations vanish with his own, and so he made that decision.

What surprised Dong Jianguo, however, was that his daughter turned out to be a genius in martial arts. Though she was a girl, her aptitude for learning exceeded that of any martial master he knew, perhaps even surpassing them. Even when he himself had been her age, he had not reached her level.

This filled Dong Jianguo with great excitement, and he devoted every resource and all his effort to raising her.

And she did not disappoint him. She had a deep interest in martial arts, too, and her skill rose rapidly, soon pressing close to what Dong Jianguo himself had achieved in his youth.

At first, when Chen Ding'an heard Dong Jianguo boasting that his daughter was a martial prodigy, he thought the man was merely puffing himself up, trying to save face by bragging.

But later, Dong Jianguo actually made a request of him: he wanted their children to continue the tradition the two men had set in their youth and spar in contest. Only then did Chen Ding'an begin to suspect that the other man might be serious.

Perhaps Dong Jianguo truly had a remarkable daughter, which was why he dared to challenge Chen Ding'an’s son so brazenly.

Still, Chen Ding'an was not one to back down from an invitation to fight. This was not merely because he had confidence born of being stronger than the other man. It was because he had absolute faith in his son, Chen Hao.

Hmph. So what if your daughter is a martial prodigy? My son could practically be the reincarnation of the God of Martial Arts, Chen Ding'an thought smugly. Even his own father had said that Chen Hao’s talent far surpassed his own. Surely dealing with a somewhat gifted girl would be easy as pie.

Most importantly, before Dong Jianguo ever issued that challenge, Chen Ding'an had already taken Chen Hao on a long journey through the length and breadth of the country, visiting far too many famous masters and schools of martial arts. Every child around Chen Hao’s age who considered himself talented had been no match for him.

So, filled with confidence, Chen Ding'an readily accepted the challenge and brought Chen Hao to the other man’s territory.

Because the style in question was Hong Fist, and anyone familiar with Hong Fist knew that it had first originated in Northern Shaolin, in a city south of the Mother River of China.

Before going to spar with the other side, Chen Ding'an first took Chen Hao to visit the true birthplace of Chinese martial arts: the Shaolin Temple on Mount Song.

They did not go to some tourist site that any passerby could enter, but to the actual martial hall of the Shaolin Temple. If not for the reputation of Chen Ding'an’s father, who was also Chen Hao’s grandfather, the two of them would not have been able to enter that martial hall so easily.

The hall master was an old friend of Chen Hao’s grandfather. The first time Chen Hao saw him, he immediately sensed that he was different. But because he was still young, he did not understand exactly what made the man so special.

He only felt that every glance, every gesture, even the way the old master walked or sat seemed perfectly natural, as though he had merged wholly with his surroundings and become one with nature itself.

The old hall master did not speak much, but he was kindly disposed. Politely, he invited the two of them to drink a cup of the bitter tea he had brewed himself, and then, quite astonishingly, he began splitting firewood in the courtyard in front of his guests.

The master of a Shaolin martial hall, splitting firewood himself? Young Chen Hao could hardly believe what he was seeing, and despite having visitors, the old man paid them no mind at all, cutting wood as if no one else were there.

Even more unbelievable was the fact that he did not use a woodcutter’s axe. For the kind of logs that were thicker than Chen Hao’s waist, the tools he used were varied and strange. The very first tool he employed was, incredibly, a sheet of Xuan paper used for ink-wash painting...