Chapter Twenty-Four: Strength Rising Step by Step

Xuanqing’s predictions were entirely correct. The emergence of the “Third Prince” from the Temple of the Supreme Lord transformed that temple into the ancestral shrine of the “Third Prince.” As his divine status was confirmed, it stirred significant controversy within the Daoist community. After all, for a new deity to suddenly appear, lacking the endorsement of a renowned virtuous figure and with no foundation among the common people, was hardly considered proper.

Yet, those with discerning insight saw great promise in the “Third Prince.” They keenly recognized his potential to draw followers. Historically, Daoist belief was associated with solemn rituals and incense curling amidst morning and evening bells, the imposing statues enough to silence crying children. Young people found it all too severe and mysterious, difficult to approach. How many truly grasped the meaning behind Daoist texts such as “The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao”?

Because it was unapproachable and inspired distant reverence, both Daoism and Buddhism faced the challenge of attracting young adherents.

However, the “Thunderbolt Third Prince” was dynamic and novel in form, quickly winning the favor of the youth. Its popularity was undeniable in drawing more believers.

Eventually, the great virtuous figures of Daoism reached a consensus: they would not interfere and would allow its development.

Here, the importance of having influential backing becomes clear. If Xuanqing had not been the disciple of the remarkable Li Chunfeng, it is unlikely that such consensus would have been reached. Without support and amidst controversy, Xuanqing might well have been held responsible. As the Journey to the West teaches, monsters without connections end up in hell, while those with backing ascend to heaven and become immortals.

…

Feng Xiaobao was in high spirits, leaping and dancing the “Thunderbolt Third Prince” dance with such exuberance that even professional dancers of later generations would pale in comparison!

He won love wherever he went; people cheered him on, and he was the darling of the crowd. After each performance, he would quietly retreat backstage. Apart from stopping by the shop or manor at irregular intervals each week, he devoted all remaining time to his grand plan—strengthening himself!

He was ever ready for rebellion.

At that time, people were rather conscientious in their work, whether out of a sense of righteousness or awe of their master’s power. The master was not especially generous, but the treatment he offered was fair. For instance, at the end of the year, Tang laborers received a considerable bonus, and even slaves earned a little income. The key was the master’s promise: after ten years of hard work, they would be granted their freedom!

Whether hired hands or slaves, everyone worked diligently, sparing Feng Xiaobao the need for much oversight.

With a steady stream of income, Feng Xiaobao finally gained respectability and free time; with both wealth and leisure, he could do as he pleased.

He exercised every morning to build his body. The rear courtyard of the Temple of the Supreme Lord was renovated—walls heightened, floors relaid, exercise equipment installed such as multiple sets of dumbbells, sandbags, and other training gear, along with spears and staves.

Besides improving his physical fitness, Feng Xiaobao frequently visited various martial arts academies in Luoyang to practice hand-to-hand combat, learn the arts of spears, staves, archery, and horsemanship.

From Emperor Gaozu to Taizong to Gaozong, the Tang dynasty had spanned three reigns, with almost constant warfare. The military held high status, and martial spirit burned bright among the populace. With Kaiyuan coins paving his way, Feng Xiaobao met with success everywhere, joining the city’s two renowned academies: “Divine Might” and “Practice Makes Perfect,” to study military tactics and hand-to-hand martial arts, respectively.

The “Divine Might” academy was run by Zhang Dajun, a relative of the noble Zhang Gongjin, Duke of Tan. His cousin Zhang Da’an, the third son of Zhang Gongjin, was now a high-ranking minister, so the academy had formidable backing and could attract the best instructors. Only the wealthy or noble could enter.

At this academy, Feng Xiaobao mainly studied military strategy—works such as The Art of War and the Six Secret Teachings.

He began in the beginner class and, after half a year, advanced to the senior class.

It was the Kaiyuan coins that opened doors for him, but even those were not omnipotent. Without excellent results, he could hardly have squeezed into a senior class crowded with scions of the elite. The instructors were outstanding: some were military officers, some decorated veterans, others scholar-officials with both civil and military expertise.

The Tang was an inclusive era; the selection of civil and military officials was not restricted by background. Below the sixth rank, officials could cross between civil and military tracks, and higher appointments were even more flexible, based on the needs of the moment. Some military men, steeped in classical studies, could take the imperial examinations without hesitation; their lectures were far more insightful and comprehensive than those of blunt military men, though the latter’s practical experience—how to charge, ambush, or retreat—was invaluable.

Feng Xiaobao listened with relish. With his modern perspective and sharp understanding, he consistently ranked among the top ten in examinations and entered the senior class with ease.

Unfortunately, instruction in military strategy was still limited and not widely shared; most lessons focused instead on weapon techniques and horsemanship, both infantry and cavalry combat.

The long spear, sabre, broadsword, and ring-pommelled sword were all standard Tang army weapons, along with battle axes, spiked clubs, flanged maces, and the like—a veritable world of flashing blades, a paradise for any martial arts fanatic.

Feng Xiaobao began his systematic weapons training at the academy.

First came the basics: learning the Tang sword. The legendary “ten thousand cuts a day” practice had arrived!

He started with proper stances and chopping techniques, swinging the sword ten thousand times daily, sweating profusely.

Since he was older and hadn’t started as a child, his instructor demanded persistent, tireless effort to catch up with those ahead.

Feng Xiaobao, though starting late, had an adult’s comprehension and a youth’s memory—almost as if he were “cheating”—and progressed at lightning speed!

Following his teacher, he learned how to channel force to the very tip of the blade, making each chop more efficient.

He mastered controlling strength and understanding the balance of each sword, knowing how to use any blade once it was in his hand.

Next, he trained for speed using the “hundred sheets of paper” method: tossing a hundred sheets into the air and slicing as many as possible before they fell. At first, he managed only a few, but with practice, his count steadily grew.

After months of training, he could cut through most of the hundred sheets in a single session.

The “hundred sheets” method also applied to the spear—piercing falling paper with the weapon before it touched the ground.

Later, he moved on to copper coins: tossing them up and slashing them from the air—far more difficult than with paper.

With enough practice, he achieved results all the same.

But Feng Xiaobao’s skills remained at the level of basic techniques and rudimentary swordsmanship; true expertise was still out of reach.

Secrets were not lightly passed on!

The Tang dynasty, only three generations old, was filled with noble families descended from generals, many possessing their own exceptional sword arts. For a humble outsider like Feng Xiaobao, these were perpetually out of reach.

They had no need to sell their secrets, and Feng Xiaobao, even with money, could only learn a few inferior techniques.

Yet he had his own philosophy: “Of all martial arts in the world, speed is invincible!”

Among all the martial disciplines, none could counter pure speed. When one’s attacks reached the utmost swiftness, there was no need for complex moves (which would only slow one down); a single, simple attack could suffice to defeat an opponent.

Thus, Feng Xiaobao trained for speed, precision, and ruthlessness. Repetitive practice turned every attack into a reflex; at the peak of speed, he could cut for the enemy’s neck or chest or sweep the blade across the lower body with pinpoint accuracy, wasting no energy.

A year of such training enabled him to best even those with family-taught sword arts; before they could ready themselves, his blade was already at their throats!

He focused mainly on the sword and spear, dabbling in other weapons only as time permitted.

…

Another focus of his training was archery.

He started with posture—learning the stances for standing, drawing the bow, the precise position of the head, arms, feet, and even the point where his hand touched his chin while pulling the string. Proper form was crucial: a stable stance made for steadier aim and less wasted effort. The benefit of a martial arts academy was constant oversight; any mistake was quickly corrected, unlike self-study, where errors might go unnoticed.

The money was well spent—systematic training was worlds apart from self-taught methods!

Bow in hand, he practiced stability and strength every day.

At first, he shot at close targets, gradually increasing both the distance and the bow’s draw weight.

Most of his training focused on fundamentals; as with weapons, advanced archery techniques were not shared lightly.

So once again, Feng Xiaobao relied on his “one trick conquers all” approach—just as with sword and spear, he aimed for speed, precision, and ruthless accuracy, loosing arrows quickly and striking only at vital points.

At the “Practice Makes Perfect” academy, Feng Xiaobao mainly trained in unarmed combat, taking advantage of systematic instruction and the camaraderie of group training, which kept him engaged.

Strength came first, with simple yet effective methods: horse stances, holding a jar at shoulder height, initially empty and then filled with sand, increasing both weight and duration as he progressed.

He incorporated his own dumbbell routines, pull-ups, sit-ups, push-ups, and, naturally, long-distance running for endurance.

He pummeled sandbags to strengthen his punches, kicked wooden posts until his legs were as tough as digging tools!

Then came hand and foot techniques. By this point, Feng Xiaobao could easily outclass most opponents.

He knew the Pi Gua palm, Tan legs, and Wing Chun—skills for both long and short range, combining fists and feet.

Through constant sparring, he developed his own style: smooth, powerful, and devastatingly effective.

With his own martial foundation, his main reason for attending “Practice Makes Perfect” was for sparring. Soon, he gained a solid reputation at the academy.

Training and sparring inevitably led to injuries, but the academy’s advantage was its excellent physicians, experts in treating bruises and strains. After each day’s training, a doctor (for a fee) would treat him, easing pain and speeding recovery.

Thanks to systematic training, practicing day and night, through the winter’s chill and summer’s heat, he not only exerted himself physically but also cultivated inner calm—mainly by practicing Tai Chi and the “Tibetan Secret Great Mudra.”

These two disciplines complemented each other—one active, one meditative. Tai Chi neutralized force with stillness, yielded to overcome strength, avoided the solid for the empty, borrowed force to strike back. After a day of aggressive weapons and combat training, he used Tai Chi at night to soothe his temperament and attain inner peace, benefiting both mind and body.

The “Tibetan Secret Great Mudra” was a mysterious Buddhist meditative method—not a martial art, but a practice for spiritual cultivation. Though it did not make him a martial arts master, its subtle effects were undeniable: heightened wisdom, sharper perception, and most tangibly, improved memory and understanding. The benefits were profound yet hard to explain.

At night, besides practicing Tai Chi and the Great Mudra, Feng Xiaobao spent time reading.

He revised military strategy, studied miscellaneous subjects, kept abreast of Tang dynasty scientific advances, and familiarized himself with the empire’s technological landscape.

As for the classics required for the imperial examination or the poetry that would make fans swoon, Feng Xiaobao chose to forgo them.

Thus, his days passed in constant activity. Through the combined effects of his efforts, Feng Xiaobao became robust, powerful, and quick-witted. His gaze was resolute, his stride purposeful—he was, at last, prepared in strength for the future.