Volume One: Beneath Mount Zhongnan Chapter Thirteen: Only Eight Moves in the Blade Technique? That Can't Be Right

Through the bitter cold of winter and the sweltering heat of summer, Li Mingyu trained without fail. Every morning, he stood in the Hun Yuan stance for three hours, never once missing a session, regardless of wind or rain.

In the mornings, he practiced his stance; in the afternoons, after Li Xuanba finished teaching at the village school, he would devise new torments for Mingyu. Sometimes, he would blindfold the boy and pelt him with sandbags coated in lime—fifty in all—and not a single mark of lime was allowed to land on his body. Other times, he would fill an iron cauldron with sand, set Mingyu to stand at the rim on both feet, rocking back and forth like a tumbler, arms outstretched with a wooden staff in each hand, and no matter how his body swayed, his arms and the rods had to remain perfectly level. Or, he would have Mingyu stand in the Hun Yuan stance while shouldering a ten-foot-long, egg-thick log.

Perhaps it was Mingyu’s robust physique, his deep reserves of strength, or the rare medicinal herbs he took—whatever the reason, each day he was pushed to the edge of exhaustion by Li Xuanba, who did not relent until Mingyu was utterly spent. Only then would he toss the boy into a vat for a medicinal soak before forcing down a bowl of pitch-black herbal concoction. Yet no matter how weary he was, by morning he was once more brimming with vigor and energy.

From being dog-tired every day, Mingyu gradually came to meet all of his master’s ever-rising demands with ease.

One morning, after finishing his solitary stance practice, Mingyu adjusted his posture and performed the breathing exercises his master had taught him. Just as he finished, Li Xuanba returned from teaching the village children, hands clasped behind his back, walking at a leisurely pace.

After reviewing Mingyu’s studies, Li Xuanba nodded and said, “So-so, at least you haven’t been slacking.”

Hearing this, Mingyu pursed his lips, thinking, No matter what I do, you’re never satisfied. But aloud, he asked, “Master, what will we train in this afternoon?”

Xuanba stroked his chin thoughtfully, then smiled, “Today, we’ll try something new!”

At this, Mingyu’s heart skipped a beat. Every time his master announced something new, it meant he was in for a rough time. Clearly, today would be no exception.

Li Xuanba went inside, and soon returned with a saber strapped to his waist. “Bring your sword and follow me up the mountain,” he said.

Mingyu hurried off to fetch his weapon and trailed obediently behind his master. They walked for about half an hour into the mountains, until they found a bamboo grove spanning several dozen acres.

Within the thicket, Li Xuanba selected a stalk of bamboo as thick as a man’s leg. “Today, I’ll teach you the art of the blade. Watch carefully!” With a sharp clang, a flash of cold steel, and the bamboo split cleanly in two.

Ordinary folk, hacking at bamboo this thick, would need a dozen swings before felling it. Xuanba, by contrast, made it look effortless. Mingyu watched in awe, his respect for his master growing deeper.

Li Xuanba ran his fingers along the blade and said, “The sword is for agility, but the saber is for power. The saber is the soul of all weapons! My style is a battlefield art, honed for the deadliest of formations—forward with unstoppable force, never retreating! When my blade strikes, there is no rival!”

With that, he spun the saber in a flourish and continued, “This saber technique was first created by our ancestor, Li Gao, and has been refined by the Li family for nearly three hundred years. Our forefather spent his life at war, rose to Champion General, and commanded all of Western Liang. His invincible saber art was his greatest reliance! Watch closely!” He began a demonstration—each movement grand and forceful, the energy overwhelming. The wind from his blade whipped the air, making it hard to breathe and sending dry leaves swirling across the ground.

Mingyu’s eyes blazed with envy. When Xuanba finished, Mingyu rushed over to flatter him, “I always thought your mastery was with the spear, Master, but who knew your saber was so fierce! But there seem to be rather few moves—just these few slashes? Aren’t the best saber styles supposed to have many postures and routines? Master, don’t hold back and keep the rest from me!”

Xuanba snorted in amusement, “Who told you that? Military saber techniques aim for a single lethal blow. Our ancestor created just six moves; later, Li Hu added two more, making eight in all! What’s the point of endless routines—you think this is for sparring matches?”

Mingyu considered this and found it reasonable. He’d never trained in saber before, but as a modern soldier in his past life, the dagger techniques he’d learned were also distilled into just a few essential moves—the culmination of centuries of experience.

During the War of Resistance, the 29th Army’s broadsword unit, famed for their exploits at Xifengkou, had their own signature style, the Eight Blades of Broken Fronts—only eight techniques, yet enough to carve a legend. Perhaps, after all, those fantastic martial arts tales of sixty-four-step ground-sweeping sabers and thirty-six forms of heavenly blades were just the inventions of novelists.

“Then, Master, does this saber art have a grand name?” Mingyu asked, still hoping. Even if it wasn’t as ostentatious as the Heavenly Blade Eight Styles from “Twin Dragons of the Tang,” it should at least be something like Five Tigers Severing the Gate, or the Linked Yan Family Saber.

“Since it was created by our ancestors, it is naturally called the Li Family Saber,” Xuanba replied with pride.

Mingyu’s hopes were crushed. “Such a fearsome technique, but your ancestor settled for such a plain name.”

Hearing this, Xuanba knocked Mingyu on the head, scolding, “Show some respect! Never disparage your ancestors!” He then pointed to a bamboo stalk as thick as an egg and said, “Enough chatter. Try it yourself—go on, cut that bamboo.”

Mingyu stepped up, took a deep breath to clear his mind, and recalled the demonstration. Drawing his blade, he let out a shout and chopped at the bamboo.

A glint of steel—a clean noise—but the bamboo, no thicker than an egg, was perfectly intact. Not only did it not break, it just swayed, bearing only a shallow nick, like a mocking smile wavering with the bamboo.

Puzzled, Mingyu asked, “Master, even if I’m younger and not as strong as you, my form and technique were identical. Why did I only leave such a small mark?”

Xuanba, observing from the side, sighed inwardly. This boy’s talent is extraordinary; after seeing the moves just once, he can replicate them. But he had already spotted the problem. “Your shape is correct, but your force is not. Remember: body and strength must unite, spirit and breath must combine. You used only your arms, so of course the cut was shallow.”

“You must coordinate top and bottom, use your whole body. Power starts in the waist, passes through the elbow, and the body drives the blade. Like this—” With that, Xuanba demonstrated again with another bamboo stalk—one stroke, clean and decisive.

Upon hearing his master’s explanation, Mingyu understood—his mistake was in how he used his strength. The power should come from the waist, the whole body driving the arms, with the wrist merely guiding the blade’s angle and position.

Having mastered countless combat techniques in his previous life, Mingyu immediately saw how this principle matched his own experience. The moment the key became clear, he faced the bamboo again, advanced with a shout, and slashed.

The blade flashed—still, the bamboo did not break, but now a deep gash carved halfway through its thickness.

Xuanba nodded in secret satisfaction. What remarkable insight—one explanation and he grasps it already. “Good! Continue!”

Mingyu nodded and struck again. This time, the bamboo snapped cleanly.

“Again!”

“Put more force into it! Keep going!”

“Pay attention to your strength!”

“Yes, just like that!”

Under Xuanba’s constant guidance and shouts, Mingyu swung his blade again and again, sweat streaming as he practiced without pause.

As he trained, time slipped by unnoticed until dusk settled quietly over the mountains.