Chapter Twenty-Eight: Three Feet Beneath the Signboard

As soon as the signboard was taken down, nearly the entire martial arts hall was thrown into an uproar. By the time Tan Yu and the others arrived, they saw Kou Li seated in the grand armchair that Yue Wu Huo usually favored. On his shoulder, he bore the signboard inscribed with the bold silver words “Burning Body Martial Hall.” In his other hand, he gripped a white nanmu staff as thick as a goose egg. His gaze was lowered, sweeping over the people below him.

The scene was so striking it surpassed the usual authority of the hall’s chief instructor; even the Black Bear had never shouldered a sign larger than a man.

“What do you think you’re doing, you useless wretch!” one of the students shouted in rage.

“Put the sign back right now, or no one will be able to protect you!”

“You’re not worthy of that chair!”

According to the rules of the martial world, a martial hall’s signboard must never touch the ground. If it does, the hall’s prestige is destroyed—unless it’s a feud to the death. Even those who challenge a hall usually store the sign with utmost respect, waiting for its return. Once the signboard falls, it signals a blood feud, a grudge that could last generations.

Yet now, this so-called Eighth Senior Brother had truly taken down the signboard. Just what was he intending?

“I have a feeling we’re about to witness a grand spectacle today,” Jiang Shuiyuan’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

Shrimp-head, on the other hand, was full of worry. Timid and conflict-averse, he had never dared to imagine such a thing. What could Senior Brother Kou possibly be after?

Just as the uproar reached its peak, Kou Li straightened, slowly rising to his feet. His voice was calm as he declared, “Today, the Senior Brother is absent. Brother Yue is absent. Brother Lu is absent. Brother Luo is absent. Yet the rules of the hall must still be taught to you.”

“If no one else will teach, I will!”

“I’ll teach you what it means to respect your masters and honor the old while cherishing the young.”

“Who do you think you are?” a burly man with a sea turtle tattoo spat in anger. “You can’t even stand in the basic stance properly, yet you dare lecture us? You’re not fit!”

“Because I am the Eighth Senior Brother of this hall. Because, even without stance training, I could kill you!”

The words had barely left his lips before the man felt a blast of wind. With a sudden roar, before he could blink, Kou Li was within three feet, shoulder dropping, elbow sinking, breath drawn to the dantian, rear leg driving forward. Waist and arm exploded with force as the nanmu staff jabbed straight into the man’s shoulder blade—a sound of shattering bone erupted.

The man’s eyes rolled back. Before he could utter a word, he was sent flying six yards, unconscious, his arm limp at his side.

“Courting death!”

“How dare you lay a hand on Turtle Bro!”

Two of his close companions charged, wielding blunt training blades. Even without an edge, those blades could shatter bone and cleave flesh.

Within the seventeen sets of martial arts the hall taught, two were sword arts: Rising Tide and Surging Wind, both created by Master Lin Xian after studying the celestial phenomena. Rising Tide unfolded like an ocean wave, each strike building upon the last, its momentum mounting ever higher. At full power, the blade’s light seemed as boundless as the sea.

Surging Wind, inspired by violent storms at sea, struck for vital points with every cut—relentless, like a tempest, giving no quarter.

Though mastery of blade arts could not further one’s progress in unarmed techniques, their lethality far surpassed bare fists or feet. The best example was Old Zheng, well into his seventies—yet with a spear in hand, even the twin wolves of the Water Dragon Gang feared him not.

Within the martial world, few truly pursued the highest unarmed disciplines; most sought power and fortune through their skills. Thus, although the hall offered only two forms of swordsmanship, these were the most popular, outnumbering even practitioners of the basic fists.

Yet in the midst of flashing blades and violence, Kou Li’s movements were not especially swift, but with every subtle shift, tremor, and step, he always managed to evade the edge at the last moment.

“What a profound mastery of the Tiger’s Flea-Bounce!” Ma Yuan blurted out. With his practiced eye, he could tell the skill with which Kou Li controlled his body’s power—the authority of a true tiger at rest.

After a dozen exchanges, Kou Li found his opening. With a twist of his wrist, he smashed the signboard forward. Instinctively, his opponent shifted his blade to defend.

Seeing the blade’s momentum falter, Kou Li lunged in, Tiger Cub Protects Head—his spine like a rod, elbows like spears. With a squat and a thrust, he struck the man’s face, followed by the white nanmu staff, which crashed down on the man’s arm with a crack.

Relying on his sense of hearing, Kou Li didn’t even turn his head. He blocked a blow to his back with a reverse swing of the staff, then tossed the signboard into the air. The pores on his arm tightened, muscles rippling in relief. Dropping his hips, twisting his waist, arching his back and extending his shoulder, joints flowing into one another—the spine snapped straight: Fierce Tiger Fist—Seated Mountain, Single Whip!

Bang!

The blow landed squarely on the flat of the blade, sending blade and man alike sprawling. How many bones broke, none could say.

With ease, Kou Li reached up and caught the signboard.

“So that’s it!”

“Why are you yelling again?” Jiang Shuiyuan complained, annoyed at his companion’s outbursts, as if he alone understood what was happening.

“You don’t get it. Senior Brother Kou wasn’t being overpowered earlier—he was simply avoiding their sharpness. He could tell their swordplay was fierce but shallow, destined to weaken. He waited for that moment of decline to seize victory with minimal effort.”

“Of course I could see that!” Jiang Shuiyuan retorted, unconvinced.

“But what you don’t see is this: the hall’s signboard is forged from ironwood, huge as a door, weighing sixty-five pounds. The white nanmu staff is eight feet long, nicknamed the ‘Six-Thirty Staff,’ weighing twenty pounds. Dodging two blades with nearly a hundred pounds of obstacles—could you do it?”

“This—!” Jiang Shuiyuan was startled. How could Senior Brother Kou manage such weight unless—

“Stance Power,” Tan Yu and Ma Yuan said in unison.

“In terms of stance training, Senior Brother Kou has already mastered both soft and hard stances,” Tan Yu said, his expression complicated. Though not narrow-minded, he couldn’t help but feel stifled. How long had it been? Barely two months since Kou Li first began stance training—he could still recall the day Kou Li injured himself, as if it had happened yesterday.

Two months: from nothing to controlling his breath, reaching the stage of internal energy. It was simply inconceivable. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed it. Could it be, as Senior Brother Kou claimed, he was a martial prodigy after all? Was collapsing from stance training a sign of some miraculous threshold?

Of course, he had no idea that Kou Li could control his strength from the very first day.

As they spoke, Kou Li felled five more students of the Xu family. Broken arms, crushed feet—as the saying went, all martial artists have tasted defeat; he could not agree more.

As for the other students, as long as they didn’t join the fray, Kou Li left them alone. It was easy to tell the difference—those with tattoos were mostly from the Xu clan.

For a time, Kou Li was like a tiger descending the mountain, charging left and right, unstoppable. The nanmu staff in his hand broke countless bones. Though not as potent as redwood for fortifying blood and qi, nanmu had its own virtues: sturdy, resilient, powerful.

Wielding the hall’s signboard to punish the wicked—this was rightful, cleansing the house. Who could argue otherwise? After all, he was the Eighth Senior Brother!

The Eighth Senior Brother, fierce as a tiger!

“Go fetch Instructor Li! We’ll join forces and take back the signboard!” Several Xu clan youths exchanged panicked glances. To serve as an instructor in the hall, one at least had to master a discipline or two. Once he returned, surely he could subdue Kou Li.

Kou Li’s answer was a tiger’s stride and a sudden turn, vanishing in a flash. He spun and lashed out with a knee, sending the speaker tumbling.

It wasn’t that the students were lacking in skill—most hovered just above beginner level, with only a handful scraping the threshold of mastery.

But in martial arts, a single level’s difference is a world apart. And with Kou Li standing tall, signboard held three feet overhead, suppressing their spirits with his presence and his strength, even the boldest students shrank back, none daring to risk their lives.

As long as they hesitated to unite, Kou Li picked them off one by one. By the time they realized, it was already too late.

In the end, it was like an adult beating children—a chorus of wails and cries filled the air.