107 "Iron Crotch Palm Technique"

With careful instruction and earnest practice, in less than two hours, Qiangzi no longer needed Du Ruo’s demonstration to perform well.

“Feel it out for yourself. Tai Chi is fundamentally about practicing forms to deepen your power and understanding of internal energy. If you focus and coordinate with the sandbag, you’ll accelerate your grasp of the force,” Du Ruo encouraged, seeing that Qiangzi had almost mastered it.

Of course, Tai Chi was far more than just this; practicing forms was arguably the least efficient method. There was also meditation to regulate the mind, breathing exercises, and various techniques Du Ruo had yet to teach.

As always, Qiangzi wasn’t suited for advanced study—his current lifestyle suited him better.

“Boss Du, Qiangzi, come see if the whole roasted lamb is ready yet—it smells amazing,” Li Qiyao’s voice called from beside the fire. By now, the temperature had dropped, for Zhaosu’s weather was peculiar, with drastic swings between day and night. It was around twenty-five or twenty-six degrees Celsius during the day, but dropped to just over ten at night. Fortunately, sitting by the fire, the chill was bearable.

The scent of the roasted lamb wafted intermittently, making the two women increasingly impatient.

“Oh, it’s done. I just need to sprinkle some seasoning before we eat,” Qiangzi, snapping back to reality, noticed the darkened sky and remembered the lamb roasting over the fire. Patting his head, he folded his fists, grabbed a tray, and went over.

Four people and one whole roasted lamb, gathered around the campfire beneath a sky filled with stars, indulging heartily.

“If only we had some wine, then it would be perfect. I’ve never enjoyed meat like this before—the lamb on the grasslands is completely different from what we usually buy,” Xiang Yuanyuan said, licking her fingers and letting out a satisfied burp, then lying back on the grass with a sigh.

The others nodded in agreement. Though the lamb weighed nearly thirty catties, the three of them hadn’t eaten much; most of it had gone to Du Ruo’s belly.

After the meal, Li Qiyao and Xiang Yuanyuan grew drowsy. They had traveled and struggled all day, and now, full and content, they began to drift off. The three quietly retired to their rooms to rest.

Early the next morning, while the world was still shrouded in mist, Du Ruo opened his eyes and slipped from bed.

Listening intently, he heard no movement from Xiang Yuanyuan and Li Qiyao’s room, but the courtyard was filled with rustling sounds.

Taking his phone, Du Ruo rose swiftly and, without turning on the light, headed outside.

Standing in the shadows of the room, he watched Qiangzi, dressed in traditional ethnic attire, quietly leading a horse out.

“Clip-clop, clip-clop—”

After leading the horse a distance, Qiangzi mounted and galloped off wildly.

Du Ruo hesitated briefly, then stepped outside and sprinted after Qiangzi’s direction.

One rode a horse at full speed, the other ran on foot across the grassland. Their speeds were surprisingly close, though the horse gradually pulled ahead, as expected.

Du Ruo continuously adjusted his exertion techniques. It was his first time engaging in such an intense, long-distance sprint; much had to be discovered through trial.

He experimented with the tiger-shaped hip force and dragon-shaped spinal power, gradually increasing his pace. Toward the end, a red mist began rising from his legs—a sign that his internal energy was flowing into his leg joints.

Du Ruo’s power was so great that he needed this energy to protect his flesh and prevent joint and muscle damage, indicating the incredible speed at which he ran.

Still, Qiangzi on horseback left him behind, unsurprisingly. Horsepower exceeded human power—ordinary horses could reach speeds between 20 and 70 kilometers per hour, not to mention Qiangzi’s mount might be racehorse caliber.

Of course, Qiangzi hadn’t pushed the horse to its full speed; otherwise, Du Ruo would have had no chance of catching up.

Undaunted, Du Ruo followed the horse’s hoofprints across the grassland; they didn’t fade quickly. Soon, he arrived at the temple gate they had seen yesterday afternoon.

There, tied beside the stone lions, was the horse. Du Ruo slowed down and began to regulate his breath with his Hunyuan Qigong. Knowing Qiangzi’s destination removed urgency.

Though the run had been exhilarating, it was truly exhausting. The ten-plus-mile journey was the greatest physical exertion Du Ruo had endured, and his “essence, energy, and spirit” had greatly improved since his trip to the Philippines. Otherwise, his legs might have given out, his internal energy depleted.

Thanks to Hunyuan Qigong, he wasn’t worried about energy loss. After adjusting his breathing, Du Ruo calmed himself. Without knocking, he approached the temple courtyard and tapped the stone lion’s head with his foot. His body leapt lightly onto the temple’s eaves.

He moved silently, lowering his body to peer inside, where he saw Qiangzi chatting with the same lama from yesterday.

The lama wore a single garment, perhaps having risen early before dressing. His graying hair fell loosely as he stood facing Qiangzi.

“Master, I want to learn martial arts. Can you teach me?” Qiangzi bowed respectfully, earnest in his request.

“I told you before, I don’t know any martial arts. If you want to learn, you should go to Shaolin Temple—they have seventy-two supreme techniques,” the lama said, bewildered. He didn’t know where the rumor had started, but why were people seeking martial arts instruction first thing in the morning? Qiangzi was a familiar face, though; not far away, a rare graduate from a prestigious university. His father often came to the temple to pray for Qiangzi’s safety.

“Master, yesterday I saw you swoop down from the rooftop—you said you don’t know martial arts?” Qiangzi almost cried. Inside, he had been unsettled all night but restrained himself while Du Ruo was around. Now, finally, morning’s arrival made him unable to hold back; he rode over.

Perhaps he wasn’t truly seeking martial arts but was restless, guarding a treasure trove unknowingly for years. If the lama refused to admit to martial skill, he wouldn’t accept it easily.

“I’m eighty years old. How about I teach you Tai Chi?” The lama seemed unsure of Qiangzi’s intentions and was evasive.

“Someone told me yesterday that what you practice is Lama Boxing, an ancient and powerful tradition,” Qiangzi said honestly, speaking plainly.

“Then why don’t you learn from that person? If he recognizes Lama Boxing, he must be skilled; wouldn’t it be better if he taught you?” The lama glanced instinctively toward the eaves where Du Ruo stood.

“He taught me Tai Chi...” Qiangzi trailed off, a bit aggrieved, as if to say, “You all just want to teach me Tai Chi.”

“Ahem, well, Tai Chi is indeed powerful. It’s not that I don’t want to teach you... Fine, I’ll tell you what martial art I practice. If you still want to learn after hearing it, I’ll teach you.” Knowing Qiangzi’s stubbornness, the lama stopped explaining further and sat down on the temple steps, beginning to speak.

“You say Lama Boxing, which isn’t wrong, but that name isn’t comprehensive. Nowadays, people call it Tibetan martial arts,” the lama said, beckoning Qiangzi to sit and talk.

“I won’t discuss Tibetan martial arts with you—it’s as accomplished as Central Plains martial arts. I’ll tell you about our lineage’s style.”

He paused, not intending to elaborate; he just wanted to send Qiangzi away.

“I practice the ancestral Tibetan martial art called ‘Turning Palm Iron Crotch Skill.’ It is the highest-level internal skill passed down in our family,” the lama said, glancing at Qiangzi with a knowing smile when he saw his mouth open wide.

“‘Turning Palm Iron Crotch Skill’ isn’t forbidden to teach outsiders—it has two conditions. If you meet either, I can pass it on to you.”

“What are they?” Qiangzi’s mind was consumed by the words “highest-level internal skill.” Upon hearing it could be taught to him, he instinctively asked.

“First, one must be a monk who has left worldly affairs behind and lives a life devoted to the eternal Buddha. Second, one must be over fifty years old with at least six years of training experience. If your hand skills are practiced for six years, you might barely qualify,” the lama said with sharp insight, immediately discerning Qiangzi’s sandbag practice.

“Is there no exception?” Qiangzi tried to resist. Honestly, fifty years old was impossible for him; maybe his father, but if he sent his father to learn this, he’d probably be whipped to death.

As for becoming a monk, he wouldn’t dare imagine it—he was the only son, and his father wouldn’t allow it under any circumstances.

The lama’s mention of monastic life with the ‘Turning Palm Iron Crotch Skill’ hinted at a permanent monastic path.

“There are no exceptions. Upon mastering this skill, the external genital area retracts into the abdomen, resembling what Daoism calls the ‘horse-yin hidden form.’ This affects family life. More importantly, the skill’s effects are extraordinary—it requires one to be old, calm in spirit, and free from desires to avoid harming oneself or others. So it’s not that I refuse to teach you; you simply don’t meet the requirements. Come back after fifty,” the lama explained, teasing lightly at the end. This silenced Qiangzi completely.

“I… I’ll take my leave,” Qiangzi said, dejectedly sitting on the steps. Seeing the lama gesture politely, he stood to leave.

“Young friend, do you still want to follow? Why not come down to the temple and talk?” The lama called softly as Qiangzi rose.

The past few days, I’ve been sick from eating some raw pickles on a trip, suffering vomiting, diarrhea, and fever, leaving my mind foggy. Updates have been sparse; I apologize. I should recover by tomorrow and will try to post more then.