It is perfectly reasonable for the director of the proctology department to be skilled in marksmanship.

"Excellent spearwork!"

Du Ruo offered a hearty compliment, a rare instance of him genuinely praising Shi Dong’s skills. Du Ruo had seen Wang Lang’s double-sword technique and mantis-style grabbing hands, and he had witnessed the Tibetan martial arts of the lamas from the snowy highlands, yet he had never felt compelled to offer such sincere praise.

Wang Lang’s double-sword technique was rooted in Mantis Boxing; while his grabbing hands were swift, they lacked purity. The Tibetan martial arts of the lamas were formidable, but their effectiveness stemmed more from the practitioners’ internal and external cultivation than the techniques themselves. Only this display by Shi Dong earned Du Ruo’s genuine admiration for the art of the spear.

Classical military spearwork consisted of a single simple movement repeated infinitely. There were no complex patterns, no basic drills, no meditation, and no breathing exercises—that single movement was the entirety of the art. To judge the quality of such spearwork, one had to look at its essence. The nature of military spearwork was to kill, and the simpler it was, the purer it became. The only goals were the three foundational pillars: speed, accuracy, and ruthlessness.

As long as you could thrust your spear into an enemy’s heart, throat, or head before they could react, you had won. You could then retract your weapon and repeat the movement, harvesting lives on the battlefield. Shi Dong’s recent display was nothing short of stunning. The spear was three meters long, and the cigarette butt was five meters away. The instantaneous thrust that extinguished the ember was a testament to how effectively this military spearwork could reap lives in combat. It was a skill meant to kill with a single strike, devoid of any flashy, unnecessary movements. It was clear that Shi Dong had reached the pinnacle of mastery.

"Hahaha, you flatter me. I am merely an oil seller, practiced only through repetition," Shi Dong laughed heartily at the praise. Being recognized felt good, but he remained humble, quoting the old adage about the oil seller who became skilled only through hand-familiarity.

"Have you ever used this in a real fight?" Du Ruo asked curiously.

"How could I? I just practice for the sake of it. I can't exactly carry a spear on my back all the time. I thought about it when I was young, but being a medical student, I spent most of my time studying. By the time I grew older, the urge faded. Now, it’s just a way to keep my body active, a mere pastime."

Shi Dong checked the time, then thrust his three-meter-long spear into the corner of the wall, where it rested like an inconspicuous stick.

"Dr. Shi, if you ever want to exchange martial arts pointers or learn something new, feel free to come to Yang Village. I run a guesthouse there, and I’m usually around. We could trade notes," Du Ruo said, seeing that the doctor was likely due to start work soon. He smiled and extended the invitation.

"Is that so? That’s tempting, I must admit. But could you show me something? I haven’t really seen anyone else practice martial arts." Shi Dong smiled, seemingly having a few moments to spare.

"Very well, I’ll show you some spearwork," Du Ruo nodded. He walked to the spot where Shi Dong had been standing. Instead of picking up a spear, he settled into the Xingyi *San Ti* stance.

Without a single wasted movement, Du Ruo thrust his right fist forward with a rotation—the *Zuan Quan* (Drilling Fist), silent and swift. Immediately, he pulled his fist back, stepped forward, and launched an upward strike with immense force—the *Pao Quan* (Cannon Fist).

He proceeded to perform the Xingyi Five Elements Fists. He wasn’t showing a choreographed routine, but rather individual strikes: Drilling, Cannon, Horizontal, Splitting, and Crushing. To an ordinary observer, it was just boxing, but because they had been discussing spearwork, Shi Dong’s mind automatically translated the movements: the *Zuan* was like a point-thrust, the *Pao* like a parry-thrust, the *Heng* like a horizontal sweep, the *Pi* like a downward cleave, and the *Beng* like a direct jab.

"Incredible. I never imagined spearwork could be expressed this way," Shi Dong said, his eyes gleaming. Almost subconsciously, he dropped into a horse stance, hands held as if gripping a spear, and mimicked a forward thrust. It was identical to his usual practice, yet it now carried the spirit of Du Ruo’s *Zuan Quan*.

"I will definitely come to exchange pointers with you another day. For now, I must go; I have a surgery to perform." Shi Dong looked at his hands with delight, bowed to Du Ruo, checked his watch, threw on his white lab coat, and hurried downstairs. With the coat on, his muscles were hidden, and he looked every bit the refined doctor.

Du Ruo watched him go. It was the first time he had actively offered to share his martial arts. If Shi Dong were willing to learn, Du Ruo would teach him without reservation. He had refused to teach Qiangzi because the latter’s personality was ill-suited for it, but Shi Dong was different—a man who treated martial arts as a pure pastime. Perhaps learning the softer, more balanced aspects of boxing would temper the heavy killing intent of his military spearwork.

Walking through the hospital corridor, Du Ruo decided to register for a quick check-up to see if he had been poisoned. While waiting to have his blood drawn, he glanced at the wall and saw a series of staff profiles. One face caught his eye: Shi Dong.

*Shi Dong: Chief of Anorectal Surgery.*

There was a long list of credentials, but the irony of the juxtaposition made Du Ruo smile. "A Chief of Anorectal Surgery who practices classical military spearwork—somehow, it doesn't feel out of place at all."

This was the reality of the current martial arts world. Many people inherited these arts and practiced them daily, but they did not work in fields related to combat. Beyond a handful who taught or streamed online, most were integrated into ordinary society. When Shi Dong held a scalpel, no one would ever connect him to the man on the roof who could extinguish a cigarette from five meters away. It was much like the elderly, frail-looking lama from the snowy mountains; no one would suspect he was a master of grappling.

After his blood draw, Du Ruo headed toward the inpatient department to see Yang Chenguang and his uncle.

"How is it?" Du Ruo found them in their room. They were lying on their sides, hooked up to IV drips, clutching their stomachs. A trash can sat nearby. Yang Chenguang’s wife was sitting next to them, taking photos with her phone.

She looked Du Ruo up and down, satisfied he showed no signs of poisoning. "They were discovered in time. Both vomited successfully, and it wasn't a particularly toxic mushroom, so there’s no permanent damage. They’ll stay for observation for a day or two, and they’ll be fine. They just need to avoid driving and alcohol for a while."

"Glad to hear it," Du Ruo said. He handed over some fruit and went to check his own results.

"Any symptoms? Nausea, vomiting, dizziness, or auditory hallucinations?" the doctor asked, reviewing the report.

"None. I feel normal."

"You ate the same mushrooms as the two younger patients, right?"

"Yes, I brought them in."

"You’re fine then. You must have a strong immune system; you clearly exercise. Everything looks good. Just don't go eating mushrooms you don't recognize next time. You got lucky that the toxicity was low. Keep an eye on yourself for a few days, drink plenty of water, and come back if you feel unwell."

Du Ruo wasn't surprised by the result; he had only checked to be certain. With Yang Chenguang being looked after, he drove home.

"Son, where should we go for a trip? I was playing cards today, and some friends were talking about Thailand. Is there anything fun to do in foreign countries?" his mother asked over dinner, serving him a bowl of soup.

"Not really, there isn't much to do abroad," Du Ruo replied casually. He had always felt that traveling abroad wasn't necessary. If one were young, it might be an experience, but for his parents, it wasn't worth the trouble.

"That's true, home is best," his mother said, though her expression dimmed slightly.

Du Ruo noticed the sadness in her eyes. He realized they had spent their whole lives at home and had never really traveled. "Mom, if you want to go out, I suggest traveling domestically. Places like Sanya have great weather and seafood. Or you could go to the snowy highlands—the scenery is beautiful. Actually, I recommend you and Dad go to Beijing first. You haven't seen Tiananmen Square, right? You should watch the flag-raising ceremony and climb the Great Wall."

He spoke with genuine enthusiasm, hoping to encourage them to see more of the world.