59: Chapter 59 The Ultimate in External Kung Fu
Leaving Junshan Mountain, Lu Mingyuan headed all the way west.
Dongting Lake gradually receded as the mountains and rivers grew increasingly treacherous. After passing Jingzhou and entering the borders of Bashu, the terrain rose abruptly. The mountain roads were rugged and shrouded in mist; sometimes he could walk for a whole day without seeing a single household.
He was in no hurry.
As he walked, he recalled those seven days on Junshan Mountain.
He had practiced those three remnant palm strikes thousands of times. Starting the move, pushing out, and pulling back. Each time, he tried to sense the 'Aura' mentioned by the Sect Leader—borrowing the momentum of heaven and earth, rather than using one's own strength.
But the more he practiced, the stranger it felt.
This Dragon Subduing Palm was clearly an external art.
Unlike Wudang Mountain's internal sword techniques or Qingcheng's Sword Qi, this palm technique did not cultivate internal breath or circulate through the meridians; it was purely a discipline of sinew, bone, and flesh. Yet, when the Sect Leader pushed out that palm, a ten-thousand-jin boulder shattered instantly, and that clearly did not rely on the strength of bone and muscle alone.
He pondered this contradiction for a long time.
Until one day, he stopped before a cliff face.
The cliff was extremely high, reaching a hundred zhang. Carved into the rock face were several large characters, remnants of an ancient plank road:
“The road to Shu is difficult, more difficult than climbing to the blue heavens.”
The writing was weathered, its date of carving unknown. Yet within those characters resided an indescribable power—as if carved by axe and chisel, like iron strokes and silver hooks, every stroke seemed ready to leap from the stone wall.
Lu Mingyuan watched for a long time.
Suddenly, he understood.
Those characters were written using 'Aura.'
It wasn't the strength of the brush, but the momentum born in the heart of the writer as they stood upon the Shu Road facing the ten-thousand-fathom mountains. That Aura used his hand to fall upon the stone wall, becoming these characters.
It was just like the Dragon Subduing Palm.
That palm strike used not the strength of the arm, but the momentum born in the heart while standing atop Junshan Mountain facing the eight hundred miles of Dongting. The Aura used his hand to fall upon the boulder, and the boulder shattered at the sound.
This was the ultimate state of external arts.
It was not about training the body to its limit, but about emptying oneself and letting the momentum of heaven and earth flow through you.
Just like that day investigating the bamboo at Yuelu Mountain. He had investigated for four days and found nothing. But after finishing, the person looking at the bamboo had changed.
What changed were not the eyes, but the heart.
Only when the heart is empty can the Aura enter.
He continued walking.
After another three days, he entered a region of towering mountains and ridges.
The mountains were extremely high, peak after peak connected like swords and halberds piercing the clouds. The mountain roads became increasingly dangerous; sometimes there was a bottomless abyss on one side and a thousand-fathom precipice on the other, allowing only one person to pass sideways.
Lu Mingyuan walked with extreme caution.
Not because he feared death, but because he feared falling accidentally and failing the cultivation of these past three years.
Reaching one of the most dangerous spots, he suddenly stopped.
Ahead, an old man was repairing the road.
The old man looked to be in his seventies or eighties, skinny as a rail, wearing a tattered jacket and barefoot. In his hands, he held an iron hammer and a chisel, carving stone steps at the edge of the cliff.
With every strike of the hammer, sparks flew in all directions.
With every strike, stone chips scattered.
With every strike, the old man's body swayed, as if he might fall into the abyss at any moment.
Lu Mingyuan watched with his heart in his throat.
He wanted to step forward to help, but the narrow mountain path only allowed for one person, and he couldn't get past. He wanted to shout for the old man to be careful, but feared startling him and causing an accident instead.
He could only watch.
One strike, another strike, and another.
The old man chiseled slowly and steadily. Every strike landed on the exact same spot, and every strike used the same amount of force. After an unknown number of blows, a crack finally appeared in the stone. The old man inserted the chisel into the crack and pried hard; a piece of rock tumbled into the abyss, and only after a long while did a muffled thud drift back up.
One more stone step had been added.
Lu Mingyuan stood there, looking at the old man, and suddenly remembered a sentence.
It was something Hui Ke had said: "The fist is simply the strike."
In this moment, he understood.
The fist is simply the strike, the road is simply the repair, the hammer is simply the fall.
There was nothing special about it.
It was simply doing what needed to be done, over and over.
Once the old man finished carving the step and set down his hammer to rest, Lu Mingyuan finally stepped forward.
“Old Master, are you repairing the road?”
The old man turned his head and glanced at him.
His gaze was cloudy yet clear. The cloudiness was the accumulation of years; the clarity was the purity of a mind free from distractions.
“If the road isn't repaired, people can't pass,” the old man said. “This road was repaired by my grandfather's grandfather. Now that it's reached my generation, it's my turn.”
Lu Mingyuan was stunned.
“This road... how many years has it been under repair?”
The old man thought for a moment.
“I don't know. My grandfather said his grandfather's generation started repairing it. Generation after generation, it's probably been over two hundred years.”
Over two hundred years.
Generation after generation, repairing just this one road.
He suddenly thought of Jingchen at Shaolin, who had swept the courtyard for thirty-seven years; the old man at Xiangshan Mountain, who had guarded the study for forty-three years; and the sweeping monk at White Deer Grotto, who had stood guard for an unknown number of years.
It was all the same.
They were all doing something that seemed meaningless, doing it for an entire lifetime.
Yet it was precisely these meaningless things that gave this world meaning.
Lu Mingyuan sat down beside the old man.
“Old Master, you've repaired the road for a lifetime. Don't you find it bitter?”
The old man shook his head.
“What's bitter about it? When the road is fixed, it's easier for those who come after. My son will continue the repair, and my grandson will continue it too. When they can no longer repair it, the road will be finished.”
He paused.
“What was it called... right, the Foolish Old Man Moving Mountains. Have you heard of it?”
Lu Mingyuan nodded.
The old man smiled, revealing a few remaining teeth.
“That Foolish Old Man was sillier than me. He wanted to move the whole mountain away. I only repair a road. Once the road is through, the mountain remains, and people can pass.”
He pointed toward the distant, mist-shrouded peaks.
“That mountain is called Jianmen. The plank road Zhuge Liang built back then was over there. It's been over a thousand years, and the plank road rotted away long ago, but the path remains. Generation after generation of people walk it, generation after generation of people repair it, and so the road always exists.”
He looked at Lu Mingyuan.
“Young man, you are a cultivator, aren't you?”
Lu Mingyuan nodded.
The old man said, “Cultivators talk about Immortal Ascension. But do you know how those who achieve it do so?”
Lu Mingyuan shook his head.
The old man pointed to the iron hammer in his hand.
“That's how. Strike by strike, repairing your own road. Once it's through, you've passed.”
Lu Mingyuan was frozen in place.
Strike by strike, repairing your own road.
Once it's through, you've passed.
He thought of the path he had walked over these past three years. From Heyin to the location, from Longhu to Wudang Mountain, from Qingcheng to Shaolin, from Bianliang to Luoyang, from Yuelu to White Deer, from Ehu Lake to Xiangshan Mountain, from Dongting to Shu.
Every step was one he had taken himself.
Every trial was one he had overcome himself.
No one could walk for him, and no one could overcome for him.
Just like this old man repairing the road—strike by strike, one can only hammer for oneself.
He suddenly understood what the Sect Leader meant by 'Aura.'
Aura is not borrowed.
It is walked out.
Having walked through thousands of mountains and rivers and seen countless people and affairs, those landscapes and events become Aura. They are stored in the body, in the heart, and in the bones. When needed, they naturally emerge.
Just like this old man who had repaired the road for over two hundred years; that persistence of two hundred years was his Aura.
With one strike of the hammer, even the mountain would tremble.
As the sun dipped toward the west, the old man packed up his hammer, preparing to head down the mountain.
Lu Mingyuan stood up and gave a deep, respectful bow.
“Old Master, please accept this junior's bow.”
The old man waved his hand.
“Why bow? I'm no Bodhisattva.”
He shouldered his iron hammer and slowly descended the mountain along the road he had spent his life repairing. After a few steps, he said without looking back:
“Young man, your cultivation and my road repair are the same. Don't be in a hurry; take it slow. Strike by strike, you'll eventually break through.”
Lu Mingyuan stood at the cliff's edge, watching the receding figure grow smaller and smaller.
The setting sun plated him in gold, and every step he took was steady and firm, as if he were walking on level ground rather than a cliffside.
He suddenly thought of the 'Sword of Protection' he had realized at Wudang Mountain.
Protection is not about standing in front of others.
It is about repairing a road so that those who come after can walk easily.
This old man was protecting.
With his hammer, with his lifetime, and with his family's Legacy of two hundred years.
That night, Lu Mingyuan stayed at a courier station at the foot of the mountain.
He sat cross-legged on the bed, reflecting on the day's experiences.
The old man's words echoed in his heart, sentence by sentence.
“Strike by strike, repairing your own road.”
“Once it's through, you've passed.”
He looked down at his hands.
These hands had drawn talismans, held swords, thrown punches, received prayer beads, flipped through scriptures, investigated bamboo, chopped firewood, and had once received a piece of flatbread in Luoyang City.
Every single thing had left a mark on these hands.
Those marks were his road.
He closed his eyes and began to practice those three Dragon Subduing Palm strikes.
Starting the move, pushing out, and pulling back.
This time, he didn't think about borrowing Aura, or about hardness and softness, or about any principles. He just struck—striking blow by blow, like the old man chiseling the stone steps.
By the three-hundredth strike, he suddenly felt something.
It wasn't Aura.
It was something more fundamental than Aura.
It was 'Presence.'
He was there, the palm was there, and heaven and earth were there. There was no borrowing or using. They were all simply there.
With a push of his palm, a shallow palm print appeared silently on the wall three zhang away.
Lu Mingyuan opened his eyes and looked at the palm print.
He knew this was not a Breakthrough.
It was a confirmation.
A confirmation of his understanding of 'external arts' gained on this journey from Wudang to the Beggars Gang.
The ultimate state of external arts was not about training the body to its limit, nor was it about borrowing Aura to the extreme.
It was about emptying oneself and letting everything happen naturally.
Just like the old man chiseling stone steps, strike by strike, without thinking of anything else.
Just like the old woman bandaging a wound, wrap after wrap, without thinking of anything else.
Just like the Sect Leader handling a dispute with a single "The fault is mine," without thinking of anything else.
They were all doing what needed to be done.
Doing it to the ultimate state, it became the Dao.
The next morning, Lu Mingyuan continued his westward journey.
The mountain roads were still treacherous, and the mist still swirled. But his steps were steadier than yesterday.
It wasn't that his cultivation had increased, but that his heart was steady.
Reaching a valley, the view suddenly opened up.
A flat plain was nestled within the embrace of the mountains, upon which stood a castle built of green stone, with high walls and deep moats, easy to defend and hard to attack. A flag fluttered above the castle, embroidered with a single character:
“Tang.”
He had arrived at the Tang Clan.
Lu Mingyuan stood at the valley entrance, looking at the castle.
He knew that once he entered, it would be another whole new world.
There would be hidden weapons that broke strength with skill, the strange gates of change and constancy, and the philosophical debate between tools and the Dao.
But he was no longer in a hurry to realize anything.
He just walked, step by step.
Just like the old man chiseling stone steps, strike by strike.
It would eventually be broken through.
It would eventually be passed.
He lifted his foot and walked toward the Tang Clan.