How should one strike a sandbag?

Du Ruo ignored Wang Lang's shouting and simply walked on the road back, looking every bit the part of a master.

“Still not quite there,” he muttered to himself. “That guy’s height and sheer size are just too much of an advantage. With deliberate training too, it’s nearly impossible for a regular person to get past his defenses without a weapon.”

In truth, Du Ruo hadn’t intended to throw so many punches. In his plan, the very first cannon punch to the abdomen after blinding the opponent should have been enough to take him down. After all, with his improved stats, he was no ordinary man anymore. That first cannon punch was meant to test the waters—if the man hadn’t trained his core, that would have been the end of it. Unexpectedly, it didn’t work at all, which was why he had to follow up with two more punches and a half.

There was also the difference in physique. If Du Ruo were six foot three and weighed two hundred and thirty pounds, he wouldn’t even bother dodging the opponent’s “arrow-step kill.” He’d simply plant a hand on him and finish it with a cross-punch—no fuss at all. In a bare-handed fight, size and strength were undeniable advantages.

“No, I have to eat more beef, get my body up to standard as soon as possible. Once my weight’s up, my strength will soar. But eating stewed meat every day is starting to make me feel a little overheated. Maybe I should have a hotpot? Get some vegetables, a hotpot, crack open a beer—now that’s the life.”

As Du Ruo was pondering which vegetables to have with his hotpot, Qiangzi caught up with him from behind.

“Boss Du, that was amazing! Those few Xingyi punches just now—you really gave it to that foreigner. Felt good just watching!”

Qiangzi came up beside him, gesticulating excitedly as if he himself had thrown those punches.

“You only saw me hitting someone, but did you notice how they took it? That foreigner has easily trained karate for over ten years, and he’s studied Tongbei Fist, too. So what? He still got beat. If he hadn’t trained in martial arts, would I have dared lay a hand on him? What if he just lay on the ground afterward?”

“And that Wang Lang—he’s trained in authentic Praying Mantis Fist, real skills, at least several years of practice. What good did it do him? The strongest moves in Praying Mantis are to the groin, the eyes, the throat—tell me, which of those can you use in a real fight without ending up bankrupt in compensation? Aside from those, the elbow strike is another killer move, but even landing one of those could cost you tens of thousands in damages.”

Du Ruo went on at length. Honestly, he wouldn’t have bothered explaining any of this to someone else, but since Qiangzi claimed he practiced martial arts to promote traditional culture, Du Ruo was willing to talk.

“But Boss Du, didn’t you train too? And you just fought?”

Qiangzi’s tone grew softer, but he wasn’t about to give up and kept talking as he followed Du Ruo.

“I’m over ten years older than you, I have self-control. Besides, I’m different. I worked my way up, step by step, through hard training. If I hadn’t practiced a bit of martial arts, how could I make people listen to me so easily? Anyway, enough—this is my stop. You’d better head home. Don’t get in the way of my dinner.”

Du Ruo was growing impatient and, now arriving in front of his courtyard, waved his hand to dismiss Qiangzi. He didn’t bother opening the gate—instead, he simply leaped over the one-meter-high picket fence in a single bound, paying no mind to Qiangzi standing outside.

“Hey, Chenguang, do you have any vegetables at home? Pick some and bring them over. And wash them first… Of course it’s for me, I’m having hotpot… All right, just hurry up.”

The first thing Du Ruo did upon returning was call Yang Chenguang. The only things in his fridge were beef and dried fish—not a single leafy green. But this was the countryside; there was no need to worry about finding vegetables.

After making the call, Du Ruo started slicing beef and preparing the base for the hotpot. He’d been eating stewed beef every day lately, so for tonight’s hotpot, he opted for a clear broth—just water and a few slices of ginger. The rest was simply slicing the beef thin and making a dipping sauce.

“Hey, aren’t you that guy? Why are you standing there? Come on in and have a seat.”

Yang Chenguang arrived carrying some vegetables and fruit, and spotting Qiangzi staring blankly at the gate, called out and invited him inside.

Qiangzi didn’t explain, just lowered his head and followed him into the courtyard.

“Almost ready. Once the water boils, we can eat.”

Just then, Du Ruo came out carrying the beef and hotpot burner. The courtyard had shade umbrellas and everything; it was much more comfortable eating outside.

“Boss Du…”

Qiangzi walked over sheepishly, not knowing what to say. He called out once, then fell silent.

“You’re still here? Well, sit and eat with us then.”

Du Ruo had assumed Qiangzi had left, so he was a little surprised to see him still there. But as long as the topic of taking on disciples didn’t come up, he didn’t mind anything else.

“No need, I’ve already had breakfast.”

Qiangzi forced a smile and refused. Eating hotpot this early in the day felt odd, but he was also reluctant to just leave.

“Here’s the deal—the water still needs a while to boil. If you have any questions, ask now. Just don’t mention becoming my disciple—I’m not taking any.”

Seeing Qiangzi remain silent, Du Ruo spoke up. Yang Chenguang, sensing there were things to discuss, took the vegetables into the kitchen.

“Boss Du, I still want to learn. What should I do?”

Qiangzi hung his head, voice low but laced with unwillingness. He’d always been curious about martial arts, spending money everywhere to find a teacher. Now that he’d seen real skill, there was even less reason to give up.

“These days, in a society ruled by law, most martial arts training is focused on forms. There are loads of online instructional videos—just pick some and learn. Tai Chi, Bajiquan, Xingyiquan—there are plenty of tutorials. Here’s what—I’ll teach you a little something, so your trip here isn’t wasted.”

Du Ruo gave Qiangzi some advice, and seeing that he was still unsatisfied, thought for a moment and decided to show him something.

“Really?”

“Come on over. Try hitting this sandbag.”

Du Ruo led Qiangzi to the other side of the courtyard where the equipment was, pointing to a sandbag on a high stool, indicating he should give it a try. Normally, Du Ruo practiced standing up; since Qiangzi was about the same height, there was no need to take a stance.

“All right.”

Qiangzi stepped up to the sandbag, perhaps eager to impress, swung his arm with all his might, and smacked it hard—a loud bang echoed out.

“Stop. No need to use so much strength; ease up a bit. Adjust your force so it doesn’t hurt or feel uncomfortable—just a light, gentle slap, whatever feels natural.”

Du Ruo stopped him and instructed him to start over.

Qiangzi was obedient, asking nothing, doing exactly as told.

“Practicing on the sandbag is the foundation of all fist and palm techniques. Use your fist, palm, forearm—even your foot if you like—but be mindful of the force. It should be gentle, comfortable, because…”