Iron Fist and Loyal Heart

Chapter 4 The Twilight of the Iron Bone Hall

North First Alley is located in the oldest area of ​​Xiacheng District, so old that even navigation apps can't find the right directions.

Su Xinpei stood at the alley entrance, sighed at the constantly spinning location icon on his phone, and stuffed the phone back into his pocket. On both sides of the alley were rows of old-fashioned brick buildings, their red bricks washed grayish-brown by decades of rain, with unknown weeds growing in the cracks. Electrical wires strung haphazardly overhead, and every few meters a bamboo pole extended from a window, drying bed sheets and work pants. A whiff of old smell wafted from the depths of the alley, a mixture of coal stove and stewing soup—it was hard to tell if it smelled good or bad.

He walked along the alley, counting the house numbers as he went. Number 11 in North Alley was a shoe repair stall; the owner was replacing the sole of a leather shoe, the hammer striking the nails with a rhythmic sound. Number 13 was a barbershop; the rotating lightbox outside was long broken, and a faded handwritten price list was pasted on the glass cover: a crew cut ten yuan, a shave five yuan. Number 15 was a small shop selling bulk liquor; the owner sat dozing in a wicker chair by the door, while a radio played soft, drawn-out opera.

He stopped at gate number 17.

Unlike the previous shops, number 17 had no sign. The storefront was about three meters wide, with a piece of sheet metal nailed to the two old wooden doors. On the metal, three characters were scrawled crookedly in chalk: "Tiegutang" (Iron Bone Hall). The writing was faded, looking like it had been written several months ago and hadn't been repaired. The door wasn't closed properly, and through the crack, you could see a courtyard inside, with several old tires and an overturned sheet metal bucket.

Su Xinpei didn't go in immediately. He stood at the door for a few seconds, took out the crumpled business card, and looked at it again. The address on the card was indeed here, no mistake. He put the card away, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. There was no bell or electronic sensor on the door; it simply creaked open, the two door panels gently bouncing back with the remaining force of inertia, hitting the old burlap sack by the door frame with a muffled thud.

The yard was larger than he had imagined, about half the size of a basketball court. The ground was cement, old and dilapidated, with several cracks filled with moss. At the far end of the yard was a single-story house, its door open, the interior dark and gloomy. In the corner next to the house stood a wooden dummy, several layers of old tires nailed to it—the arms of the dummy were cracked from being beaten, the cracks stuffed with strips of cloth whose original color was no longer discernible. Next to the dummy was another wooden dummy, even older, its paint long since worn away, revealing dents from repeated beatings. Further on, in a corner, lay several pairs of rusty dumbbells and a hemp rope patched in several places. A row of old newspapers was pasted on one wall, the paper yellowed and brittle, the edges pressed down repeatedly with thumbtacks; next to it, crooked handwriting looked like a graduation message from a former student, the writing so faded it was almost illegible. On the other side of the wall, there was a sandbag. The face of the sandbag was wrapped with tape, and a bell that was about to rust was tied to the rope. It made a very faint sound when the wind blew.

Su Xinpei glanced around, with only one thought in his mind: it's a miracle that this place has been able to stay open for so long.

"What are you standing there for? Come in."

The sound came from inside the house. Su Xinpei walked over, stepped across the threshold, and adjusted his eyes to the dim light. The house was dark, but by the daylight from the yard, he could see an old rattan chair, a wooden tea table, and a tin cabinet. A man was lying on the rattan chair, wearing a tank top and holding a military green water bottle. It was the old man who had punched the person in the mirror and shattered it in the apartment building yesterday.

Old Tie Tou didn't get up, but just lifted his eyelids to glance at Su Xinpei, his words almost falling out: "What, are you here to complain about me? I didn't damage that building yesterday."

Su Xinpei was stunned for a moment, then realized that the engineering department had written "structural cracks in the wall" in the report yesterday. The old man had seen the news or heard some news and thought that he was here to cause trouble.

"This isn't a complaint." Su Xinpei placed the business card on the coffee table. "You gave me this business card yesterday."

Old Tie Tou glanced at the business card, then at Su Xinpei, before sitting up, picking up the kettle, and taking a sip—Su Xinpei was now certain it contained baijiu (Chinese liquor), because the pungent smell of cheap alcohol could be detected from two meters away. Old Tie Tou wiped his mouth with the kettle lid and said, "Oh, it's you. The one standing in the aisle."

"Su Xinpei," he said, giving his name.

"Tie Zheng, just call me Old Tie Tou." Old Tie Tou put down the kettle, looked him up and down, his gaze lingering on Su Xinpei's shoulders, waist, and knees for a moment before he slumped back in his chair. "Your physical condition is alright, isn't it? Twenty years ago, someone with your physique wouldn't even qualify to become an apprentice." He paused, then added, "Now, well, never mind, I'll take you on."

Before Su Xinpei could react, Old Tie Tou had already stood up from the rattan chair, his movements more swift than Su Xinpei had expected. He walked to the tin cabinet, pulled open a drawer, and pulled out a worn-out exercise book. The cover was curled at the edges, and the words "Iron Bone Hall Student Registration Form" were written on it in an old-fashioned cursive script with a fountain pen, at least three levels better than the three chalk characters on the outside. He casually tore off a page and tossed it to Su Xinpei: "Fill this out."

Su Xinpei took the paper, glanced at it, and saw only three lines: name, age, and address. They didn't even bother with an ID number. He took a pencil stub from Lao Tietou, bent down on the coffee table to fill it out, and pushed it back.

Old Tie Tou didn't even glance at it, threw the workbook into the drawer, turned and walked towards the yard, leaving behind a single sentence.

"Today I'll teach you standing meditation. Hunyuan Zhuang."

Hunyuan Zhuang (a type of martial arts stance).

Su Xinpei stood in the courtyard, striking the pose as Old Tietou had demonstrated—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, arms crossed in front of his chest, as if he were embracing an invisible ball. Old Tietou walked around him, nudging his heel with his toe: "Widerer. Knees past your toes. Back down, straighten up. Shoulders relaxed, don't hold it up, you're not going to take an ID photo."

Su Xinpei adjusted his stance one by one. After settling into position, he felt like a neatly arranged clothes rack. The initial adjustment of his posture made his calf muscles a little sore, but other than that, he didn't feel anything special. He thought that Lao Tie Tou would explain the principles next—what is Hunyuan Zhuang, why do we need to stand in this stance, and what can we train by standing still—after all, when he learned military boxing in high school, the instructors would at least say a few platitudes like "this movement can enhance core strength."

Old Tie Tou didn't. He moved a folding chair to a shady spot in the yard, then spread an old straw mat next to it, sat down, and picked up the wine jug.

Su Xinpei waited for more than ten seconds, but Lao Tietou didn't move; he just took a sip of his drink. Su Xinpei felt that he should take the initiative—the apprentice should stand up after the master demonstrates; this logic made sense.

So he started to stand.

Old Iron Head: "Don't stare at your toes, keep your eyes level."

Su Xinpei shifted his gaze from his toes to the old newspaper wall and the sandbags in the corner. Only then did he notice another layer of handwritten material on the back of the newspaper pasted on the wall—it looked like a timetable, or perhaps training notes left by a senior colleague. But the distance was too great, and the handwriting too small; he could only make out rows of vertical ink marks, arranged like some kind of table. The crooked handwriting at the bottom of the newspaper was barely legible, as if it had been soaked and dried, leaving only half a line—the words "...stand until you're done" were faintly discernible, the rest obscured by an old stain. He stood for five minutes, and his knees began to ache. After ten minutes, his back began to protest. After fifteen minutes, his arms felt like lead.

He couldn't help but ask, "Sir, how long will we be standing here?"

"Let's see how long you can stand here." Old Tie Tou leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed.

Su Xinpei cursed inwardly and continued standing.

After twenty minutes, his legs started to tremble. It wasn't the kind of trembling from exhaustion; it was a slight twitching of muscle fibers, like someone had snapped a rubber band across his thigh. He focused on his breathing, trying the standard breathing method he'd learned in high school biochemistry class—a deep four-second inhale, a four-second breath-hold, and a slow six-second exhale. After a few tries, he was able to stabilize his heart rate. His legs were still trembling, but not as severely.

Forty minutes had passed. His T-shirt was soaked through, sweat dripping down his back, and his knees were starting to stiffen. But strangely, after the initial soreness subsided, it was replaced by a strange numbness, as if his entire leg had been injected with anesthesia—heavy but not painful. He didn't know if this was a good thing or a bad thing; he only knew that Old Iron Head hadn't told him to stop.

One hour.

Old Tie Tou opened his eyes, glanced at him, stood up, and walked up to him.

"Alright."

Su Xinpei let out a long breath, collapsing as if all his bones had been removed, his hands resting on his knees as he gasped for air. Old Tie Tou handed him the wine jug: "Have a sip."

"I don't drink alcohol."

"Who told you to drink it? Hold it in your mouth, rinse it, and spit it out," Old Iron Head said impatiently.

Su Xinpei took the wine jug and took a big gulp—the pungent smell of the cheap liquor instantly assaulted his nostrils, almost making him vomit. He forced himself to hold it in, rinsed his mouth, and spat it onto the ground. The moment the liquor hit the ground, it mixed with the old grease in the cracks of the cement floor, producing a pungent odor. However, Su Xinpei felt that the sticky, numb sensation in his mouth was being washed away a little. Old Tietou took back the wine jug, took a sip himself, and then pointed with his chin to the wooden dummy in the corner of the yard: "Tomorrow afternoon at six o'clock, be on time. Don't bother coming if you're late."

Su Xinpei nodded, wiped his sweat, and walked towards the courtyard gate. After a few steps, he stopped, turned back, and asked, "Master, what exactly does standing meditation involve?"

Old Tietou sat in a wicker chair, a wine jug resting on his lap. He glanced at the old elm tree in the yard that had never been pruned, then at Su Xinpei, and said, "You can keep standing. Stand until you don't want to ask this question anymore."

Su Xinpei: "..."

As he walked out of the courtyard gate, he heard Old Tie Tou mutter something behind him, his voice very soft, as if talking to himself: "He can actually stand for an hour, interesting." Su Xinpei didn't turn around, but the corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily. As he passed the old elm tree, he suddenly realized something—while he was practicing standing meditation, he hadn't paid any attention to the panel. During the day at work, he would frequently check his experience points when moving files or doing squats, afraid of missing a single one, but after standing in that old courtyard for most of the day, he had completely forgotten about the panel. It wasn't that the panel had disappeared; it was that his focus had been drawn away by something else. That thing wasn't Old Tie Tou's instructions, nor the standard posture of standing meditation, but the standing meditation itself—the continuous attention required to maintain a posture and prevent it from falling apart, like a taut thread; once you enter that state, there's no extra mental energy to look at anything else.

This feeling was unfamiliar. Ever since the panel appeared, he had gotten used to measuring everything in terms of experience points—doing push-ups was for experience points, moving files was for experience points, even walking was about figuring out how to get more experience points. But in that courtyard, the experience points didn't increase, yet he felt that time hadn't been wasted.

He pulled out his notepad at the alleyway where the streetlights couldn't reach and wrote a new line against the wall: "Standing in a stance isn't about being still. It's about constantly making corrections."

Back home, Su Xinpei took a shower, changed into clean clothes, and sat down at the table to eat a bowl of instant rice noodles. After finishing, he habitually opened the control panel, ready to check today's training records. Then he froze.

A new line of text appeared on the panel.

[Hun Yuan Zhuang - Beginner Level 18/100]

This afternoon, while practicing standing meditation at Tiegutang, the panel displayed experience points. However, he didn't notice it at all. In other words, the panel was recording in the background, but because there was no screen notification and his concentration wasn't interrupted, he was completely unaware of it.

This means the panel has two recording modes: active training (where he deliberately moves files or does push-ups) will trigger instant prompts; passive immersion (where he maintains high concentration while standing still) will result in a one-time summary after the session. This difference will greatly influence his training strategy—active mode is suitable for building a solid physical foundation, while passive mode is suitable for refining skill-based exercises.

Su Xinpei stared at that line of text for a while, then wrote down the first formal observation record of the evening in his notepad:

I. Zhan Zhuang (standing meditation), one hour, Hunyuan Zhuang experience +18. No active viewing of the panel, extremely high concentration. Experience gain efficiency is positively correlated with concentration, confirmed. II. What does Zhan Zhuang practice? Currently unknown. The master said, "Stand until you don't want to ask anymore"—this answer will not be recorded for now. III. Tomorrow's plan: Continue Zhan Zhuang. Goal: Break through to the beginner level within twenty Zhan Zhuang training sessions (each session no less than thirty minutes). IV. Incidental discovery: Rinsing the mouth with alcohol can relieve dry mouth after Zhan Zhuang. Unknown mechanism, to be observed.

As he finished writing, he crossed out the word "goal" in the third entry and replaced it with "attempt." It wasn't modesty; the old man's teaching method had given him a nagging feeling that Hunyuan Zhuang (a type of standing meditation) might not be something that could be mastered simply by "completing a goal." The experience points on the panel only recorded the length of time he had maintained the stance. Whether he could cross the threshold of entry-level practice depended on other factors—or rather, standing meditation itself was a practice "without asking about results." Any thought of pursuing progress in standing meditation would disrupt the state of the practice itself.

This is completely different from the neighborhood committee office. Everything in the neighborhood committee office is goal-oriented—the approval process for minimum living allowance has a 30-day deadline, the investigation report has a fixed format, and everything in the document system must be archived. But standing meditation is different. The first lesson of standing meditation is the opposite of all the courses he has taken. If you ask about the progress, the progress may not have changed; if you focus on the here and now, the panel will quietly record it for you in the background.

He closed the notepad, turned off the light, and went to bed. In the darkness, the cracks in the ceiling were faintly visible under the streetlights outside the window. He remembered Old Tie Tou's last mutter—"He can really stand for an hour, interesting." The old man said that twenty years ago he wouldn't even be able to get close to him, but in the end he still took him in. The threshold had indeed been lowered, but not the standard, but the expectation—the old man probably never expected him to be able to last.

Su Xinpei turned over and closed his eyes. The panel appeared in his mind; the progress bar for Hunyuan Zhuang (Primordial Stance) was quietly stopped at 18, while the progress bar for Tiegu Fenti Gong (Iron Bone Body Strengthening Technique) remained at zero. The metal-like ring was pressed under his pillow in the old pencil case; even through the thin sheet of metal, his fingertips could still feel its unhurried coolness, like an unopened note. He didn't touch it. Before figuring out the relationship between that thing and the panel, he decided not to trigger a second synchronization. Zhuang was the clearest clue at the moment—the old man could shatter the person in the mirror with a single punch in the apartment building; the Hunyuan Zhuang he taught must be more than just a set of health-preserving exercises.

Tomorrow at 6 PM, at No. 17, North First Alley, I'll continue standing there.