There’s no secret to it—just sheer determination!

Reading Wu Fang’s half-joking reply, Chen Jue was momentarily taken aback, but soon felt a sense of relief. His skill, “Hidden Weapon Throwing,” which he had raised to Level 5, encompassed mastery-level dart techniques. Though not so formidable as to dominate the martial world, it was a genuine and impressive art. Within twenty meters, his accuracy rivaled that of an average person with a handgun. If such a dart struck someone, wouldn’t it pierce straight through, leaving a bloody hole? What is true kung fu? It is precisely this kind of practical skill that one can both train and use in real situations—not those flashy routines that fall apart in actual combat.

However, what Chen Jue was seeking from Wu Fang was not merely the hidden weapon arts but rather something akin to Tai Chi—a discipline that could strengthen the body and nurture health. “Ideally, something mysterious and profound, like qigong or inner energy, beyond the understanding of ordinary people,” he wrote. “If you know such a master, please introduce me! I’ll be sure to thank you after I become a disciple (grin).” He sent the message off.

Wu Fang replied almost instantly with a sweating emoji. “You’ve watched too many martial arts movies! There’s no such thing in reality (knock head). Even if there was, it’s basically lost to history. I’ve trained with my grandfather since childhood and never seen anyone truly skilled in qigong. Even at the sports academy I graduated from, no one practiced real qigong—at most some internal martial arts, but nothing nearly as magical as what you see online. It’s late, let’s talk tomorrow. If you’re interested, go chat with my grandfather at the park in the morning where he plays chess. He knows more than I do. I can’t go out lately, too many stalkers among my fans (cover face).”

It seemed Wu Fang was about to go to sleep, firing off a few quick messages before falling silent. Seeing that it was already past ten o’clock, Chen Jue, feeling the fatigue in his arms, turned off the lights and lay down early. Yet, his mind kept circling back to what Wu Fang had said about the current state of traditional martial arts.

Qigong, inner energy, or those internal martial arts abilities so exaggerated in films and literature—do they really exist? If they do, why has society—or the mainstream media—never witnessed anyone truly achieve them? At nearly thirty, Chen Jue had developed his own discernment. All he’d seen were news stories exposing fraudulent martial arts: “Lightning Whip,” “Young People Have No Martial Virtue”—these had become running jokes online. Yet, there wasn’t a single real master who had conquered the world through traditional martial arts.

If traditional martial arts were as powerful as some netizens claim, why hadn’t a single great figure emerged to bring glory to the nation, challenging the world’s fighting and martial arts circles? Excuses about rules and boxing gloves limiting performance were nonsense; after all, there was MMA, founded by Bruce Lee, and the now wildly popular UFC. An Olympic gold medalist can earn millions, even tens of millions. If someone could make a name in these events with traditional martial arts, wouldn’t they become a national sensation? It would be the ultimate path to fame and fortune! So why hadn’t anyone from that world stepped forward? Perhaps, as Wu Fang suggested, true kung fu had long since vanished, leaving only the fantasies of ordinary people and the nostalgia of the nation.

With these doubts swirling in his mind, Chen Jue drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, when he woke, the soreness in his hands had eased somewhat—clearly, the hot and cold compresses from the night before had helped. He went up to the rooftop and performed his “eye exercises” facing the rising sun. After thirty minutes, his physical attributes had increased by 0.01, and his eyesight had improved a little more. By his estimation, a few more days of this regimen would restore his vision to what it had been two years ago, when he got his new glasses.

“I wonder if my eyesight will keep improving,” he thought. “If I can ditch the glasses and lose some weight, I’ll look much better.” With growing anticipation, he packed his bag, grabbed his video props, and set out for the lakeside park.

As soon as he reached the gate, he saw the same group of elderly men gathered around a chess table, playing and chatting.

Not far away, in an open space, Wu’s white-haired grandfather was practicing with a three-meter-long red-tasseled spear. He spun it, thrust, swept, and performed a returning move—his actions crisp and graceful, with a unique elegance. Judging by his manner, Wu Fang’s grandfather must have been influenced by her zealous fans and had switched from rope-dart practice to spear work to avoid exposure.

Glancing around, Chen Jue saw none of the young fans who had staked out the place the previous day. Seizing the moment as the old man finished a set and paused for a drink, Chen Jue approached.

“Good morning, sir! Sorry to bother you. I’m a friend of your granddaughter, Wu Fang,” he said, showing the WeChat conversation on his phone.

Likely having been briefed that morning, the old man didn’t seem annoyed by this young stranger. Instead, he regarded Chen Jue with genuine curiosity. He knew his granddaughter well; in all her years, she’d never brought a boy home before. This was the first young man introduced in such a way. Though Chen Jue had come seeking martial arts, in the old man’s eyes he was already being mentally filed as a potential grandson-in-law.

After a few glances, the old man’s satisfaction faded. This bespectacled youth, though not short, was plain-looking, scholarly, slightly overweight, with thinning hair—not at all like a martial artist, more like an IT worker or office clerk you might spot on any street. The only standout was the brightness in his eyes, so full of spirit, unlike the lifeless gaze of most young people glued to their phones.

“Kid, I heard from Fangfang that you’re skilled with hidden darts. She said you killed that dog with a single throw to the throat!” the old man began. “I missed it that afternoon, unfortunately. Could you give me a little demonstration now?”

“A demonstration?” Chen Jue smiled. “Of course! Just pick any target within twenty meters.”

In front of the elder, there was nothing to lose—he might as well display his skills in the spirit of friendship.

“Twenty meters?” The old man’s interest was piqued. That distance was far beyond the reach of their family’s rope-dart techniques. Searching the nearby grove, he pointed with his spear at a white mark on the trunk of a distant tree.

Chen Jue saw that the mark, likely left by a hammer or mace dusted with magnesium powder, was the size of a fist and slightly depressed. Judging it to be about fifteen meters away, he drew a throwing dart from his pouch, flicked it with a coordinated movement of arm, wrist, and fingers. The bright steel dart traced a blurred arc through the air.

With a solid “thud,” the dart struck the center of the white mark, embedding itself deeply.

The old man’s eyes went wide. “Excellent throw!” he exclaimed, then sized Chen Jue up anew. This ordinary-looking youth seemed to transform the moment he picked up the dart—his presence faded to nothing, but in that instant of release, a palpable murderous aura burst forth.

That was the essence of hidden weapons—lethal in the moment of attack.

“No wonder Fangfang said your darts are formidable—truly impressive! So young, could you have started training as a child?”

He was curious, but satisfied. “Young man, your dart skills are already masterful. There’s no need to chase after those illusory arts like qigong or inner energy. Martial arts are for self-defense and health; with such skill, you’ll have no trouble so long as you stay out of trouble.”

Chen Jue, however, pressed on. “Are you saying no one in the world truly practices qigong or inner energy?”

The old man spun his spear and planted it in the ground, then sipped from his thermos, seemingly pondering.

After several minutes of silence, and another glance at the embedded dart, he finally spoke. “Qigong, I’m not sure about—probably no one truly practices it anymore. It may have been lost.”

“When I was young, there were plenty like you, searching everywhere for qigong. It was all the rage back then, with training ads everywhere in the newspapers. But those so-called masters were mostly frauds, using the hype to make money. Any real fighter from the martial arts square could take them down easily.”

“As for inner energy... I do know a little, because our family art included it. But I was set on being a professor and scholar, so I never learned it from my father, and now it’s lost.”

These words sparked a light in Chen Jue’s eyes. “So inner energy is real?”

“It definitely exists—I’ve seen my father practice it with my own eyes; it wasn’t fake. But it’s not as powerful as you imagine, not even as deadly as your throwing darts,” the old man said, nodding as he sipped his tea.

“Did your father leave behind any videos or manuscripts?” Chen Jue asked eagerly, hoping for an original source—anything he could use to replicate the art through his attribute panel.

“No, nothing like that. Back then, we didn’t have the convenience of smartphones everywhere. And my father always said inner energy can only be understood, not explained. Without someone to guide you personally, it’s nearly impossible to master.”

As Chen Jue’s face fell, the old man took out his phone—a brand-new Huawei Mate60 Pro, top-of-the-line. Given his background as a retired university professor with several properties in Hangzhou and a generous pension, it was no surprise.

Looking every bit the trendy old gentleman, he opened Douyin, scrolled through his followed accounts, and finally tapped on a video blogger’s profile. “If you want to learn inner energy, look up this person. He’s the real deal—what he demonstrates is just like what my father practiced.”

Chen Jue leaned in eagerly.

On screen, a middle-aged man in traditional practice attire was smashing a piece of rebar-laced concrete with the back of one hand. After pulverizing the concrete, he began striking a steel wrench until he bent it.

The force was astonishing—Chen Jue watched, mouth agape. He’d seen plenty of fake masters break bricks on short videos in recent years, but those were tricks: in high school physics, the teacher had demonstrated that with the right setup—half a brick suspended or angled just so—anyone could break it barehanded.

But here, the man was smashing construction-grade concrete, complete with steel reinforcement! A few blows reduced it to rubble. There was no trickery or special angle, just pure, brute force. The wrench was a standard tool, available at any hardware or auto shop, and he’d bent it with his hand—what kind of strength was that?

Most impressive, after the demonstration, the man showed his hands to the camera. His striking hand was swollen, red, and tender—no calluses at all. The other hand looked entirely normal. Comparing before and after shots, both hands had been normal before practice.

Seeing this, Chen Jue finally understood why the old man said this was the real thing.

“The Old Rascal of Primordial Hands?” he muttered, noting the IP location was in Jiangsu Province. “Follow immediately!”