When I was young, my name was Ye Zi, and I considered myself a martial arts prodigy.
The figure of a master picking leaves and flying flowers and walking on the water on TV convinced me that the blood talent is hidden deep in my own muscles.
Until he was thrown into the martial arts gym by an iron-blooded coach with a military background.
"Fighting is not about embroidery! Do you want to be strong enough to kill your descendants? Go ahead and carry the sandbags for me!"
I stood on the horse's feet for three hours, holding back my urge to urinate and not daring to move.
The student next door laughed and pointed at the way my knees were shaking: "How can a martial arts prodigy be so shaken?"
The coach sneered and lit his cigarette: "Shaking? This is called internal instability, do you understand?"
That night I huddled in the corner holding the "Huangdi Neijing" and found that the eight extraordinary meridians drawn on the book were pulsing hotly under my skin.
