The training grounds of the sect hummed with the sounds of effort. Sun Shi wandered among the various martial artists honing their skills, the rhythmic thud of bare feet on packed earth, sharp exhales of breath, and the occasional grunt filling the air. Dust, kicked up by rapid movements, shimmered in the morning light filtering through the ancient trees. He had already noticed the differences between the martial arts of this world and the ones he had mastered in his previous life – a certain rigidity here, a lack of flow there. But nothing had prepared him for the truly fundamental lack he was about to witness.
A group of students were practicing what they called Shaolin Kung Fu. From where he stood, Sun Shi observed their movements – sluggish, uncoordinated, their stances shallow and easily exploitable. It wasn't merely a lack of practice or natural talent; it felt like a profound, almost willful misunderstanding of the core principles. They moved through the forms, but the underlying structure, the coiled power, the vital connection between mind and body – everything his masters on Earth had hammered into him – was absent. His eyes narrowed, a familiar frustration tightening his chest as he approached.
One of the students noticed him and smiled. "Ah, you're new here, right? This is Shaolin Kung Fu we're practicing. Pretty famous, huh?"
Sun Shi couldn't help but let out a small, involuntary laugh, his eyes still locked on their clumsy movements. "This... is Shaolin Kung Fu?" he asked, his tone genuinely incredulous.
The student blinked, surprised at his reaction. "Yeah, what's wrong with it?"
Sun Shi shook his head slowly, a mix of disbelief and disappointment swirling within him. "If this is Shaolin Kung Fu," he stated flatly, "then I am the Emperor of the world. It looks nothing like the real thing."
The group of students fell silent, their smiles fading into confused frowns as Sun Shi's words sank in. The movements they were performing were so far removed from the flowing power and rooted stability he knew as true Shaolin that it was almost painful to watch. Their strikes lacked force and intention, their stances were weak, and their timing was off, leaving them wide open. He crossed his arms, unable to suppress another quiet chuckle.
The instructor, a middle-aged man with a gruff demeanor and thinning hair, overheard the conversation and stormed over to Sun Shi, his eyes narrowing in irritation and pride. "What's so funny, boy?" he demanded.
Sun Shi stood tall, unfazed by the instructor's anger. His gaze was steady, reflecting a lifetime of facing down far more imposing figures. "Your students' Shaolin Kung Fu is a disgrace," he said plainly, the weight of his conviction in his young voice. "If my master were to see this, he would laugh you out of the dojo. Your movements are sloppy, your strikes lack fundamental power and precision. It's a mockery of real martial arts principles."
The instructor's face flushed crimson with a mix of rage and humiliation, but instead of responding immediately, he turned to his students, who were now staring at Sun Shi with a mixture of confusion and awe.
"You think you can do better?" the instructor asked, his voice tight with challenge, crossing his arms across his chest. "Show us. If you're so confident, show us your version of Shaolin Kung Fu."
Sun Shi didn't hesitate. This wasn't just about proving a point; it was about honoring the arts he dedicated his life to. He took a step forward, his expression calm, but his eyes held a quiet, burning resolve. Despite the weakness of his child's body, his muscle memory stirred, and his posture shifted into the first stance of Shaolin Kung Fu. Immediately, the atmosphere around him seemed to subtle change – a subtle tension, a grounded readiness that hadn't been there before.
His demonstration began. Every movement was flawless—fluid, precise, and controlled. The strikes flowed effortlessly from one form to the next, carrying the weight of decades of practice and understanding. The grace with which he moved was unlike anything the students or their instructor had ever seen; it felt ancient, powerful, and impossibly refined. The air around him seemed to hum faintly with a power they couldn't name. His movements were faster than they expected, too fluid for them to easily track. Each strike was perfect—not a single wasted motion, not a single misstep.
The students watched in stunned awe as Sun Shi's performance unfolded before them. Murmurs rippled through the group, turning to silent amazement.
But as Sun Shi held the final pose, the instructor's face twisted from anger to confusion, settling into a deep frown. He shook his head dismissively.
"That's... not realistic," he said, his tone dripping with skepticism and rooted denial. "There's too much movement, too much flow. It's flashy. In a real fight, you can't afford to move like that. It's just for show. You'll get yourself killed trying to look pretty."
Sun Shi's brow furrowed, his patience wearing thin. He was taken aback by the instructor's sheer ignorance, struggling to understand why someone supposedly dedicated to this art couldn't see the inherent efficiency and combat effectiveness in his movements. "What do you mean? That's the true form of Shaolin Kung Fu. Fluid, fast, precise—everything done with intention. Every movement serves a purpose, not for show, but for survival."
The instructor scoffed, doubling down on his stance. "No. This is impractical. It's too much. In a real fight, relying on such complex forms will leave you wide open. You need simple, direct movements to fight for survival, not just for style."
Sun Shi's patience snapped. He had spent a lifetime dedicated to understanding and perfecting martial arts, and for someone to call his perfect, battle-tested form "unrealistic" and "just for show" was not just insulting to him, but to the very essence of the arts themselves. The instructor's wilful ignorance of his craft was infuriating.
"If that's how you think," Sun Shi said, his voice steady but sharp with building anger, "then I challenge the best fighter of your so-called Shaolin Kung Fu to a fight."
The instructor looked at him, his eyes narrowing further. He had expected arrogance, but this audacious challenge from a child was pushing it too far. He let out a harsh scoff and turned to one of his top students, a muscular young man who had been practicing beside him, known for his endurance and straightforward power.
"Yang," the instructor called, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear, "show this child how a real fight is done."
The student, Yang, stepped forward with a confident smirk, clearly eager for the opportunity to put this arrogant newcomer in his place. He had always been one of the strongest in the group, known for his raw power and stamina, and this challenge was a perfect opportunity to prove his dominance.
"You'll regret this, kid," Yang said, his voice rough and full of arrogance. He cracked his knuckles. "Prepare yourself."
Sun Shi said nothing in response. He simply stepped into a simple, grounded position, his eyes cold and focused, assessing his opponent. The moment the instructor signalled the start of the fight, Yang charged forward, relying on his strength and momentum, attempting a wide, powerful punch aimed directly at Sun Shi's head – a simple, brutal attack.
But Sun Shi was too fast, his movements a blur of efficiency. He didn't meet force with force in this weak body. Instead, he shifted, using minimal energy, his body flowing to divert Yang's charge. He dodged effortlessly, redirecting Yang's momentum with subtle shifts and parries, making the larger boy stumble past him or fall slightly off balance.
Sun Shi's own attacks came in quick succession – not heavy blows, but precise strikes aimed at vulnerable points: wrists, elbows, knees, the solar plexus. Each one landed with surgical accuracy, designed to disrupt, unbalance, and wear down, rather than overpower. Yang, relying on brute force and simple blocks, couldn't keep up with the speed and complexity of Sun Shi's movements. Every time he tried to retaliate with a powerful punch or kick, he was already blocked, outmaneuvered, or thrown off balance by a seemingly effortless touch.
The fight became a grueling dance of contrasts: Yang's heavy, thunderous attacks met Sun Shi's light, almost dismissive deflections and counters. With each passing minute, the air grew thick with exertion. Sweat plastered Yang's hair to his crimson face, his powerful swings growing wilder with frustration. Sun Shi felt the strain like a physical weight. His child's lungs burned in his chest, pulling in ragged breaths that felt insufficient. Muscles he was still coaxing into strength trembled with the effort of sustained, precise movement. This wasn't just skill against strength anymore; it was his refined technique and strained endurance pitted against Yang's raw, fading power. He felt the fatigue pulling at his limbs, a heavy, leaden cloak threatening to drag him down.
He had to end it.
Seeing an opening as Yang overextended during a heavy swing, Sun Shi gathered every ounce of his remaining energy, not for a single devastating blow, but for a final, swift sequence. With a burst of speed he could barely maintain, he flowed around Yang's guard, delivering a rapid series of precise strikes – a jab to the ribs, a palm heel to the diaphragm, a quick, sharp kick to the knee joint that buckled Yang's leg.
Yang stumbled back, gasping desperately for air, his muscular body trembling with exhaustion and the sudden, sharp pain from the targeted strikes. He tried to stand firm, tried to fight back, but his legs gave out, and he collapsed to the ground in defeat, coughing and clutching his chest.
The students and the instructor were silent, their shock now palpable, bordering on disbelief. Sun Shi stood over the fallen Yang, his own chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face, but his expression remained controlled, unreadable.
"This is the true Shaolin Kung Fu," he said, his voice tight with effort but filled with cold conviction. "No unnecessary movements, no wasted energy. Only power and precision, applied with intelligence."
The instructor's face was no longer just pale; it was ashen. He looked at the defeated Yang, his top student, lying gasping on the ground, and then back at Sun Shi, this seemingly frail child. His jaw tightened, and for the first time, stark doubt—and a hint of confusion—flickered openly in his eyes.
Sun Shi, pushing past his own physical exhaustion, turned to leave, his voice calm but filled with a profound sense of finality. "If you want to understand true martial arts, stop thinking like a child and open your eyes. There is more to strength than just muscle."
As he walked away, leaving the stunned silence behind him, the other students began to whisper among themselves, their shock evident on their faces. They had just witnessed something they couldn't explain. The instructor stood frozen, unable to shake the image of his top student defeated so utterly by this strange boy, the image of a fighting style that defied everything he thought he knew.
Who... who is this boy's master? Instructor Li thought, a cold knot forming in his stomach as he stared after Sun Shi. And what did he truly teach him?