Fists can't cross Tianjin

Chapter 18 Safflower Oil

Back in the cabin, Chen Zhuo was full of energy and showed no signs of sleepiness.

He pulled the book "Xingyi Pu" out from the crack in the bricks under the bed.

They continued their studies.

He didn't know what the situation was like outside, but he didn't care unless they actually found him.

Continuing to practice is the only way forward.

This boxing manual is a rare find. The paper is yellowed, clearly indicating its age, and it's filled with handwritten, tiny characters. It contains the cultivation insights left by the masters and grandmasters of this lineage, and even by their ancestors. These are the truly precious aspects of martial arts cultivation.

Chen Zhuo turned to the "Practice Methods" section.

My fingertips traced the ink stains, finally stopping at a line of text:

"Skin is the armor of the body. Without training the skin, it is like going into battle naked; it will crumble at the slightest touch."

There is also a small note below:

"To achieve an indestructible body, one must first endure the suffering of the skin and flesh. One must endure the hardship of exposing oneself to wood and stone, and nourish oneself with medicine and minerals. Only when the internal energy is abundant and the outer membrane is tough can one achieve great success."

Chen Zhuo was engrossed in watching.

The reasoning is actually quite clear.

The punch delivered in the early morning was so powerful that it was worth its weight in gold. He had mastered the technique, but his body wasn't tough enough.

Xingyiquan emphasizes "cultivating internal energy and strengthening muscles, bones, and skin." Once you have internal energy, your spine and spine will be active, but if you don't train your skin properly, you'll be like a brittle walnut when it comes to actual fighting.

Especially in close-quarters combat, physical contact is inevitable.

If you really encounter a skilled fighter, or get beaten up by a group of people, your skin and flesh won't be able to withstand it, and you'll be badly injured in just a few blows.

"If you want to hit someone, you must first learn to take a hit."

Chen Zhuo closed the boxing manual.

He got up, walked around the yard, and finally found an old broom with bald bristles in the corner.

"Click."

He stomped on the broom head, breaking it off and leaving only a smooth, hard wooden stick.

I weighed it in my hand, and the weight was just right.

Back inside, Chen Zhuo took off his shirt, revealing his bare upper body.

Although thin, it was a lean and wiry kind of thin. Every muscle looked like it was made of twisted steel wire, trembling slightly with each breath.

"Place it with wood and stones..."

Chen Zhuo took a deep breath, focused his energy in his dantian, and pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"Snapped!"

He swung the wooden stick and struck his left arm hard.

A red mark instantly appeared on her skin.

"Slap! Slap! Slap!"

The sound of a wooden stick striking flesh was dull and rhythmic.

From arms to chest and abdomen, from back to thighs.

Each strike leaves a red mark on the skin, but it fades quickly.

This is "Pai Da Gong" (排打功).

Through repeated blows, the skin and muscles undergo a stress response, becoming more resilient and increasing their resistance to impact.

He silently fought for an hour.

It was broad daylight.

Chen Zhuo stopped holding the wooden stick, his whole body drenched in sweat.

He touched his slightly hot skin, which was red and swollen in many places due to the long-term slapping, and even felt a dull pain.

"Nourish it with medicine..."

Looking at his swollen skin, Chen Zhuo recalled the second half of the boxing manual.

Training without nurturing is self-harm.

Without medicinal wine to promote blood circulation and remove blood stasis, this kind of strenuous training can easily leave hidden injuries or even ruin one's health.

I need to buy medicine.

Chen Zhuo dressed, carefully put the "Xingyi Manual" back in his pocket, and went out.

……

The wind was a bit strong on the street.

Chen Zhuo didn't pull the cart; instead, he pushed the dilapidated tricycle, pretending to go to a repair shop. In reality, he turned a corner and headed straight for the state-run pharmacy on West Market Street.

There were noticeably more people on the streets than usual.

"I have junk... for sale!"

The drawn-out shouts, accompanied by the rattling of a rattle drum, echoed through the alleyways.

Chen Zhuo keenly noticed that in the past, these scrap collectors would always be looking down at the waste paper and toothpaste tubes on the ground. But today, these people all had shifty eyes, not looking at the ground, but specifically looking around, searching for things, and staring at the faces of passersby.

The person with the tabby cat?

As the deputy director of the recycling station, he controlled the waste recycling network in HQ district and even half of Tianjin. These people who went door-to-door collecting scrap were his countless eyes and ears.

It seems that since they couldn't find Gangzi and the situation was too complicated, Hua Mao had no choice but to mobilize his own network of influence.

After all, my own affairs are insignificant compared to the three thousand yuan!

Chen Zhuo pulled his tattered felt hat down low, hunched his neck, and blended into the crowd.

We arrived at West Market Street.

Before even entering the pharmacy, a strong smell of Chinese medicine hit you.

A white sign with black lettering hung at the entrance, reading "Serve the People." Several propaganda posters were pasted on the wall, depicting barefoot doctors treating elderly farmers in the fields.

The counter was very tall, and the glass display case was polished to a shine.

The saleswoman inside was a middle-aged woman wearing a white coat, who was knitting a sweater with her head down, not even lifting her eyelids.

"Buy it?"

His tone was harsh, carrying a hint of impatience.

This is the norm. These days, sales clerks in state-owned enterprises are treated like royalty.

Chen Zhuo wasn't annoyed. He pulled his tattered felt hat down a bit and said, "Excuse me, could you please get me a bottle of safflower oil? The strongest kind."

"Two and a half cents."

The saleswoman didn't even look up, her knitting needles flying across the fabric.

Chen Zhuo took out a few crumpled bills from his pocket, counted out 25 cents, and handed them over.

"Smack."

A small glass bottle, about the size of a palm, sat on the counter. Red liquid sloshed inside, and through the glass, one could see red flower petals soaking within.

Zheng Honghua Oil.

This stuff was a valuable commodity in those days. Ordinary people recognized its value for treating sprains, bruises, and rheumatism. For martial arts practitioners, it was an indispensable "medicine."

Chen Zhuo tucked the medicine bottle into his pocket and kept it close to his body.

The cold glass bottle was quickly warmed up by body heat.

……

Back in the tenement, Chen Zhuo went into his dilapidated room, closed the doors and windows tightly, and drew the curtains.

The light in the room suddenly dimmed.

He took off his shirt, revealing his well-defined muscles once again.

Unscrew the cap of the safflower oil bottle.

A pungent, spicy smell instantly filled the narrow room.

Chen Zhu poured some into his palm, rubbed his hands together vigorously until they were hot, and then smeared it hard on his arms, chest, and ribs, which were red and swollen from the previous beating.

"hiss--"

When safflower oil comes into contact with the skin, it causes a burning, stinging sensation, as if a fire is burning the flesh.

But he didn't stop.

Take a deep breath and focus your energy in your lower abdomen.

Continue the attack.

"Slap! Slap! Slap!"

This time, with the penetration of the medicine, each slap brought not only pain, but also a surge of heat that seeped into the fascia through the pores.

"Nourish it with medicine..."

Chen Zhuo gritted his teeth, feeling the medicinal power dissipate in his body.

now it's right.

Martial arts training is a process of constant destruction and repair. Only through repeated tempering and refinement can the body become as tough as cast iron.

They patted it for a full half hour.

Chen Zhuo only stopped when he was drenched in sweat and his skin was as red as a boiled shrimp.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

He felt his entire body burning up, and the tingling sensation from the medicine penetrating him made him want to moan with pleasure.

But before the feeling of comfort had subsided, an even stronger hunger, like a tsunami, instantly overwhelmed him.

"Gurgle..."

My stomach let out a thunderous protest.

The previous injection, combined with the catalytic effect of the medicine, greatly accelerated the body's metabolism.

The little stock we had this morning was all burned up long ago.

Practicing martial arts is a bottomless pit.

The more you train, the hungrier you get; the stronger you become, the hungrier you get.

We need to eat meat.

Chen Zhuo rubbed his shrunken belly, got dressed, let the medicinal smell dissipate slightly, and then pushed open the door and went out.

The afternoon sun was a bit too bright.

Chen Zhuo strolled out of the courtyard as if nothing had happened.

After confirming that no one was following him, he headed straight for the air-raid shelter on the other side of the Red Bridge.