That night.
East Fence Small House, the north room.
A single candlelight.
It lit up half of the room.
In the center of the room, a space specially cleared.
There was a Confucian scholar in blue robe, eyes closed, practicing Fist Stance.
The "Mountain Carrying Volume" five postures of Fist Stance.
Sleeves fluttering, punches flowing like clouds and water, merging strength and softness.
Zhao Rong, with eyes closed, felt his current state was very bizarre.
It was as if his consciousness had detached, hovering in mid-air, watching himself below practicing the stance, as if in a dream.
Moreover, Zhao Rong felt clearly.
It was not the fist following him, but he following the fist.
Everything flowed naturally.
After countless times practicing the stance, the "Mountain Carrying Volume" stance seemed to have become Zhao Rong's instinct.
In his previous life's words, it was as if this set of postures had been deeply engraved into his bones.
