Chapter 1
In the late Qing Dynasty, Cangwu County.

The stone steps chiseled against the mountain spiral up to the halfway up the mountain.

Among the lush trees, three or two tile houses can be seen faintly, with blue bricks and green tiles, high eaves and moss on the stone courtyard walls, revealing a faint green atmosphere.

Climbing up the steps, the sun shines through the treetops and shines on the stone jars filled with water in the open space in front of the tile house.

Dozens of thin wooden stakes are distributed in a plum blossom shape, the lower half is buried in the soil, and the exposed parts are of different heights.

Song Xing, who was wearing a Ge-colored coarse cloth shirt and had short hair, stood on these wooden posts.

The wooden stake is less than three fingers wide, and it is difficult for ordinary people to stand on it stably, but Song Xing can move freely within this square inch.

He changed his steps, moved his feet with his hands, and used them according to the situation. He moved so fast that the naked eye could hardly capture his figure.

From the degree of slight shaking of the wooden piles, it can be seen that some wooden piles are only inserted shallowly into the ground, and they will keep shaking when they come into contact with them a little, making them appear extremely unstable.

Even so, Song Xing's speed did not slow down in the slightest.

He kept stepping down, but the strength of his fists was rising layer by layer. With each punch, there was a muffled thunder-like sound in the air.

When the speed reached its peak, Song Xing suddenly paused and stopped, then he closed his fist and exhaled, and jumped off the wooden stake.

When he came to the stone jar, he hugged the stone jar with both hands and exerted strength with his arms. He lifted the stone jar weighing hundreds of kilograms steadily.

While turning his feet, his toes exerted a little strength, like a nimble ape, Song Xing jumped onto the stake again and started a new round of practice.

Holding the moon in his arms, his chicken legs swaying in the mud, no matter how the wooden stakes swayed, Song Xing was still walking on the ground, his upper body did not shake at all, and not even a drop of water in the stone jar in his arms spilled.

Half an hour later, Song Xing jumped off the wooden pile again, and put down the stone jar lightly, without blushing or panting, and walked towards the back of the tile house without stopping.

Behind the tile house is a dilapidated firewood house, and a few pieces of wasteland have been reclaimed beside it, and several kinds of fruits and vegetables that are common in this season are planted.

There is a clearing in the distance, and there is a fence around it, and a few chickens and ducks are raised.

Chu Luozhao, who was wearing a gray and white cloth robe and gray hair, was squatting at the head of the field, carefully serving his dozens of coriander plants.

Eating noodles without coriander is like eating dumplings without vinegar, which lacks soul, Chu Luozhao said to Song Xing.

"Finished practicing?"

Hearing footsteps behind him, Chu Luozhao asked.

"Well," Song Xing replied, and then came to the field, picked up a handful of coriander, and picked a few fresh spinach beside him.

"Don't step on it, you have rough hands and feet." Chu Luozhao frowned slightly, dissatisfied.

"There are so many, what's wrong with trampling a few to death?"

Song Xing raised his eyebrows and smiled, walked into the firewood room next to him, picked up a few dried firewood, and with his fingers, split the firewood directly, and then set up a pot to start a fire.

When the water in the pot boiled, put in the thin noodles. Song Xing put the washed vegetables on the chopping board and chopped them finely.

Then pick up the noodles, run through cold water first, then put them into two large porcelain bowls, pour over the soup made from river fish, and finally sprinkle the vegetables evenly on the noodles.

Chu Luozhao's bowl contained coriander and spinach, while Song Xing's bowl contained only spinach.

Song Xing doesn't like coriander or anything.

Hearing Song Xing's greeting, Chu Luozhao stood up from the field, went to the kitchen, picked up the porcelain bowl, and ate slowly.

A simple bowl of Zhusheng noodles, cooked by Song Xing, exudes a tempting aroma, crisp and springy, and the soup is delicious. The master and apprentice ate very deliciously.

In the five years since he came to this dynasty, in addition to practicing martial arts, Song Xing has also cultivated a good cooking skill.

Song Xing practiced a lot of energy, Chu Luozhao only ate one bowl of noodles in the pot, and the rest went into Song Xing's stomach.

After Song Xing finished eating and put down his chopsticks, Chu Luozhao pondered for a while, and said after deliberation: "Have you encountered a bottleneck in your practice recently?"

Song Xing nodded and said: "Strength runs through the whole body, but it seems that there is still a little effort from the conditioning of the five internal organs that you said, master."

Chu Luozhao was not surprised either: "You have already achieved great success in Fanxing Zhuang, and your kung fu on the boxing frame has been cultivated to an extremely deep level."

Looking at Song Xing's young face, Chu Luozhao's eyes flashed with satisfaction: "It took five years to get to where I am today. In the past 50 years, as far as I know, there are only two or three people."

"The next thing is to rely on water to grind the kung fu. The real shape hides the real spirit, and it will come naturally."

After hearing Chu Luozhao's words, Song Xing thought about it, and then got up to clean up the dishes.

After finishing the work in the kitchen, Song Xing fed the chickens and ducks again, and then followed Chu Luozhao to the front hall of the tile house.

Chu Luozhao was getting old and lacking in energy, so he found a sunny place and basked in the sun.

Song Xing made a cup of hot tea for the master, put it in Chu Luozhao's hand, and ran to the side to do his own thing.

Chu Luozhao took out the pipe, lit it for himself, took a few puffs beautifully, and turned around to see Song Xing holding a somewhat old book, reading it with gusto.

"Tai Ping Guang Ji", a legendary novel written by Song people.

"Master, tell me, are there any gods in this world?"

As if sensing Chu Luozhao's gaze, Song Xing asked suddenly.

"Have you still not given up on that unrealistic fantasy?"

"Just asking casually." Song Xing didn't look up.

"Naturally there are no immortals in the world. The theory of immortals and gods is just the spiritual sustenance of the ancients. Martial arts practitioners of my generation believe in martial arts and ourselves, respecting gods and not fearing gods!"

Chu Luozhao picked up the tea, blew on it, and drank it in one gulp.

Five years ago, I met Song Xing who was about to starve to death, and took him as an apprentice out of pity.

In the past five years, Song Xing's talent in martial arts has given Chu Luozhao too many surprises, five years of practice is worth 20 years of others.

But three years ago, Song Xing began to collect some strange novels, and from time to time went to the folks to investigate some weird and unusual things.

Chu Luozhao, who has lived for more than 60 years, has encountered miraculous things, but has never seen the so-called fairy gods. Naturally, he advised his only disciple not to put too much energy on these things, so as not to delay his practice.

With Song Xing's talent, if he can concentrate on martial arts, he might be able to reach the rumored state of transcendence and holiness.

Hearing Chu Luozhao's affirmative answer, Song Xing did not speak, but quietly looked at the book in his hand.

"Take the herbs to Shopkeeper Qian later, and exchange them for some rice."

Seeing that Song Xing didn't respond, Chu Luozhao didn't care, and ordered.

The mountains are barren, except for growing some vegetables, the old and the young have nothing to live on. Occasionally, they pick some herbs in the mountains and take them down the mountains to exchange for some money to survive.

"Old money is dead."

Song Xing put down the Taiping Guangji in his hand, looked at Chu Luozhao and said.

"Well?"

Chu Luozhao raised his head and looked over in surprise.

"It is said that an old wild ginseng was collected. The county government said that the Queen Mother's birthday wanted old money to donate it, but the old money refused."

Song Xing didn't finish the next words, but Chu Luozhao understood.

The old man took a deep puff of his cigarette: "This damn world!"

Song Xing didn't speak, but just lowered his head and looked at the unfinished legend in his hand, Xin Ping's Immortal.

The so-called morality is rare in this world, but fortunately, there are knives.

(End of this chapter)

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