Chapter 461: The Kung Fu Lies in the Garlic Skin, the Last Dignity of the Red Boat |
The rain in Kapok Alley fell without end.
The stench of blood from yesterday hadn't yet dissipated when it was completely covered by a thick smell of raw garlic.
In the temporary logistical kitchen, steam rose in billowing clouds.
Without the siege of long guns and short cannons, the place was so quiet that only the rhythmic "thump thump" of the cleaver hitting the cutting board could be heard.
Jiang Ci sat on a small folding stool, huddled in a corner of the stove area, peeling garlic.
He still wore A Jie's outfit—a tattered vest and loose shorts.
"Uncle Long, isn't this too much?"
Jiang Ci looked at the basin of garlic in front of him, his mouth twitching. "Is the entire crew planning to go vampire hunting tonight?"
Uncle Long held an ordinary square-tipped cleaver, working over a piece of old ginger.
As he spoke, the blade flashed like snow.
Jiang Ci's eyelids twitched.
Too fast.
Uncle Long's hands were completely invisible; all he could hear was the rapid, dense sound of chopping.
"Whoosh—"
Uncle Long withdrew the knife. The piece of old ginger still looked perfectly intact.
He reached out and gently tapped it.
"Crash."
The whole piece of ginger fell apart, transforming into countless strands as fine as hair.
Every single strand was identical in length and thickness, without the slightest deviation.
Jiang Ci's garlic clove dropped into the basin.
Was this even chopping? This was clearly showing off!
"Don't stare—that's the skill of 'fine slicing,'" Aunt Feng said from the other side of the stove as she kneaded dough.
There was at least fifty pounds of flour in that stainless steel basin. After adding water, it was dead heavy.
But Aunt Feng's two arms moved like hydraulic rods. She plunged them into the dough, sinking her waist and legs into a stable stance, then gave a slight twist.
"Gurgle, gurgle."
That lifeless lump of dough came alive in her hands.
As if possessed, it rolled, stretched, and folded in the basin under her force.
"The Red Boat has been disbanded for so many years—only this bit of skill is left to earn a living," Aunt Feng said casually.
"Red Boat?" Jiang Ci seized on the word.
He had looked up information while doing his character research.
That was the Cantonese opera troupe from the late Qing and early Republic eras in Guangdong province. To survive in chaotic times, the Red Boat disciples were all masters of martial arts—Wing Chun, Hung Ga, Choy Li Fut—most of which originated from them.
"Uncle Long, were you two martial male roles back then?" Jiang Ci asked tentatively.
Uncle Long swept the ginger shreds into the soup pot, using his cattail-leaf fan to stoke the fire. "Martial male role, my foot. That's called a 'somersault bug.' In my youth, I gambled my life for applause. Now..."
He pointed at the big pot on the stove. "I'm just a cook."
Jiang Ci tossed the peeled garlic into the bowl, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"And what about Ghost Claw Chen?"
At the sound of that name, the kitchen fell silent for a moment.
Aunt Feng's kneading paused for half a beat, then she slammed down harder. With a loud "Boom," flour flew into the air.
Uncle Long's fan stopped.
He turned around, his face still ruddy and his smile undiminished, but his gaze had darkened.
"That old madman?" Uncle Long snorted lightly. "He practices killing techniques—every move aimed at death. We're different. We practice life-nourishing techniques, aiming for a long and healthy life."
"Life-nourishing?" Jiang Ci looked at Uncle Long's thick, muscular forearms and thought to himself, Yeah, you probably nourish yourself by sending others to their graves.
"Don't believe me?"
Uncle Long laughed.
Just then, a green-headed fly, oblivious to its doom, flew in.
It buzzed around the basin of freshly cut braised pork.
Uncle Long didn't reach for a fly swatter.
He flicked his wrist, and the tattered fan swung seemingly casually through the air.
There was no slapping sound, no wind.
Jiang Ci only felt a strange, distorted twist in the air currents around him.
The fly seemed to be caught in an invisible vortex.
Still flying at high speed, it suddenly lost control, drawing a few circles in the air.
Then, with a "Plop,"
the fly, dizzy and disoriented, fell onto the stove top. Its six legs still twitched—clearly airsick, but alive, its body completely intact.
"This is called 'borrowing force,'" Uncle Long said, flicking the stunned fly away. "Killing it would make a mess, wouldn't it? This is life-nourishing."
Jiang Ci was dumbfounded.
Was this what he called life-nourishing? This was precision airflow control combat!
"Meow—"
Just then, a sharp cat cry came from the ceiling beam.
A filthy stray cat, its back arched, was trying to steal the cured meat hanging from the beam.
Aunt Feng didn't even look up.
She was finishing sealing the dough, her chest slightly puffing out.
"Ahem."
A single cough.
The sound was not loud, as if she had just cleared some phlegm from her throat.
But in Jiang Ci's eardrums, that single cough shook his brain until it buzzed.
The stray cat on the beam reacted as if it had been electrocuted. Its fur stood on end, and its claws went weak.
"Thump!"
The cat fell straight down, landing in a nearby rice sack. Terrified, it scrambled and rolled out of the kitchen.
Aunt Feng continued kneading the dough as if nothing had happened. "That beast has been coming to steal food these past few days. A little scare won't hurt."
Jiang Ci swallowed hard.
A Lion's Roar?
And this was an internal energy version?
No wonder Jiang Wen called these two "smiling tigers."
These weren't just some old folks cooking—they were the Guangdong branch of the Hidden Masters of Shaolin!
For the next two days,
Jiang Ci practically lived in that kitchen filled with the smell of oil and flour.
He didn't practice boxing. He didn't memorize his lines.
He just followed these two "old folks" through their daily routine.
He realized that every single movement of theirs contained kung fu.
Uncle Long never made a sound when he walked—his heels were always slightly suspended. That was the "cat step" from Tai Chi,
allowing him to change direction and explode with force at any moment.
When Aunt Feng carried the large stainless steel pot full of soup, weighing at least seventy or eighty pounds, her back and waist were ramrod straight, her lower stance steady as Mount Tai.
That was authentic "Four-Level Horse Stance."
Even when washing dishes, the water obeyed their hands like a snake.
On the evening of the third day,
the rain stopped.
A hunched figure appeared unsteadily at the kitchen door.
Ghost Claw Chen.
This old man had been hiding somewhere the past few days.
Now he was holding an empty wine bottle, his whole body reeking of stale sweat and murderous intent.
He stood at the door, his cloudy eyes fixed on Uncle Long, who was chopping scallions.
"Old hand," Ghost Claw Chen's voice scraped like two rusty iron plates rubbing together. "Bones getting loose, huh? Still not dead yet?"
The chopping in the kitchen came to an abrupt halt.
Uncle Long put down his cleaver, turned around with a beaming smile, and casually wiped his hands on his big apron.
"Thanks to Master Chen's blessing, I eat well and sleep well."
Uncle Long pointed at the wine rack next to him.
"What's wrong? Out of booze again? No credit allowed, you know."
Ghost Claw Chen sneered, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth. "Less bullshit. Tomorrow's the real deal. Don't fall apart and blame me for being heavy-handed."
This was a provocation.
And a challenge.
Uncle Long grabbed the cheapest bottle of Red Star Erguotou from the rack.
"Whoosh—"
The bottle flew through the air.
Ghost Claw Chen's gaze sharpened.
"Squeak—"
His palm rubbed against the glass bottle.
Ghost Claw Chen caught the bottle steadily.
"Hmph."
His face darkened. He gave a deep, lingering look at Uncle Long, who was still smiling.
"Interesting."
He bit off the cap, tipped his head back, and took a heavy gulp. Then he turned and walked away.
"Tomorrow, let's see how you 'borrow force.'"
Ghost Claw Chen was gone.
Uncle Long's smile faded. He lightly shook his wrist.
"Old," Uncle Long sighed. "That move was too rough."
Jiang Ci stood to the side, holding his breath the entire time.
That brief exchange just now—
though there was no flash of blades or clash of swords—was no less dangerous than the massacre in the alley.
"Uncle Long," Jiang Ci walked over. "Is that... Tai Chi?"
"This is the Red Boat's rule,"
Uncle Long picked up his cleaver again.
"On stage, you act. Off stage, you live."
"Living is like this dough—it must be round, it must be resilient. But if someone wants to flatten you, you have to let them know that inside the dough, there are hidden needles."
Jiang Ci's mind shook.
Resilience.
He had been thinking about A Jie's state of mind these past few days.
He thought A Jie should be a mad dog—vicious, ruthless, fearless.
But he had forgotten: A Jie had survived in a cesspool like Kapok Alley.
Weeds in the mud can't just be tough—they'll break in the wind.
They have to be resilient.
Like wild grass—trampled into the mud, yet still able to spring back up.
Night fell.
A dim yellow bulb glowed in the kitchen.
A few plates of peanuts, an opened bottle of Erguotou.
Uncle Long had had a few drinks and started talking more.
"Back in the day, when the Red Boat crossed the river, we had to pay respects to the local docks,"
Uncle Long picked up a peanut, his gaze a little hazy.
"Once, we ran into river bandits attacking the boat. Master didn't let anyone draw a blade. He just set up a table of wine at the bow and drank alone."
"The bandits put a gun to Master's head."
"Master said, 'A Red Boat disciple would rather die on the rack than kneel to live.'"
"'Take the money if you want. Take my life—it's right here. But if you want us to kneel and sing for you, dream on.'"
Uncle Long pointed at his own knee.
"The bandits didn't fire in the end. They left. Master said that was the aura held up by backbone—more effective than kung fu."
Jiang Ci listened, completely absorbed.
He turned his head and saw Aunt Feng sitting on a small stool, massaging her shoulder, her brows slightly furrowed.
That was an old injury from training horse stances when she was young. It always ached on rainy days.
Without hesitation,
Jiang Ci put down his glass, stood up, and walked behind Aunt Feng.
"Aunt Feng, I know a bit about massage. Let me give you a rub?"
Aunt Feng was startled and was about to refuse.
But Jiang Ci's hands were already on her shoulders.
No longer the mischievous, carefree air of A Jie, nor the polite formality of a Film Emperor.
Just a younger person's genuine concern for an elder.
His fingers accurately found the tight muscle group and began kneading with just the right amount of pressure.
"Mmm..." Aunt Feng let out a comfortable sigh, her furrowed brow smoothing out.
"This technique... it's even more authentic than those blind masseurs."
"Long illness makes the patient a doctor," Jiang Ci said with a smile, a soft tenderness flickering in his eyes.
He said to himself: A Jie is like this too.
He is ruthless to his enemies, like a mad dog.
But to the people he cares about—
even if it's just an elder who gave him a bowl of rice—he hides that softness in the deepest part of his heart.
Uncle Long watched the scene, raised his glass, and hid the smile at the corner of his mouth.
"Alright," Uncle Long put down his glass. "Get some sleep."