Chapter 7: Lord of the Land, Morning Exercise in the Park

Having graduated from university many years ago, Su Yi’s mind was no longer as sharp as it once was; he opened his calculator and consulted Baidu. According to the conversion from Bolt’s 100-meter sprint record, the speed of that Latin American “flying man” was just over thirty-seven kilometers per hour. The cheetah, the fastest animal on land, could reach a top speed of 110 kilometers per hour, though it could only sustain such speed for three or four minutes. For endurance, the champion was the antelope, which could run at ninety kilometers per hour for over ten minutes.

In other words, his current maximum speed would reduce any normal human to dust in an instant, though he wasn’t sure exactly how fast he had been running just now. He reckoned, however, that he still couldn’t match a cheetah or an antelope, given they each had four legs. Still, it didn’t matter; neither could best him, nor match his endurance, so they were all just scraps before him.

Having gauged just how high his agility had become, Su Yi slipped his phone back into his pocket and continued jogging, eager to test the range of his long-distance speed. The sky was still dark, and he ran for nearly another hour; by the time five o’clock had passed, he calculated that he’d covered almost sixty kilometers in a little over fifty minutes. According to Baidu, there were only a handful of marathon runners in the world who could finish forty-some kilometers in under two hours.

Through the long course of evolution, humans had gained unparalleled endurance among animals—by shedding body hair and developing sweat glands. In the BBC documentary “The Mammals’ Chronicle,” the indigenous people living in southern sub-Saharan Africa would often pursue prey like antelope for distances of fifteen to thirty-five kilometers. Now, Su Yi was likely the undisputed land-running champion in the history of the planet.

In mid-October, the sun rose over Zhonghai around six, but even a little after five, the early morning streets were bustling with fitness enthusiasts. Su Yi jogged along the riverside, passing countless middle-aged and elderly people, some with black hair, others with white, all diligently exercising in the morning. Many were muscle-bound, clad in short sleeves and vests, making Su Yi feel ashamed. If not for his own body’s superhuman transformation, these senior gentlemen would easily outclass his twenty-eight-year-old self in physical strength.

Entering the riverside park, the workout scene was even more lively. A group of elderly ladies were energetically dancing in formation, their footsteps echoing in unison, while another group a dozen steps away exercised rhythmically, clapping their hands together.

Su Yi found all this quite novel. His hometown was a rural area on the outskirts of the county, and he’d never seen such a grand, diverse morning exercise scene in person. Young people in the park were few and far between, jogging or shouting from afar. When it came to variety and vigor, the old gentlemen were unmatched.

Here, groups of elders paired up to practice Tai Chi push-hands. There, an old man in a sweat-soaked shirt walked backward, his hands expertly turning two iron balls with a crisp clatter. Farther off, beside the tea house, another elderly man struck a wall with a paddle, practicing racquetball. In the nearby woods, two bare-chested men were using their backs to strike a camphor tree.

Some took the artistic route. As Su Yi passed a stretch of concrete, he saw an old man wielding a large bottle of Guoli Orange juice as a brush, the tip a wedge of sharpened sponge soaked in water. He watched as the man painted on the cement, the strokes still wet: “Three thousand guests drunk amid blooming flowers, a single sword chills fourteen prefectures.”

Who would’ve thought this scholarly-looking old man had such flair?

Ahead, Su Yi’s attention was caught by a grandfatherly figure, at least seventy years old, standing in a horse stance with both hands stretched forward, eyes level, suddenly shouting with a voice like a bell. His arms whirled in dramatic gestures, punctuated by forceful “hng-ha” sounds, his face red and glistening with sweat from the exertion.

“Grandpa, is that qigong you’re practicing?” Su Yi couldn’t help but feel a surge of respect. Since ancient times, the city’s hidden masters were often eccentric. Watching this old man’s impressive display, Su Yi thought he might very well be a reclusive expert. Back in the qigong craze of the last century, there were legends of masters who could summon energy to extinguish wildfires. Su Yi, though now extraordinary himself, was still grounded in reality; if he could shamelessly learn a few mystical moves, it would certainly be a windfall.

The old man nodded with reserved pride. After Su Yi earnestly pestered him for a few minutes, the elder finally shared some esoteric tips—names like “Illuminating the Qi Points,” “Subtle Yang Awakening,” “Crossing the Gate and Consuming,” and “Guarding the Void.” When Su Yi learned these techniques were all inventions from radio programs the old man had listened to as a youth and subsequently pondered on his own, he quietly found an excuse to slip away.

So all that red-faced sweating was just from holding his breath.

The park was vast. Passing through a wide greenbelt, Su Yi came to a small lake about an acre in size, ringed with railings. Many people were stretching against them, practicing splits. The lakeside was shaded with trees, stone benches arrayed with iron fans, horsetail whisks, short daggers, and other weapons. Some elders practiced swordplay and knife techniques, while another man swung a golden melon flail with fierce energy.

But the most striking sight was across the lake: a richly dressed elderly man, far from the crowd, was meticulously practicing with a massive broadsword—the famous Green Dragon Crescent Blade.

The Green Dragon Crescent Blade, also called the Frost-Edged Saw, had been his favorite toy as a child. Nostalgic, Su Yi approached, noticing a speaker on the ground playing rousing Shanghai opera.

Su Yi, though unfamiliar with traditional martial arts, could, thanks to memories instilled from his copy-world companion Sonam, tell that the old man’s technique was truly expert. Though the blade was unlikely to be as exaggeratedly heavy as in the legends, its real weight was certainly not something an ordinary strongman could easily wield.

As the music ended, the old man planted the broadsword on the ground. Seeing a young man watching, he spoke with humble (and somewhat proud) self-deprecation, “Ah, getting old. Year by year, I struggle more and more. In a couple of years, I won’t be able to swing it at all—nothing like you young folks.”

So, you think I can’t handle it? As if youth alone decided anything.

Su Yi spoke up, “Sir, may I try swinging your blade a few times?”

“Oh, interested, are you? Go ahead, but be careful—it’s quite heavy.” The old man smiled and, using both hands, tossed the blade to Su Yi.

If he expected to see me make a fool of myself, he’d be disappointed. Su Yi thought this as, with one hand, he caught the blade.

The old man’s eyes sharpened, his expression shifting minutely. Though the blade wasn’t as legendary as in novels, it still weighed twenty-eight jin. That might not sound like much, but as a weapon, it was far beyond what most ordinary people could handle. In ancient times, the Green Dragon Crescent Blade was mostly for strength training, not actual combat. Yet here was a young man who caught it single-handedly, his arm steady, not sinking an inch. Such a display—how could it not astonish?