The two raised their cups and drank. The Shaoxing Zhuangyuan Hong slid down their throats, its rich fragrance lingering long after. "Good wine!" boomed "Fearless" Lü Qiang, his voice resounding like a great bronze bell, filled with praise for the vintage. Wu Tong was delighted and the two fell into easy conversation, speaking of everything from tales of the martial world to the finer points of martial technique.
As the wine warmed them, Wu Tong's eyes suddenly lit up. "Elder, a burst of inspiration has struck me. My heart stirs with a thought—permit me to compose a verse on the spot, and pray you will offer your guidance."
Lü Qiang's eyes gleamed with appreciation. "Who among us does not love poetry? Speak, young brother. Let me hear what you have."
Wu Tong rose and walked slowly, his expression composed. Standing in the pavilion, he gazed far into the distance as though his eyes could drink in the mountains and rivers. Then, in a firm, ringing voice, he recited:
"In the pavilion, Fearless stands — steadfast in the face of all.A cup of Zhuangyuan Hong — fragrance deep, spirits tall.Fond of righting wrongs — the world's troubles to mend.Let no demon boast — for justice has no end."
Each word rang with strength, carrying both respect for Lü Qiang and the young man's own heroic aspirations. Lü Qiang laughed loudly. "Good! Fine verse! Young brother, your talent in both word and deed is truly rare."
In high spirits, he too felt the urge to compose. Pacing with deliberate steps, he thought for a moment, then replied in a strong, resonant voice:
"Where wine's fragrance drifts — heroes gather to stand.Who rivals the world's great? — few in all the land.A rare talent now appears — fierce and free as the wind.Together we drink Zhuangyuan Hong — our spirits unconfined."
Wu Tong listened and could not help but admire it. His own poem had begun on a level tone, but Lü Qiang's was crafted with a rising cadence, its imagery and spirit reaching higher ground. "A fine poem, elder! Your grace in both arms and words is such that heaven and earth would stand in awe. I am humbled—allow me another toast!"
They drank once more, poetry and wine mingling in the air, leaving the heart untroubled.
When they sat again, Wu Tong poured for Lü Qiang, then for himself. Lü Qiang's gaze grew deep. "Young brother—your master… is it the White Cloud Immortal of White Cloud Mountain?"
Wu Tong was slightly surprised. "Elder, you are correct. My teacher is indeed the White Cloud Immortal."
Lü Qiang nodded, approval in his voice. "A fine teacher breeds a fine disciple. You are a talent of a thousand li, gifted in every way. Meeting you today is fate. And having drunk your aged Zhuangyuan Hong, I would be remiss if I did not teach you something of my own. Come with me."
The two stepped out of the pavilion. Lü Qiang thought silently: This youth has excellent bones, a famed master, and will one day be a pillar of the martial world. Such talent must be nurtured.
"Listen well," he said gravely. "The road through the jianghu is bristling with thorns. You must be careful at every step. I will teach you the Eight Cloud Hands. Learn them well—no matter how strong your opponent, they will help you protect yourself."
Wu Tong was overjoyed. "I thank you, elder. I will learn with all my heart!"
Lü Qiang took his stance, steady as a pine, his presence as immovable as a mountain. "This is the opening form of the Eight Cloud Hands." He began to move, calling each technique as he demonstrated: "East to West… South to North… Glancing East and West… Looking Ahead, Watching Behind… Left and Right Gaze… Stars Shift, Objects Change… Clouds Fade, Wind Gentle… Vanished Without Trace."
His body flowed with effortless grace, appearing casual yet hiding boundless change. A sudden right-hand sweep, a left-hand draw; a shift of the feet, a twist of the waist—his position changed as if the ground itself moved. One moment he advanced, the next he drifted back, each motion returning neatly to the opening stance.
Wu Tong's eyes widened. The Eight Cloud Hands was subtle and profound, a treasure of the martial world, surely a closely guarded secret. Fortune had smiled on him today.
When Lü Qiang finished the set, he smiled. "This art is not the most forceful, but it excels in adaptability. Use it to survive and to turn the tide. Now—try it."
Wu Tong bowed deeply. "I will do my best." He took his stance, dropped into a solid horse, and began the forms. Though newly learned, his movement was agile, his palms light yet sure, already carrying the style's essence.
Lü Qiang nodded as he watched, occasionally offering corrections and reciting the accompanying formulas. Wu Tong's sharp memory caught every word.
"Once more," Lü Qiang said. "This time, blend the forms with the formulas."
Wu Tong inhaled, grounding himself. His palms moved like drifting clouds and flowing water, his stance steady yet alive. He wove through the eight forms: now elusive, now forceful, now vigilant, now calm. His body danced across the open ground like a swift, graceful swallow.
Lü Qiang's eyes shone with admiration. "Such talent is rare indeed. Given time, you will achieve greatness. But remember—martial skill must be honed without cease."
Wu Tong bowed. "Elder's instruction will never leave my heart. I will practice diligently."
"Good!" Lü Qiang clapped him on the shoulder. "Come—we still have wine waiting!"
They returned to the pavilion side by side. The air was rich with fragrance; the warmth of camaraderie and ambition filled the space. Lü Qiang poured. "Tonight, we do not part until we are drunk!"
Wu Tong laughed. "Please, elder!" Their cups clinked, the taste of wine mingling with the taste of brotherhood.
Outside, the wind was light and the clouds serene, as though heaven and earth themselves were gladdened by the meeting of these two kindred spirits.