This is the story of a Chinese swordsman.

Led by Bruce Lee, Chinese Kung Fu has influenced martial arts enthusiasts worldwide. In ancient China, Kung Fu was inseparable from the martial arts world. Kung Fu was not only a technique but also embodied many Chinese philosophies of conduct, including the principle of trust.

Thirty-Year Promise

The swordsman has sat on this rock for ten years. Ten years ago, a swordfight took place at Qinglong Mountain.

The swordsman, then leader of the Qinglong Sect, was challenged by the ruthless lord Rufeng. The two fought fiercely for three days and three nights at the foot of Qinglong Mountain. The swordsman eventually succumbed to exhaustion.

Rufeng severed a finger, and the swordsman’s lifelong reputation was ruined.

As he left Qinglong Mountain, the swordsman said to Rufeng:

Thirty years from now, I will still be waiting for you here. I will make you repay me with one finger.

Hard Kung Fu Practice

To fulfill his promise, the swordsman and his three close disciples retreated deep into the mountains. He was practicing a unique skill: merging man and sword, the sword moving with his heart, killing with his thoughts.

Unstoppable force

The first rays of morning light fell on the swordsman’s face, tingling and tingling. His brows lifted slightly, his clothes fluttering. Like a stone, he swung through the bamboo forest.

No one could see the swordsman’s movements. In the blink of an eye, he was back on the rock. His composure was unwavering, his breathing steady.

After a while, a resonant and melodious sound like ripping silk echoed through the bamboo forest. More than a dozen bamboos, each as thick as a bowl, fell with a crashing crash. The fractures were smooth and uniform.

Rescuing the Enemy

The eldest disciple clapped his hands and exclaimed, “Master, your sword is so swift!” The swordsman’s lips curled slightly. The eldest disciple said, “Master, you can leave the mountains now.” The swordsman shook his head. Blade speed alone won’t defeat Rufeng.

The eldest disciple said that Rufeng might not live to see that day. The swordsman frowned. What did he mean? The eldest disciple explained that over a dozen martial arts masters had arrived at Qinglong Mountain, aiming to seize the position of leader. It was said that in three days, they would confront Rufeng, and Rufeng would be doomed.

The swordsman shuddered and shouted, “Prepare horse!”

When the swordsman arrived at Qinglong Mountain, it was littered with decapitated corpses. Without a moment’s hesitation, the swordsman swung his blade. Fast as lightning, a fierce battle ensued, leaving more than a dozen bodies on the ground. In the setting sun, only the swordsman and Rufeng remained, bloodied and stained.

“Why did you save me?” Rufeng asked.

“I’m not saving you. I’m asking you to wait for our agreement.” The swordsman sheathed his blade, his face expressionless.

“You could easily have used them to kill me. Why wait?” Rufeng was puzzled. The swordsman sneered, “Do you think a man’s words are like the wind? Remember, you still owe me a finger.” With that, he whipped his horse and vanished.

Improving Sword Skills

Ten years passed in a flash. Ten meters away from the swordsman, three silk threads dangled. Three flies were tied to the threads. The swordsman soared, slicing graceful arcs through the bamboo forest. Then, sheathing his sword, he sat on a rock.

The eldest disciple ran to the flies, sighing, “Master, success!”

The three flies’ wings were chopped off at the root, but their bodies remained unscathed. The swordsman suddenly buckled and fell from the rock.

Dysentery was raging within a hundred miles of the bamboo forest. Many people had already perished down the mountain, and the swordsman and his disciples were no exception. Within a few days, the two younger disciples suddenly passed away. Only the eldest disciple had managed to escape.

The swordsman lay on his bed, dying. The eldest disciple stood by, helpless, weeping silently.

The swordsman smiled calmly and said, “Don’t worry, I won’t die. I’m still waiting for that promise.”
The eldest disciple said, “We don’t have medicine.”
The swordsman said, “We do.”
The eldest disciple said, “Where is it?”
The swordsman said, “In my heart.”

A month later, the swordsman miraculously recovered and was as strong as ever.

Cut off a finger, fulfill a promise.

Thirty years passed like a fleeting moment. The swordsman sat upright, his hair and beard swaying like snow. His swordsmanship had reached its peak. The eldest disciple said, “Master, the time has come.”

The swordsman said, “Prepare the horses!”

At the foot of Qinglong Mountain, someone had been waiting. But it wasn’t Rufeng!

“Where’s Rufeng?” the swordsman asked.

Tears streamed down the man’s cheeks. “Master… he passed away three… three days ago.”

“What?” the swordsman was startled. “Rufeng died? How did he die?”

“Died of no illness.” With that, he pulled a brocade box from his bosom and handed it to the swordsman.

The swordsman opened it. Inside lay a finger. Pale as paper, it moved faintly like a snake. “This is what Master asked me to give you before he died. He said he owed you something,” the man said sadly.

Holding the brocade box, the swordsman returned with a sense of loss.

Three days later, the swordsman practiced on a rock. The eldest disciple went to call the swordsman to eat. He called three times, but there was no response. He reached out and pulled, but the swordsman collapsed to the ground, his body already stiff. This year, the swordsman was eighty-seven.