I rely on unlimited life extension

Feng Dagang wiped away the tears of laughter with his fingertips and said breathlessly, "I noticed Cheng Yi is here, and the atmosphere on set really livens up. Seriously, with your reaction speed and sense of humor, you could really try being a comedian; you're talented."

Cheng Yi quickly waved his hand, as if refusing a hot potato: "Forget it, comedy is too brain-draining, kung fu suits me better, it's simple and direct, and the real skill is revealed with a punch and a kick."

Zhang Guoli asked with great interest, "So you started practicing kung fu from a young age?"

"More or less." Cheng Yi recalled, his eyes softening. "There was an old man surnamed Chen who lived next to the orphanage. Every morning before dawn, he would go to the park to practice boxing. I was naughty back then and would always help him carry the birdcage and sweep the yard. He saw that I was in good physical condition and said, 'Kid, I'll teach you a few moves to strengthen your body,' and that's how I started practicing."

“When it comes to kung fu, then Big Brother is the real expert.” Zhang Guoli tossed the topic to Yuan Long, his eyes filled with a hint of anticipation for a good show.

Yuan Long quickly waved his hand and said modestly, "I don't deserve such praise. I've just been practicing for a long time and figured out some tricks by trial and error. Cheng Yi, what kind of boxing style did you start practicing?"

“Iron Wire Fist,” Cheng Yi replied calmly.

"Iron Wire Fist?" Yuan Long jumped up from his chair as if pricked by a needle, his voice rising eight octaves in disbelief, "Which school is it?"

"Hong Family Iron Wire Fist".

"Wow!" Yuan Long walked from the mentor's seat to the center of the stage in just a few steps, his movements were so fast that he didn't look like someone over sixty years old.

He personally pulled Cheng Yi's arm up and carefully lifted his shirt sleeve to reveal his smooth but not muscular forearm.

Yuan Long's fingers were thick and calloused from years of training. He gently pinched Cheng Yi's arm, then pressed his shoulders and back, looking him up and down. His brows furrowed more and more.

“Something’s not right…” Yuan Long muttered to himself, his tone full of confusion. “People who have practiced Iron Wire Fist have arms and upper limbs that are different from normal people. That style of boxing emphasizes ‘hard bridge and hard stance.’ After years of practice, the deltoids and biceps become particularly developed, with thick and firm muscle lines, like small iron rods. But although your bones feel hard to the touch, the thickness doesn’t seem like that of someone who has practiced Iron Wire Fist. It’s more like…” He paused, unable to think of a suitable word.

Cheng Yi's heart skipped a beat—this Yuan Long is indeed an expert, he can even see through such a small detail?

He composed himself and forced a smile as he explained, "Maybe... it's because I also practiced a matching breathing technique, which makes my breath flow more smoothly. I'm not as robust, but my strength hasn't diminished."

"A breathing technique?" Yuan Long's eyes lit up as if he had discovered a new continent. He excitedly grabbed Cheng Yi's arm, his knuckles turning slightly white from the force. "Is it a technique that comes with Iron Wire Fist? Or something you just practiced on your own later?"

Cheng nodded.

Yuan Long quickly pressed on, his tone as eager as a student seeking enlightenment: "Is the old man who taught you kung fu still alive? I really want to pay him a visit and learn from him."

Cheng Yi shook his head, his voice lowering: "He's long gone. He was almost ninety when he passed away."

Yuan Long sighed deeply, his voice filled with regret, as if he had lost a treasure: "What a pity... another reclusive martial artist has been lost. In this world, Iron Wire Fist with its accompanying breathing techniques is almost lost; it's truly a rare find."

Li Binbin leaned forward curiously and asked, "Big brother, is there a big difference between having breathing exercises and not having them?"

Yuanlong turned around and explained, "The difference is huge! There is a senior in Hong Kong named Qi Guanjun. You may not have heard of him, but in our martial arts circle, he is known as the 'Number One Hung Kuen Master'."

He practices Hung Kuen, which incorporates breathing techniques and emphasizes "cultivating internal energy and strengthening muscles, bones, and skin externally."

He's almost seventy now, but if you look at his photos, his hair is jet black and shiny, his posture is impeccable, and he looks like a young man in his thirties—very energetic. That's the power of internal martial arts; it nourishes qi and preserves youth.

"Wow—" The audience below the stage let out a unified exclamation, and their eyes looked at Cheng Yi with a sense of awe and curiosity, as if they were looking at a hermit with extraordinary skills.

It turns out that this seemingly ordinary young man actually possesses such formidable kung fu skills.

The air in the studio seemed to have changed, and even the lights shining on Cheng Yi seemed to be coated with a mysterious halo.

His fingertips gently caressed his cuff as he slowly spoke, his voice low but each word clear: "Not all boxing styles possess mysterious effects. Hung Kuen emphasizes self-cultivation and seeks enlightenment through boxing."

But Iron Wire Fist is different. From its inception, its essence has been a striking technique that directly targets vital points—its breathing methods are all for generating power, and have little to do with self-cultivation.

Before he could finish speaking, Brother Yuanlong's hearty laughter echoed throughout the room. He slapped the armrest of the sofa and pointed at Zhong Cheng and the others, laughing, "See? This is a true expert! He revealed the essence of Iron Wire Fist in just a few words."

"Come on, Cheng Yi, stop holding back, show us a couple of moves and let us see just how powerful the Internal Iron Wire Fist really is!"

The audience erupted in cheers, with spontaneous applause surging forth like a tidal wave.

Director Feng Dagang pushed up his glasses, his eyes filled with emotion: "I had long heard about the difference between internal and external martial arts, but seeing it with my own eyes in reality is a first for me."

Cheng Yi shook his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over the exquisite set on the stage, which the staff had spent several days building.

“I’d rather not practice on stage,” he said sincerely. “If I accidentally break the stage, it would be a waste of everyone’s hard work.”

After saying that, amidst the increasingly intense gasps of amazement from his mentors and the audience, he steadily walked off the stage, his black leather shoes making a crisp, clattering sound as they stepped onto the stairs.

"Wait!" Zhang Guoli suddenly stood up, a hint of excitement flashing in his eyes. "Should we ask the production team to find some brass rings? I saw masters of Iron Wire Fist in the movies, and they all had more than a dozen on their arms!"

Brother Yuanlong chuckled upon hearing this, then waved his hand to correct him, saying, "You've been fooled by movies and TV shows! In reality, there are two types of copper rings: hollow and solid. The hollow rings used in the movies are so light that you could easily wear twenty of them while punching."

But true practitioners know that being able to ring six solid rings is already considered a skill, and being able to ring ten is extremely rare.

Master Zhao Zhiling from Hong Kong, the one who played the Hung Gar Iron Wire Fist in "Kung Fu Hustle," is a great-grand-disciple of Wong Fei-hung. Even my senior brother learned from him, and he could only manage twelve solid rings.

At this point, he changed the subject and looked at Cheng Yi: "How many can you do when you practice?"

Cheng Yi stood on the hard floor tiles and gently stomped his foot, the sound steady and resonant.

“On the day I finished my apprenticeship, my master took the ring back,” he said calmly. “He said I no longer needed the copper ring to help me practice.”

"Why?" Brother Yuanlong asked, his eyes filled with doubt.

Cheng Yi did not answer immediately, but instead raised her hand to take off her coat, revealing a clean white shirt underneath.

He called out towards the backstage area, "Assistant, please get me my clothes."

Soon, a figure wearing a white shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap jogged out from backstage—the brim of the cap was pulled low, covering most of the face, but the slender figure still looked familiar to many people.

She took Cheng Yi's coat, turned and left without a word, her movements so swift and efficient that they were unlike those of an ordinary assistant.

Almost everyone's eyes were glued to Cheng Yi, except for Li Binbin, who glanced at the figure unintentionally. His pupils suddenly contracted, and he was about to speak, but he swallowed his words back. Only the surprise in his eyes deepened.

Cheng Yi crossed his arms across his chest, his originally gentle gaze instantly turning sharp as an eagle's, his tiger eyes wide open.

He spoke in a cold, soft voice, his tone carrying an undeniable authority: "Salute and raise your fist!"

As soon as he finished speaking, he moved, and a sudden gust of wind rose from his fist—

"Two tigers lie in wait!" He held his fists in front of his chest, lowered his center of gravity, and was like a tiger lying in wait, ready to pounce.

"Double swords cut the bridge!" His arms moved like swords drawn from their sheaths, slashing down with a slight whooshing sound.

"Old Monk Carrying a Load," "Great Immortal Bowing," "Qin Qiong Offering Copper," "Evil Eagle Swooping Down Its Prey"... Every move is fluid and graceful, each action so precise it seems as if measured with a ruler. It possesses both the power and ferocity of Iron Wire Fist and the composure of Internal Martial Arts.

Brother Yuanlong sat on the sofa, his brows furrowing deeper and deeper, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the armrest—he could clearly see that Cheng Yi's moves not only contained the essence of Iron Wire Fist, but also reached a level that ordinary practitioners could not achieve.

When Cheng Yi unleashed his final move, "Tiger's Roar and Dragon's Cry," he suddenly exerted force with both arms, and a series of crisp cracking sounds rang out—his shirt sleeves tore apart inch by inch from the elbows upwards, and white pieces of cloth fell like snowflakes, landing conspicuously on the floor tiles.

"Wow!" The entire audience erupted in cheers and exclamations.

This isn't special effects from a movie; it's a real scene unfolding right before your eyes!

Brother Yuanlong and Director Feng Dagang could no longer sit still. They jumped up from the sofa almost simultaneously. One rushed to Cheng Yi's side, grabbed his arm and examined it carefully; the other squatted down, picked up the piece of cloth from the ground, and ran his fingertips along the broken part, his eyes full of disbelief.

Although Zhang Guoli didn't get up, he leaned forward and asked in a trembling voice, "This is... a ripped shirt? No, it's a ripped sleeve?"

Brother Yuanlong stared at the taut muscle lines on Cheng Yi's arm, and muttered in disbelief, "This is... internal energy protection? No, it's external energy projection!"

He suddenly looked up and explained to everyone, "Gong Baotian, the number one martial arts master in the late Qing Dynasty, is said to be able to dodge bullets within ten meters and deflect them from ten meters away. He protected the young marshal unharmed in a hail of bullets, all thanks to his internal energy! But I always thought that was just a legend. Could it be... that the legend is true?"

These words caused an uproar, with a flood of discussion erupting and the air itself becoming sweltering.

Cheng Yi gently shook his head, his tone calm: "The protective energy does exist, but it's far from being as miraculous as the legends say, and the idea of ​​deflecting bullets is utter nonsense."

However, some martial arts masters can indeed dodge bullets using their superior physique and reaction speed.

Director Feng Dagang put down the fabric and sighed, "Cheng Yi, how many years did you practice to reach this level?"

“About fifteen years.” Cheng Yi smiled, then changed the subject, “However, training isn’t something you can achieve just by spending time – Brother Yuanlong is an expert, he should know this best.”

Brother Yuanlong quickly waved his hand, his face full of admiration: "I dare not accept such praise! You've shown me such skill, I dare not call myself an 'expert' in front of you."

"Oh," Zhang Guoli joked, "it's rare to see you so humble, brother!"

Cheng Yi chimed in at the opportune moment: "Brother, there's no need to be so modest. When it comes to practicing martial arts, talent, physique, comprehension, mindset, and methods and techniques are all indispensable."

Feng Dagang suddenly frowned and asked in confusion, "That's not right. I've never practiced martial arts, but I've always heard people say that 'practicing martial arts requires perseverance,' isn't that true?"

Cheng Yi looked at Brother Yuanlong and smiled as he spoke, "Brother, could you please explain this to me?"

Brother Yuanlong, without hesitation, cleared his throat and said, "'Perseverance is important' is true for ordinary people, but it's not enough for true martial arts practitioners."

There are geniuses in this world—take the Seven Little Fortunes for example. Yuen Wah was the most diligent in his training, but Master's favorite was Yuen Biao. Why? Because Yuen Biao's movements were the most precise. Whether it was fists, kicks, or weapons, his movements were exactly as Master taught him. Back then, everyone called him "Little Master."

He paused, recalling the scene from back then, and couldn't help but laugh: "Back then, after we finished learning the routines, we had to perform in front of our master. When it was our turn, the master could always find a bunch of faults—'This is not right,' 'The kick is too high,' 'The waist didn't sink down';

But when it came to Yuen Biao, his master only said one thing: "See? Do it like him!" Can you believe it? But there was nothing he could do, he just learned quickly and did it accurately.

What's even stranger is that the master didn't give him any special training. He learned and practiced with us, but his movements were always more precise than ours. When you asked him how he did it, he couldn't explain it himself.

“So,” Brother Yuanlong continued, “among us fellow apprentices, Yuan Biao was beaten the least. Sometimes he was even responsible for enforcing the family rules—Master would hand him the whip and say, ‘Hit this one, hit him a few times, hit him hard.’ We were all incredibly envious.”

Li Binbin suddenly realized and interjected, "So, talent is actually more important than perseverance?"

“That’s not quite right,” Brother Yuanlong shook his head. “Talent is important, but physique is just as crucial. Take Yuanhua, for example. He’s the best at somersaults among us brothers. When he was young, he had a nickname, ‘Somersault Hua.’ When Bruce Lee was filming, he always specifically requested Yuanhua as his stunt double for somersaults.”

Why? Because he was thin—he ate a lot but didn't gain weight. When I first met him, everyone called him "Pork Ribs Wah" (in Cantonese, "pork ribs" means "thin and weak"). Because of this lean physique, he could do somersaults quickly and steadily. We once counted for him on stage; he could do a hundred somersaults in a row and still look perfectly fine.

He looked at Cheng Yi with a serious expression: "So you see, the same master, the same kung fu, but different people learning it, the results are worlds apart. Cheng Yi, besides Iron Wire Fist, you must have also practiced hard qigong like Iron Shirt, right?"

Cheng nodded and readily admitted, "Big brother has a good eye; he has indeed practiced."

“I’ve seen you in the video,” Brother Yuanlong said, a hint of heartache flashing in his eyes. “You fell from a height of more than ten meters without any protective gear and landed directly on the ground—were you really not injured at the time?”

Cheng Yi recalled for a moment and said truthfully, "It would be a lie to say that I wasn't injured at all. I fell face up and hit my head so hard that it took two days for the bump to go down."