Ye Wen struck out, intending for the man to instinctively defend himself, allowing him to smoothly transition his attack and repel the man using the very variation the man had just employed.

However, he had forgotten that with his current level of power, even holding back and using only a fraction of his strength was more than these men could handle. The palm strike he launched actually carried an inherent wind pressure, which had already shocked the man senseless. At that moment, the man was simply frozen, unsure of what to do. It was fortunate that Ye Wen retracted his palm in time, so the strike never made contact.

Even so, the man stumbled back several large steps. The onlookers assumed he had been driven back by Ye Wen’s palm, but only he knew that Ye Wen’s strike had never touched him. Half of the distance he retreated was due to shock, and the other half, fear.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” The girl with the ponytail supported her friend and immediately checked on her, terrified that her close companion might have been injured. She saw that the clothing over her friend’s lower abdomen was tightly pressed against the body, even forming a distinct palm print. The girl gasped, “That’s powerful?”

Unexpectedly, her friend then said, “He didn’t hit me.”

“Then this palm print…”

“That was forced out by the pressure of his palm strike. He stopped before hitting me. I retreated so many steps because I was scared!”

At these words, the girl with the ponytail was even more horrified. She was certain her friend had been hit so hard she was concussed, otherwise, why would she say such nonsensical and illogical things? “Do you think this is a wuxia novel? You can press an imprint onto your body with just palm wind?”

The man fell silent, perhaps realizing that what had just happened was too incredible even for him to process. Yet, he knew his own body best; Ye Wen’s palm strike had definitely been withdrawn before impact.

As for the rest, he had also thought it through. Practicing the Borenda Palm for over a decade was not in vain. Although he was still unsure whether the correct emphasis was on raw power or variation, he suspected that even if he could have countered that initial strike, the subsequent variations, if delivered with the same force, would have likely resulted in his defeat.

“I still have one thing I don’t understand!”

Ye Wen nodded. “Ask.”

“You say the Borenda Palm emphasizes power, but why did my ancestor instruct his descendants to make the movements as fast and complex as possible?”

The transmission of martial arts, especially the core principles, rarely suffered complete loss. If the core concept was lost, it was no different from the complete disappearance of the entire secret art. Thus, while specific movements might be lost, the fundamental nature of the technique rarely changed drastically if it was passed down.

Ye Wen himself was initially unclear why this discrepancy occurred. However, he managed to deduce a few possible answers. One possibility was that the man's ancestor had not formally inherited the palm technique, perhaps having stolen it or glimpsed it elsewhere. Knowing only the surface movements without grasping the underlying principles, he had molded the Borenda Palm into its current form.

But this line of reasoning implied a slight insult to the man's ancestor, which was awkward to voice publicly. So, Ye Wen offered another plausible explanation: “Because moving faster and more complexly simply looks better.” He elaborated no further, and everyone immediately understood what Ye Wen meant: the man's ancestor might have fallen on hard times, resorting to performing martial arts for money. This would necessitate transforming the inherently profound and fierce Borenda Palm into something more flashy, and perhaps to ensure his descendants had a marketable skill, he had mistakenly passed down this altered version.

“This…”

Although it was all conjecture, it was plausible. Moreover, Ye Wen had just personally demonstrated the true might of the Borenda Palm, which the man had experienced firsthand. He knew he could never unleash such formidable power, and the moment Ye Wen struck, it gave him a feeling of innate correctness. Having trained for over ten years, the man possessed some martial intuition.

Thus, by this point, the man largely believed Ye Wen’s explanation, even feeling a sudden urge to return and re-evaluate his family’s inherited technique.

Seeing this, his companion, who had been knocked down alongside him, also stepped forward to seek guidance. “I wonder what is wrong with my ancestral staff technique?”

“That is not a staff technique. If I’m not mistaken, it should be a set of skills designed for the Shuo (spear-like weapon). You are using staff methods to execute a Shuo art, so naturally, it’s incorrect!”

Ye Wen did not use the Shuo, but in that other world, he had been a respected master associated with the imperial court. He had observed generals using the Shuo (as Pingzhou housed border troops) and had a general understanding of its application.

The Shuo is very similar to the Mao (spear); in fact, in early times, both terms referred to the same weapon before they gradually diverged into distinct arms.

The man’s stances and methods during his demonstration were clearly not those of staff work; they resembled mounted combat maneuvers. Unfortunately, what should have been a refined skill set had been forced into a staff routine, obscuring its subtleties. Furthermore, switching from mounted to ground fighting meant many movements were adjusted, losing their original impact.

Ye Wen initially felt something was off when watching, but he fully understood the origin of the technique only when he saw one specific move: the man executed a sweeping diagonal strike. On the ground, this might raise dust, but it differed from the dragging motion in staff work—it was clearly a downward diagonal slash from horseback. With this realization, the earlier strange movements all became clear, revealing the true lineage of the skill.

“This technique of yours is useless to practice but a pity to abandon. If you could find the original movements, it would be excellent, preserving a line of our ancestors' martial arts! Alas…”

The man then understood the purpose of Ye Wen’s earlier question before he stepped down: “Does your family have any other Da Chuan (great transmission) who taught you?” He realized Ye Wen had been inquiring whether the original form of the technique was preserved. At this thought, the man felt a pang of shame; he hadn't mastered his ancestor's excellent skill but had instead mangled it, truly disgracing his forebears. At this moment, he held no doubt, recalling something his grandfather often told him in childhood: "Our ancestors produced generals..."

Seeing that Ye Wen had calmed the agitated spirits of both men, the girl with the ponytail stopped causing a fuss. Instead, she grew curious how this young man, who looked her age, could be so skilled. He could even recognize the lineage of a technique that had been so thoroughly altered?

“Could he just be talking nonsense?”

The more she thought about it, the more plausible that seemed. However, since her two friends were not pursuing the matter, it seemed inappropriate for her to continue arguing. She stepped aside, watching Ye Wen continue interviewing the martial arts instructors, hoping to witness him make a fool of himself.

Fortunately, her two friends, despite failing the interviews, felt that staying offered a chance to learn and broaden their horizons. Seeing so many martial arts experts showcase their skills simultaneously was rare enough, let alone in person. Thus, they raised no objection to staying, and the group remained to observe.

Ye Wen spent half the day finishing the interviews for all the prospective martial arts instructors. However, a few individuals deeply annoyed him, particularly one man who claimed to have won regional Sanda (kickboxing) competitions and insisted Ye Wen’s recruitment process was rigged, demanding to know why he was rejected without even being watched simply upon stating his name.

“I teach traditional martial arts here; I do not teach Sanda!”

Internally, Ye Wen thought: What good would that teach? Am I supposed to instruct my disciples during a real fight to be mindful of the rules and avoid fouls?

“How are those flashy routines you just saw any better than what I learned?” This man was furious, and his outburst was a blanket insult that immediately drew the gazes of everyone present—gazes sharp as knives, seeming ready to flay him alive.

He realized his words had stirred public outrage, but since they were already spoken, he couldn't retract them. Being quick-witted, he shifted his target directly onto Ye Wen: “You seemed very capable just now. Come up and spar with me! I want to show you the power of Sanda!”

“Heh, what’s with today?” Ye Wen sneered. “Do I look like an easy target?”

He had only muttered this casually, not addressing anyone in particular, but several of the newly hired instructors happened to be standing nearby. Though not all were hulking figures, they displayed firm, well-defined musculature, especially when compared to Ye Wen…

“Principal! You look just like those delicate college students nowadays; you certainly don't look imposing…”

Someone, perhaps too glib, actually voiced this comparison. Those who already thought so could no longer restrain themselves, bursting into loud laughter. Ye Wen’s pale face instantly flushed red, transforming him from a delicate scholar into a robust, crimson-faced Guan Gong.

“Heh? Angry? If you’re angry, let’s spar!” This Sanda expert, named Guan Jie, casually tossed down his gear and bag, pulling out a pair of boxing gloves. “Need me to lend you a pair? Oh, right, your so-called Soft Palm probably doesn’t require these…”

“No need! Let’s fight like this!”

Seeing that the man did not know better, Ye Wen decided he shouldn't hold back. While he wouldn't kill the man outright with a sword, he certainly intended to make him suffer a little.

Having slightly sparred with a few others earlier, he had a general measure of his current force, knowing exactly how much strength to apply to avoid fatal injury. The two men stood opposite each other. Guan Jie tested the ground with tentative movements, stepping forward and back. He noticed Ye Wen remained motionless, hands naturally hanging at his sides, simply standing there.

“Tsk, trying to act like a master by just standing there?”

Wuxia novels often contained descriptions like this: Though the man stood casually, he seemed riddled with flaws. But when [the observer] looked closer, not a single opening could be discerned, leaving them unsure where to strike.

Guan Jie often read wuxia novels and was intimately familiar with such tropes. He had once fantasized about standing still and frightening away a crowd. But after years of training, he knew such things were nonsense. Ye Wen’s current posture wasn't without flaws; rather, he saw openings everywhere—so many that he didn't know where to begin attacking.

“What a perfect opportunity to hit him hard!”

Guan Jie suddenly lunged forward, throwing a straight punch with his left hand, immediately followed by a whip kick with his right foot. He was confident his lightning-fast straight punch would capture Ye Wen’s attention, and the subsequent whip kick would certainly embarrass him. Embarrassment was enough; striking too hard might bring trouble upon himself.

That was his plan, but he never expected that halfway through his punch, Ye Wen casually waved his hand, and the palm struck precisely the weak point of his arm, deflecting his straight punch aside.

With the first strike foiled, Guan Jie’s follow-up whip kick was thrown off balance. Because his body leaned heavily, the kick, originally aimed at Ye Wen’s lower body, swept upward toward Ye Wen's flank.

This happened too quickly for most onlookers to react. The kick was already beside Ye Wen, yet Ye Wen neither dodged nor retreated. He merely lifted his left hand slightly and brought it down gently.

Guan Jie felt as if an immense force had slammed into his right ankle. The searing pain disrupted his breathing, and the colossal impact drove his kicking leg back. That wasn't all; his entire leg threatened to swing backward. If he hadn't used the momentum of that force to regain his balance, abruptly halting his movement, Ye Wen’s single palm strike might have sent him tumbling head over heels.

Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He had watched clearly as Ye Wen struck his ankle, initially believing Ye Wen was merely blocking his kick. He hadn't anticipated such immense power from such a light tap. Had this man mastered the profound Cunjin (inch force) technique of internal martial arts, capable of erupting formidable power over an extremely short distance?

Though disbelief warred within him, everything that had just transpired proved it was reality. Moreover, the agonizing pain in his ankle made his footwork slightly erratic. If it was all fake, could the injury on his foot possibly be from a clumsy sprain?

Ye Wen casually neutralized Guan Jie’s attack with two palms, then stepped forward, closing the distance back to where they had been. He then delivered two successive palms. These strikes were not fast; they looked like two elderly men playing Tuishou (push hands). Guan Jie wondered what Ye Wen was doing, but in the blink of an eye, those seemingly slow palms had landed squarely on his shoulders.

Another wave of massive force struck. This time, Guan Jie couldn't hold on. After staggering back many steps, he plopped onto the ground, unable to rise.

The surrounding crowd rushed forward to look. On Guan Jie’s shoulders were two distinct handprints, looking as if someone had smashed him with bricks shaped like hands. Yet, Ye Wen’s two palms hadn't seemed forceful at all.

Everyone present understood martial arts to some degree, and with a moment’s thought, they grasped the crux of the matter. The Mian Zhang (Soft Palm) technique, when cultivated to its peak, could be both hard and soft, allowing the practitioner to deliver force with fluid control between the two. Ye Wen’s previous strike was clearly a technique that blended softness with underlying hardness—it looked gentle, but the force delivered was overwhelmingly fierce.

To achieve such a level of attainment meant one was a nationally recognized martial arts master, yet the principal hiring candidates was such an expert himself.

The already hired instructors looked on in astonishment. After exchanging glances, their attention settled on two of their members: one specialized in Wing Chun, known for its Cunjin, and the other in Mian Zhang. Setting aside the Mian Zhang practitioner, whose technique had similarities despite different forms, even the Wing Chun expert, whose inch force was world-renowned, looked incredulous. Judging by their expressions, neither could likely achieve the level Ye Wen displayed.

“What is the background of our Principal? How can his martial arts run so deep?”

While there were certainly individuals in the contemporary martial arts world who reached this degree of mastery, they were mostly famous figures or elderly grandmasters in their seventies or eighties. Ye Wen... although rumored to be over thirty, in the martial arts world, thirty was still quite young.

Ye Wen then spoke to Guan Jie, “The injury on your shoulder isn’t serious; you’ll recover after a couple of days of rest. It’s just that you won’t be able to use your arm for a few days! As for your ankle, it will be fine even if you ignore it.” Ye Wen only intended to teach the man a lesson and make him suffer a bit; he hadn't meant to injure him seriously.

Guan Jie now understood the gravity of the situation. He recognized he was facing a true martial arts master. He reflected on his earlier thought that Ye Wen’s casual stance was full of weaknesses—what an ignorant notion that had been!

At that moment, Ye Wen’s image overlapped with that of the legendary masters from countless wuxia novels. Guan Jie felt an overwhelming urge to become his disciple: “If I miss this chance, I might regret it for the rest of my life!” Unfortunately, his arms were too weak to allow him to stand, so he could only stare longingly at Ye Wen.

“What do you want to say?”

“I, I…” Guan Jie wanted to beg to be accepted as a disciple, but having just spoken disrespectfully, he doubted Ye Wen would accept him even if he asked.

However, Guan Jie was quick-witted. He remembered Ye Wen was planning to open a martial arts school. Why not enroll as a student? If he could constantly be around this master, perhaps Ye Wen would eventually take him on.

“I want to attend this school!”

This declaration stunned everyone, including Ye Wen, who hadn't anticipated such a response. But then he understood the man's cunning plan and inwardly cursed him for being clever, yet he didn't refuse. He merely stated calmly, “I am opening this school to take students. If you wish to enroll, you can register during the official admissions period.”

Unexpectedly, Guan Jie immediately followed up with, “Can’t I use a backdoor connection?” At this, everyone burst into laughter, thinking that seeking influence shouldn't be so blatant. However, this statement sparked an idea in the minds of several applicants who had just been rejected. They thought that even learning a fraction of Ye Wen’s skill would benefit them for life. Perhaps they, too, should try enrolling in the school, just like the Sanda practitioner.

Of course, not everyone shared this thought, but Ye Wen was surprised that before his school had even begun enrollment, a small contingent of students had already been secured.