The memory unfolded on the outskirts of Chu Village. The air was frigid, the landscape bleak. Thirteen-year-old Zhu Mingyang raced toward their desolate, old wooden shed. "Mother... mother..." he called out, waving excitedly. He stopped, holding up his trophy. "Look at what I caught! We won't be hungry tonight. I'll cook for us."
He quickly moved to his mother, Zhu Lin, offering support as she struggled to stand. "Mother, come inside," he urged, gently walking her into the shelter. "Please, wait for me inside next time. The winter wind will make you even sicker."
Zhu Lin coughed, a painful, wet sound that she quickly tried to suppress with a smile. "Little fool," she whispered, her voice weak but kind. "I'm already sick. I need some fresh air while I still can."
For the next two days, a relentless, heavy snow lashed the old shed. They ran out of food completely, and the cold was unforgiving. Zhu Mingyang watched his mother, Zhu Lin, grow weaker, lying half dead in the straw bed. He felt her forehead; it was burning hot. Gently, he pulled the tattered blanket higher to cover her frail form.
Zhu Mingyang kissed her feverish forehead, his voice tight with resolve. "Mother, I will be back. I'm going to go into the village and see if I can find any work and buy some food for us."
Zhu Lin's eyes fluttered open. She spoke weakly, her voice barely audible. "Be careful. You can beg for food, but please, don't steal."
Zhu Mingyang smiled and kissed Zhu Lin's forehead. "I know, mother," he promised. He looked back at her once more as he walked out the door. Through the bitter cold, he saw his mother smiling with a beautiful, serene face, momentarily appearing as if she were not sick at all. A blast of frigid wind immediately struck, pouring cold air into his very bones, but he continued his slow, determined walk toward the town.
When he reached the bustling center, he walked straight to the imposing Lee Mansion. Swallowing the bitter taste of his pride, he raised his hand and knocked on the massive door. A door greeter emerged, instantly sizing up the ragged boy.
The greeter's tone was sharp and angry. "Stay here. You are not allowed to go inside."
After a tense wait, Chu Xue and his wife finally emerged. Chu Xue looked at the ragged boy with startling coldness. "What do you need this time?" he asked, his voice devoid of warmth.
Zhu Mingyang kept his gaze fixed on the ground, unable to meet the man's eyes. "My mother is very ill," he replied, his voice strained. "I want some money to buy medicine for her."
Madame Chu let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Every time you appear here is always related to money," she spat, drawing out her words with venom. "Every... single... time... you and your whore mother. Didn't you have the same hands and feet as everyone else?" Her tone pulsed with deep, bitter hatred for both the boy and Zhu Lin. "Do you think money grows on trees and can be so easily picked up?"
Zhu Mingyang stood motionless, silently enduring the torrent of abuse. He offered no defense, but his hands were clenched so tightly that his nails began to bite painfully into his palms, a physical manifestation of the fury he dared not release.
A faint look of discomfort crossed Chu Xue's face. He took out his money bag and moved to hand it to the door greeter, a sudden, fleeting gesture of charity. But Madame Chu was faster; she immediately snatched the money bag away.
She fixed Zhu Mingyang with a hateful stare. "If you want to beg for money, you need to be gentle or even kneel down," she sneered. "If you don't show compassion, how can we spare you any money?"
Zhu Mingyang met Chu Xue's eyes once—a fleeting glance of cold defiance—but said nothing. He knew that if he knelt, his mother might eat tonight. The internal battle was brief, life outweighed pride. He dropped heavily to his knees before Chu Xue and Madame Chu.
He lowered his head and performed the kowtow, his voice strained and quiet with desperate humiliation. "Please give me some money," he begged, his forehead touching the cold ground. "So that my mother can eat something tonight. Please give me some money."
Madame Chu took out a small handful of silver—six liangs and two taels. She fixed her gaze on the boy, her lip curling, and then, in a final, vicious act of degradation, she spit on the money in her hand and contemptuously threw the coins at Zhu Mingyang.
"This is the last time," she hissed. "Don't ever show your face here again. Tell your whore mother that if she doesn't want to see you humiliated like this again, she should hang herself and save you both from suffering." Her expression twisted into pure malice. "Don't think you can spend Chu's money at will. Always remember that you are the son of a whore, the nasty bastard unwanted son."
Zhu Mingyang picked up the small handful of silver, two taels and four liangs, and finally raised his eyes to glare at Chu Xue and Madame Chu—a single, silent flash of pure hatred—before turning and walking away. He bought medicine and some food in the village, then raced back toward the outskirts.
As he approached the small wooden shed, he stopped, forcing himself to calm down. He meticulously adjusted his clothes, ensuring they weren't inappropriate, then harshly wiped away his tears and fixed a forced, hopeful smile on his face. He exclaimed loudly, with false cheer, "Mother, I'm back! I found work today in town. I bought some medicine and a bowl of soup!"
He threw open the door. The bowl of soup and the medicine package immediately slipped from his numb fingers and dropped to the ground.
Zhu Mingyang's heart instantly froze. His beloved mother had hung herself inside the shed. He rushed to help her, but it was too late; she was already gone. He found a single letter on the table, left for him.
He read the words through blurring eyes:
"My beloved Ming'er," the familiar handwriting was shaky. "You are too little to find a job. I know that every time you went into town, you always went back to Chu Xue to beg for money. I'm so sorry for being the reason that he and his wife humiliated you."
The letter continued with her dying wishes, which became his life's code: "From now on, take care of yourself and never let anyone insult you again. Always remember not to shed your tears in front of others, because it shows them how weak you are. I will protect you from heaven."
After the local monks helped him bury his mother, Zhu Mingyang walked aimlessly. He saw a pregnant woman begging on the street, and she was a mirror of his own mother's suffering. He realized with crushing clarity the hardship his mother endured after Chu Xue had impregnated her and left her to fend for herself. He reached inside his robe, took out the last silver tael—the last piece of the humiliating money—and silently placed it into the woman's broken bowl.
The woman looked up, and the face that emerged was gentle and young. She gently shook her head, offering the silver back. "Xiao didi, take your silver back. I may be a beggar, but I can't accept so much money."
"You keep it," Zhu Mingyang insisted, his voice hollow. "You reminded me of my mother."
Li Liqin studied his face, sensing the depth of his pain. She then asked, switching abruptly to a practical concern, "Do you know where the Cao Manor is?"
Zhu Mingyang shook his head slowly. He had no knowledge of such grand households.
Li Liqin paused, and then, noting the boy's devastated appearance, asked the simple, cruel question: "Where is your mother?"
Zhu Mingyang met her gaze, his eyes hollowed by grief. "She is dead," he said quietly. "I just buried her."
"I'm sorry," Li Liqin whispered, her face etched with profound sympathy. She reached inside her robe and carefully pulled out a thin, aged booklet. She handed it to him.
Zhu Mingyang looked down and read the title: "Devil Fist."
"I saw you asking for money from that rich man and rude woman a few days ago," Li Liqin explained, her eyes hard. "Take this and practice it. It is a way to ensure no one can insult you again." She offered a final, serious caution: "Before you practice this, however, you must first master the basics of martial arts."