"Zhou, you've trained before, haven't you?" Wan Qingping asked, narrowing his eyes.
Zhou Minghu shifted uneasily. "Yeah. Back in my village, lots of folks practiced martial arts. But I was born strong. The elders always said I had the talent. I trained hard-style, focused on brute force. I can smash a three-inch stone slab with my bare hands." He rubbed his palms nervously, like a boy caught in the spotlight.
Wan had suspected as much. The thick calluses covering the backs of Zhou's hands weren't from farm work—they were fighter's scars. Hearing Zhou's claim, Wan's heart skipped. Breaking three inches? That's beyond me. Hell, that's beyond my old master.
Still, he sneered inwardly. So strong, and yet starving with his old mother? What a waste.
Outwardly, Wan grinned and slapped Zhou's shoulder. He played the role of loyal brother, showering Zhou with generosity. The big man, too simple to question, was moved to tears. He swore allegiance on the spot, promising Wan a ladle of thick porridge every day.
Wan Qingping welcomed him gladly. He didn't want a friend—he wanted muscle. A man like Zhou, strong but naïve, could be molded into a perfect enforcer.
Why recruit him? Because Wan had already decided to return to his old trade. Honest work in the city paid little and broke the back. But with a crew, with a reputation, he could make real money—guarding shops, settling scores, extorting protection fees. One man was nothing. A crew was power.
Over the next few days, Zhou Minghu lived like he'd stepped into a folktale. Meat buns every day, the shopkeepers bowing and smiling as though grateful to give them away. At the porridge lines, Wan's younger brother strolled past the crowd and walked off with a bucket full of thick gruel—no questions asked.
Zhou's jaw nearly hit the ground. Who is this man I call big brother? Some hidden master? A hero from the storytellers' tales?
Then one afternoon Wan came limping, his face dark as storm clouds.
"Minghu," he said, voice low, "are you really my brother?"
"Of course!" Zhou thumped his chest like a war drum. "I swore loyalty. We're brothers till death."
Wan dropped his gaze. "Your brother just got beaten."
Zhou's eyes went wide. "Wh-what? Should we… talk to the man? Ask him to be fair?"
Wan nearly spat blood. Talk? If talking worked, why would anyone need fists?
"Forget it," he muttered. "Your brother got humiliated, that's all. Nothing to be done." He turned away like a man broken.
"No!" Zhou grabbed him, panicked. "Tell me what to do! Just say it!"
Wan whirled back, eyes blazing. "I've never swallowed such shame. If you're truly my brother, then when I recover, you'll come with me. We'll settle this. Do you dare?"
Zhou's face flushed red. He stammered, but the words were steady: "Wh-what's there to fear? Big Brother, I'll go with you!"
Wan's expression softened into a smile. He clapped Zhou's shoulder hard. "That's my brother. If I eat, you'll eat. If I get meat, you'll never be left with broth."
Zhou's chest swelled with gratitude. He thought of the meals his mother had eaten thanks to Wan, the meat buns he'd tasted for the first time in his life. He could never forget that kindness.
"But…" Zhou scratched his head, embarrassed. "I've never… fought anyone. How do we do it?"
Wan froze, staring at him as though he'd grown a second head. Never fought anyone? Even children fight.
Over the next two days, as Wan nursed his bruises, he began teaching Zhou the art of violence. He showed him where to hit to cause pain but not death, where to strike to leave hidden injuries, and how to use fear as a weapon. Zhou Minghu was about to learn what it meant to fight in the real world.