Chapter 71: An Entertainment Empire of One's Own

Compared to the shock that gripped the others, what Yu Yi heard was something altogether different. His temperament was inherited from his family, particularly from his father and uncle, Yu Chenhui—both martial arts fanatics. Discovering that Kunal was every bit as obsessed with martial arts as himself, Yu Yi felt as though he’d found a kindred spirit. “Perfect! You won’t regret following me. From now on, my martial arts school is open to you—come and go as you please. Challenge anyone you like for a match, including me!”

But Kunal merely scoffed. “Maybe when you’ve mastered the Thirty-Six Forms of Flowing Fists. The only opponents I’m interested in are those trained by my master. Only then does a duel have meaning.”

Yu Yi, naturally, wasn’t about to accept such disdain and immediately fired back with a sharp retort. The two were caught in a heated argument when Wang Huansheng quietly turned to Liu Qingshan with a question. “The Thirty-Six Forms of Flowing Fists? I’ve never heard of it, Shan. Is it your own secret technique? Is it powerful?”

He had only heard a vague mention from Park Hyejin earlier and wasn’t sure of Liu Qingshan’s true abilities.

Before Liu could reply, Mao Shaochong chimed in from the other side. “Lawyer Wang, Shan is no ordinary man. You have no idea how formidable his skills are. Let me put it this way—you know my master, right? He’s probably the only real grandmaster of our time. Yet he himself says Shan’s martial arts surpass his own. Otherwise, why would he send me and my senior brother to stay by Shan’s side?”

This time, Wang Huansheng was genuinely stunned. Having been part of the entertainment circle for years, he knew plenty about the martial arts world. Yu Chenhui might not be widely known among the general public, but to Wang, his name was legendary. Even as an outsider, Wang knew enough to realize Yu Chenhui was someone whom all the top kung fu masters from Hong Kong paid their respects to whenever they visited the mainland.

If what Mao Shaochong said was true, then having met Liu Qingshan so early in life was nothing short of a tremendous stroke of luck. Such a figure represented a future network of unimaginable influence—far beyond the reach of any ordinary actor.

Recalling Park Hyejin’s previous suggestion, the young lawyer suddenly felt as though he’d experienced a revelation, a moment of utter clarity.

No one else noticed his inner turmoil, least of all Mao Shaochong, who continued to reshape Wang’s understanding.

“As for the Thirty-Six Forms of Flowing Fists,” Mao went on, “let me explain why Kunal is only interested in facing martial artists who possess this skill. It’s because this is a form that transcends any known technique. It’s so advanced that it allows its user to transform their fists and palms into blades and swords at will. It’s an interplay of weapon and force, real and illusory—a single move radiates overwhelming menace, several times sharper than any ordinary technique.”

Even if Wang Huansheng couldn’t fully grasp it, he understood the terrifying potential of turning empty-handed techniques into weapon forms at a moment’s notice.

After all, every martial art in the world is made up of fixed routines, which are then adapted in actual combat. But neither Wang nor Park Hyejin could comprehend what it meant for a fist or palm form to manifest as a blade or sword.

Sensing their confusion, Mao Shaochong smiled. “You know how magicians work, right? A true magician’s sleight of hand is invisible to the untrained eye. The Thirty-Six Forms of Flowing Fists are like that—so fast, so seamless, it’s as if something appears out of thin air. Imagine facing such an opponent—how would you defend yourself?”

“How does one transform empty hands into weapons?” Park Hyejin couldn’t help but ask.

“It’s the same principle. The Thirty-Six Forms allow the wielder’s weapons to appear and disappear like magic. Of course, right now, only Shan can truly do it. The rest of us can only imitate the forms he’s created, but even then, it’s far more wondrous than any weapon technique currently taught.”

“As far as I know, Master Yu’s Drunken Sword is legendary,” Wang Huansheng reminded him.

Mao Shaochong shook his head. “That’s not entirely accurate. My master’s Drunken Sword became famous because of the movies. In truth, his real specialties are the Double-handed Sword and Fin Blade. But according to the old man himself, the nameless sword technique Shan created has already surpassed the very concept of swordsmanship. It’s not just ingenious and unpredictable—the key is, it’s a true killing art.”

This statement shocked Wang Huansheng. He knew the difference between traditional martial arts and free fighting. It’s not that one is inherently superior—traditional arts focus on building strength and health, while free fighting emphasizes combat practicality.

Take, for instance, masters of Iron Palm and Iron Shirt—they practice against inanimate objects every day, but in a real fight, they’re often left at a disadvantage, sometimes unable to last a single round before being knocked out by a free fighter. Wing Chun is the same—training against wooden dummies looks impressive, but a wooden dummy doesn’t move, doesn’t dodge.

At this point, Liu Qingshan, who had been silent, spoke up. “Traditional martial arts do have their strengths, but their fatal flaw is focusing solely on inner strength, neglecting technique. It’s an undeniable fact that most martial artists lack real combat skills. The training system can’t keep up with the demands of real fighting. My techniques aren’t just practical—they’re lethal.”

Yu Yi added, “Even if you have decades of practical experience, you can’t always be invincible in a fight to the death; a single misstep can be fatal. Every move Shan makes is a lethal sleight of hand.”

Before he knew it, Wang Huansheng found himself drenched in a cold sweat. Even Park Hyejin, who knew little about martial arts, began to feel physically uneasy.

“There are ancient martial arts that can kill in a second—take Batto-jutsu, for example, a sword art that focuses on drawing and cutting down an enemy in a single, lightning-fast motion. Legend has it that a single strike never failed to kill. But that skill has been lost to history. The Thirty-Six Forms of Flowing Fists are a similar lost art, incomprehensible to ordinary people.”

Liu Qingshan wasn’t boasting for the sake of it; he only emphasized these points to subtly raise his stature in the eyes of those around him—or, one could say, to make his presence felt.

It’s like putting harsh truths on the table—sometimes, a display of power is necessary.

What is authority? Prestige and credibility—establishing authority breeds trust, and with trust comes respect.

But to win respect and admiration, a person must possess abilities and qualities others believe to be beyond their reach.

It was this advantage, like being reborn, that made Liu Qingshan vow to establish his own entertainment empire in the near future.

But such an empire could never be built by one man alone.

Thus, choosing the right loyal ministers and formidable generals became the top priority.

To forge a team for the future, he would have to command abilities so extraordinary that his followers would rally devotedly around him.

This truth had come to him months ago; now he was simply taking it step by step, putting his vision into practice.