The Fool

Lao Tan's Tea House

At around six or seven in the evening, Lao Tan's Tea House was at its busiest. The not-so-spacious first-floor dining area was crammed with a dozen or so tables, and each one was filled with small groups of people, chatting and eating.

"Excuse me, thank you. Here's your beef brisket clay pot rice."

A man in his fifties, dressed in a white waiter's uniform, weaved through the narrow gaps between the tightly packed tables, carrying trays of food, clearing dishes, and moving with a sense of urgency that left no room for a break.

In the small kitchen at the back of the tea house, a chef and a helper were also hard at work, frying and preparing dishes without a moment to spare.

The old-fashioned air conditioner hummed loudly, blowing cool air that struggled to combat the intense heat inside the bustling restaurant.

Ding-a-ling—

The glass door of the tea house swung open, and a short-haired man with a large backpack stepped inside.

He took a quick look around at the busy scene inside the tea house and walked directly to an uncleaned, vacant table. He casually tossed his backpack onto the seat and sat down with a calm expression.

The older waiter, who had just served a table, walked over to the short-haired man. He glanced at the man's simple, somewhat shabby attire and, without much thought, pushed aside the dirty dishes on the table and wiped it down roughly with a rag.

Taking out a notepad and a pen, he asked with a hint of impatience, "What do you want to order? There's a minimum spend of 40 HKD here."

The short-haired man picked up the rag that had been tossed on the table and carefully wiped it clean. Without lifting his head, he said, "Tell Jiang Pengyun that someone from Foshan is here to see him."

"You are—"

The older waiter, who had been somewhat inattentive, was taken aback by these words. His expression changed instantly as he put down his notepad and looked the man up and down, seemingly unsure.

"You're not mistaken."

The short-haired man finished wiping the table, then slowly raised his head.

"I see."

The waiter, in his fifties, said nothing more. He turned around and headed toward the counter to make a phone call.

"Wait—"

Before the waiter could leave, the short-haired man pointed to the menu on the wall. "Three orders of your signature beef brisket rice."

Half an hour later.

The once busy and noisy tea house was now empty. The kitchen was closed, and the "Closed" sign hung on the glass door.

Only the wrinkled old waiter stood silently behind the counter, watching as the short-haired man at the only occupied table ate his beef brisket rice at a leisurely pace.

Creak—

Outside the tea house, the screech of a car braking sharply broke the silence.

Moments later, the glass door opened again. An elderly man in traditional Chinese attire, who had previously been drinking tea on the third floor of the tea house, entered with two tall young men in suits.

Clatter—

As soon as they entered, the old waiter hurried to the entrance, pulled down the metal shutter outside the glass door, closed it, and then returned to his place behind the counter.

"Ah Wu, why didn't you let me know in advance that you were coming to Hong Kong? I could have sent someone to pick you up from Foshan," the elderly man in traditional attire said warmly as he walked over to the short-haired man, who was still eating at the table.

The short-haired man seemed indifferent to the elder's arrival. He waited until he had finished the last bite of his meal, wiped his mouth, and then casually said, "My master passed away six months ago."

"Uh—"

The elderly man looked momentarily stunned, then his expression turned somewhat melancholic. "I never thought your master, who lived such a humble life, would…"

He shook his head, sighing slightly, then looked at the short-haired man seated before him, a smile once again forming on his face. "Ah Wu, since you're here in Hong Kong, why not work with me? I could use someone of your skills right now. I promise you'll earn more in one year than you could in a lifetime in Foshan. With you, we could elevate He Yi Hall…"

"I think you misunderstand."

The short-haired man suddenly stood up, interrupting the elder. His eyes were level with the elderly man's as he spoke. "I said my master passed away. I am now the head of He Yi Sect. Whatever grudges exist from the previous generation are none of my concern. Whether you came to Hong Kong out of desperation to open a powder shop or out of greed to engage in harmful dealings, it has nothing to do with me. My master didn't clean up the sect back then, and I won't either. There's only one thing—"

His voice turned cold. "'He Yi'—those two words—you're not worthy of them. There is only one He Yi Sect in this world."

"Who the hell do you think you are? The Governor? You think we'll stop using the name just because you said so?"

Before the short-haired man could respond, a tall young man behind the elder pointed a finger at him, shouting disdainfully.

Whoosh—

The short-haired man moved like a blur. In an instant, he was right in front of the tall young man, grabbed his pointing finger, and snapped it with a loud crack.

The other young man, seeing this, hurriedly reached into his jacket for a Carl K9 pistol. But before he could raise it, the short-haired man was already there, twisting his wrist sharply. The man's wrist bone cracked, and the gun fell to the ground.

The elderly man in traditional attire, witnessing this, turned pale, his once sharp eyes now filled with a mix of anger and frustration. "Your master was like this, and you are too. But in this day and age, what can martial arts do? Open a martial arts school? Money is everything—don't you get it?"

The old waiter, who had been standing by the counter, had quietly moved beside the elderly man, holding a gun aimed at the short-haired man.

"You wouldn't understand, having given up all that once mattered," the short-haired man replied coldly, his eyes filled with disdain.

This disdain wasn't because the elderly man had chosen a life of crime or committed evil deeds, but rather because he had betrayed something sacred that the short-haired man held dear.

"Xiahou Wu, what do you really want here in Hong Kong? Just for the name 'He Yi Sect'? What can you do without money? This is Hong Kong, a capitalist society."

The elderly man, provoked by Xiahou Wu's gaze, suddenly erupted in anger, as if a nerve had been struck. He roared furiously.

Given his age and experience, he would never normally lose his composure like this.

But Xiahou Wu's gaze seemed to stir something deep inside him, bringing back memories from decades ago.

The memory of a young man practicing martial arts tirelessly under the scorching sun and heavy rain, a man who smuggled himself to Hong Kong and fought his way to success with nothing but his martial arts skills, evading capture when others were caught, eventually rising to power.

But at some point, indulgence had eroded his body, and martial arts training had become a distant memory.

Xiahou Wu paid no heed to the elder's outburst or the gun in the waiter's hand. It seemed he had no fear of being held at gunpoint. He calmly walked back to his seat, picked up his large backpack, patted it, and turned to leave the tea house.

Just as he reached the door, he paused, turned slightly, and his eyes blazed with determination.

"First comes fists, then kicks, followed by grappling; internal strength and weapons combined. There is no martial world left on the mainland—only in Hong Kong. I will topple the martial world of Hong Kong and restore He Yi Sect to its former glory, to be the best under heaven."

With that, Xiahou Wu opened the glass door of the tea house, lifted the metal shutter, and strode out into the chaotic neon-lit night market.

"You're a fool!"

Behind him, the elderly man in traditional attire could only scream in frustration, his voice filled with rage and helplessness.