Several days had passed since the unexpected encounter with the gray wolf. Zhao Huang's quiet, solitary life had completely changed. Now, there was another movement in his journey: the wolf's improving, heavy breath, the sound of its three paws on the ground, and occasional weak barks as a warning or just to communicate. Zhao Huang, who couldn't give it a name aloud, in his mind had started calling it Hu, the Mandarin word for wolf. It was simple, easy to remember, and felt... right.
They were camped in a small cave, sheltered from the increasingly biting night wind. The night sky was "normal" again—one silver moon and twinkling stars. A small campfire, the fruit of Zhao Huang's now more honed skill, burned steadily, illuminating the cave with a warm light that danced on the stone walls. Hu lay across the fire, its injured hind leg neatly wrapped with fresh cloth bandages. Its wound was healing at an impressive rate, a sign of the strong vitality of a wild creature. Its yellow eyes, once filled with pain and fear, now often rested on the hooded figure across the fire, full of curiosity and a kind of deep recognition. It no longer kept its distance. Sometimes, it even slept just a few meters from Zhao Huang, a sign of trust that made the skull himself feel strange.
That day, with surprising agility despite having only three legs(Because one of his legs is still injured), Hu had managed to bring down a fat, careless rabbit. It brought its prey and laid it before Zhao Huang, its tail wagging slowly, a clear gesture of offering.
For me? Zhao Huang thought, feeling slightly touched. Or do you want me to cook it?
He took the rabbit. His bony hands skillfully skinned and cleaned the animal with a small knife he had made from a piece of the wolf snare's steel. He had no sense of smell or taste, no saliva to drool at the scent of fresh meat. This process was purely mechanical, a task to be completed. He impaled the cleaned rabbit meat on a stick and propped it over the fire. The delicious aroma of roasting meat soon filled the cave. Hu sat up straight, its eyes shining, its tongue lolling out dripping with saliva. It let out a small, enthusiastic snort.
After the meat was perfectly cooked, Zhao Huang placed the whole thing in front of Hu. "Eat," he thought, a silent command.
Hu devoured it ravenously, crunching the bones with its strong teeth. Zhao Huang watched, a strange sense of satisfaction flowing through his consciousness. Even though he himself couldn't experience the pleasure of eating, being able to provide food for another creature, for his "friend," gave him a small sense of purpose. It was a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time—the feeling of being responsible for and protecting something weaker. The last time he'd felt it was for Zhao Lei and Zhao Mei, his younger siblings.
After Hu finished eating and cleaned itself, then fell into a deep sleep near the fire, Zhao Huang drew his old sword. In the firelight, the rust on its blade was more apparent, as was its dulled edge. It was a pathetic weapon. But it was the only weapon he had. He turned it over in his hand, feeling its poor balance and uneven weight. An unreliable weapon in a world full of danger.
I can't keep relying on luck, he thought, looking at the sleeping Hu. The encounter with Hu was luck. But one day, I will face something more dangerous. And this body of mine... is fragile.
He stood up, moving away from the fire so as not to disturb Hu. He gripped the sword tightly. His body was a major disadvantage. No muscles to provide power, no tendons for flexibility, no smooth joints for fluid movement. Every movement was a risk. A misplaced strike could crack or even break his bony hand. But he had to adapt. That's what he had always done.
His mind drifted to the past, to the days when his power extended to South Korea. As part of building relationships with gang bosses there, he hadn't only dealt with dark business. He had also shown an interest in their culture, including martial arts. He remembered his visit to a hidden Haedong Gumdo dojo in the mountains near Seoul. An old master, respected by the local gang boss, had personally demonstrated its techniques—wide, sweeping movements, powerful, deadly cuts, the philosophy of "cutting" with a single strike.
He also remembered, in his youth in China, before his life fell apart, he had occasionally watched elders practice Tai Chi with wooden swords (Taijijian) in the park. Their movements were slow, circular, full of energy flow and the use of momentum, not muscular strength. And of course, in his own street fights, he had developed an intuitive understanding of how to use a knife or short sword—quick, accurate, and deadly strikes, often aimed at tendons or arteries, ending fights swiftly.
His knowledge was a mixture: the power and precision of Haedong Gumdo, the flexibility and philosophy of Jianshu, and the brutal efficiency of his own street experience.
But all those techniques were designed for living bodies, with muscles, joints, and dynamic balance. His body now was a fragile, rigid structure. He couldn't perform quick slashes or powerful chops. It would shatter him to pieces.
So, he had to create something new. Or perhaps, adapt the old.
His main principle was: Minimize impact. Maximize efficiency. Use momentum, not strength.
He started with his stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent—a stable basic posture. He held the sword with both hands—his right bony hand on the hilt, his left supporting the base of the hilt for control. He couldn't generate power from his back or waist, so he had to use his entire body structure as one rigid unit, pivoting from the ankles (which were fragile!), shifting his weight (which was light) to generate force.
His first attempt was a simple horizontal slash. He twisted his torso, trying to swing the sword. The result was a slow, stiff, powerless movement. The sword barely moved, and he felt a "noisy" sensation in his hip joints, like bones grinding harshly. This won't work, he thought in frustration. A movement like that would only leave him open for a counterattack and damage his own body.
He tried variations. A straight thrust. But without muscles in his shoulder and arm, the thrust was weak and inaccurate, like a stick being pushed rather than a deadly stab. A vertical downward chop. He tried using gravity, dropping his weight forward. But his coordination was poor. He almost fell over, and the sword plunged uselessly into the ground, nearly hitting his own foot. Each failure was accompanied by creaking and grating sounds from his body and weapon, a constant reminder of his limitations.
Hu was awakened by the noises. It lifted its head, looking at Zhao Huang with its head tilted, as if asking, What are you doing, Strange Master? Then, it laid its head back on its front paws, watching him with one half-open eye.
Zhao Huang paused. He was frustrated, but didn't give up. He observed his sword, then his own body. I am weak. I am fragile. But I am also light. And... I don't get tired. That was his only advantage. He had no muscles to tire, no lungs to run out of breath. He could practice forever, in theory.
He remembered the principle of Tai Chi: "Use four ounces to deflect a thousand pounds." It was about redirecting, absorbing, and using the opponent's force against them.
He tried a different approach. Instead of slashing or thrusting, he focused on small, quick, precise movements. He imagined himself not as a swordsman, but as a street thug with a razor—dangerous not because of his strength, but because of his accuracy.
He held the sword closer to his body, almost like an extension of his forearm. Instead of swinging from the shoulder, he tried pivoting from the wrist—a smaller, more controlled movement. He practiced making short, quick thrusts, like a snake striking. His movements were still stiff, but more directed. He practiced deflecting imaginary attacks with the tip of his sword, using the momentum of the opponent's strike to deflect it, then countering with a short thrust to a "weak point"—the eye socket, throat, between the ribs.
One of the most promising movements was a variation of the "soft parry" concept in Jianshu. Instead of blocking an attack head-on, he would let his sword "stick" to the opponent's weapon (in his imagination), following the flow of its movement for a moment, then launching a short counter-thrust when an opening appeared. It required perfect timing and sensitivity, something he could practice endlessly.
It wasn't perfect. Far from it. But it was a start. A style designed not for strength, but for endurance and precision. A style for one who never tired and feared no death, because he was already dead.
He paused, "looking" at the sword in his hand. A name popped into his mind, so silly and childish he almost "smiled"—a strange sensation in his consciousness.
Blind Shark Eyes From Shenzhen.
"Shark Eyes" was his old nickname, the "Shark of Shenzhen". And now, he was blind, in the sense of having no physical eyes. But his sensory "sight" gave him a unique awareness of his surroundings. And his new technique was about observing, waiting, and then striking with deadly precision at weak points, like a shark sensing vibrations in the water before biting.
It was a stupid name. But it was his name. A link between his dark past and his absurd present existence.
He continued his practice. Now with a name and a concept, his training became more focused. He repeated those small movements hundreds of times: wrist-thrusts, subtle turns of the blade, minimal shifts of weight. The "click-clack" and creaking sounds from his body became a constant rhythm, a background music for his silent training. Hu seemed to grow accustomed to the sound and eventually fell back asleep, snoring softly.
Zhao Huang practiced until the moon began to set and dawn approached. No sweat, no labored breath. Just ceaseless movement, a resolve hardening in the quiet of the night.
As he rested for a moment, "gazing" at the brightening sky, his mind wandered. He remembered his early days in Shenzhen, practicing fighting in dark alleys. Every bruise, every cut, was a lesson. He remembered how he studied his opponents' fighting styles, adapted his own techniques, became better, stronger, more ruthless.
Now, he was doing it again. From scratch. In a body a thousand times weaker than his youthful one. But the spirit was the same. The spirit to survive, to adapt, to conquer challenges.
He looked at the still-sleeping Hu, then at the old sword in his hand. A new life, a new challenge, a new technique. The mystery of this world was still vast, but for the first time since he had awakened as a skull, he felt... not entirely powerless. He had a goal: to master his new body. And he had a friend, a presence that lessened his eternal loneliness.
He stood up, ready to continue the journey as the sun rose. Today, they would keep exploring. And along the way, he would keep practicing his "Blind Shark Eyes From Shenzhen". It was a ridiculous beginning, but for Zhao Huang, every beginning was a step towards the peak of the chain. And he was used to climbing from the bottom towards the very bottom.