52: Chapter 52 Post-match interview: "I practice Chinese martial arts."

The blue brick dust in the training hall had not yet settled when thirty spotlights suddenly descended from above, weaving a golden cocoon around Chen Wu.

When the CCTV reporter's microphone, still warm, was extended toward him, the camera captured the remnant blue-gold dust in the crevices of his fists—these were fragments of the "Wind-Character Brick," shimmering under the intense light like crushed stars.

"Mr. Chen Wu," the reporter's voice trembled uncontrollably. In her earpiece, the director was roaring: "We are broadcasting live to 56 media outlets worldwide! The ratings have broken records!" But when her gaze met Chen Wu's calm eyes, all the agitation suddenly settled. "That 'Crushing Fist' of yours just now was called 'Oriental Mysterious Power' by foreign netizens. What is your take on this?"

Chen Wu's fingertips gently twisted on the microphone, causing the blue-gold dust to fall in a flurry, tracing a fleeting arc before the lens.

"It is not a mysterious power." His voice traveled through the speakers to every livestream room, carrying the unique resonance of "Brute Force," causing a slight hum in the earpieces of 220 million viewers worldwide. "It is 'Penetrating Energy' in Chinese Martial Arts. Just like sunlight passing through glass, it looks magical, but it is actually traceable."

Grandpa Wang's bronze statue suddenly lit up in the background. The old man sat in the shadows, the glow from his dry tobacco pipe contrasting with the spotlights. As the reporter's camera swept past, he suddenly raised his cup in Chen Wu's direction—the Mars from the pipe bowl fell, scorching a small "Wu" character into the ground, perfectly overlapping with the pattern formed by the blue brick dust.

In front of the big screen at the Tokyo Martial Arts Hall, Master Kimura suddenly stood up. When Chen Wu uttered the words "Penetrating Energy," the *Essentials of Baji Fist* on his knees suddenly flipped open on its own. On a blank page, a three-hundred-year-old Japanese annotation appeared: "Tang Hand (an ancient name for Martial Arts) has three energies: wrapping like cotton, winding like vines, and penetrating like light."

The old man bowed deeply to the screen, and the Disciple behind him knelt in unison. As their foreheads touched the ground, the wooden swords in the hall suddenly unsheathed in unison, their ringing resonating across the ocean with Chen Wu's voice.

The *New York Times* reporter's question was like an ice-quenched dagger: "Your video of breaking bricks just now sparked controversy overseas. Some scientists believe this is a performance that violates the laws of physics. Can you explain the existence of 'Qi Energy' using science?" His pen tapped against his notebook with a steady rhythm, as if timing the skepticism.

Chen Wu's Qi Energy shifted slightly in his Dantian, and the halo of the spotlight suddenly condensed into a blue-gold ball in his palm.

"Do you believe in the existence of electromagnetic waves?" He slowly pushed the ball of light toward the reporter but stopped three inches away. "Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it doesn't exist. Qi Energy is just another form of energy, much like the Yin and Yang fish in the Taiji diagram. Science will eventually explain it, but for now, you can choose to believe your own eyes."

The moment the ball of light dissipated, the reporter's pen suddenly sprang from her hand, spinning three times in the air before falling—this was a small demonstration Chen Wu performed using "Winding Energy," yet it caused the entire audience to gasp. Slow-motion footage showed that the trajectory of the pen's rotation was exactly the same as the spiral of Qi Energy when Chen Wu broke the "Water-Character Brick."

The editor-in-chief of a Brazilian fighting magazine suddenly stood up, his gold watch flashing blindingly under the lights: "Would you be willing to fight a UFC champion? We can offer a $100 million appearance fee." This question caused the number of online viewers in the livestream room to instantly exceed 230 million, and gamblers in the live chat began placing wild bets.

Chen Wu's gaze fell on the veterans in the corner of the training hall. Zhao Lao was using the tip of a bayonet to draw a Taiji diagram on the ground, and the moss in the brick crevices was picked up, pulling out green silk threads in the sunlight.

"The purpose of Martial Arts is not to defeat anyone." His voice suddenly rose, the Qi Energy causing ripples on all the microphones. "Just like this veteran using a bayonet to defend the country, it is not for killing, but for protection."

The veterans suddenly raised their bayonets in unison, the blades forming a wall of silver light. Zhao Lao's voice carried the scent of gunpowder: "Back then, when we used this stuff to fight with bayonets, we were also practicing Martial Arts! It's called 'Military Fist.' Anything that can protect the country is good Kung Fu!"

His blade suddenly pointed to the sky, sunlight flowing along the edge, casting a huge shadow of the character "Wu" behind Chen Wu.

The Al Jazeera reporter's headscarf was still stained with fine desert sand: "There are many children in war-torn regions of the Middle East practicing Martial Arts to protect themselves. Can you give them some advice?" In her camera lens, the background blue brick dust was forming a migrating camel caravan in the breeze, as if telling the story of the suffering of displacement.

Chen Wu's Qi Energy suddenly spread through the lens. In the global broadcast, signals in all war-torn areas were covered in blue-gold. "Remember," his voice carried unprecedented tenderness, "fists are used to protect the people in your arms, not to smash down on the weak. True Martial Arts gives you the courage to say 'No,' not the confidence to bully others."

The satellite signal in the African refugee camp suddenly stabilized. The children formed a circle holding branches, practicing the "Stamping and Grinding Step" toward the phone screen. The youngest boy treated the branch like a bayonet, clumsily imitating Zhao Lao's posture. When Chen Wu's voice came through, they all stopped in unison and shouted in broken Chinese: "Chinese Martial Arts!"

The sharpest question came from an anonymous reporter's note, hurriedly handed to the stage by the staff: "Some say you are using 'Qi Energy' modified by modern technology, not traditional Martial Arts. How do you respond to this?" This question was like a thunderclap, causing the live chat to instantly split into two factions, and the war of words between supporters and skeptics exploded on the screen.

Chen Wu suddenly walked to Grandpa Wang's bronze statue, placing his palm on the cold base. The blue-gold Qi Energy moved along the statue, and the fist marks from three hundred years ago suddenly lit up, creating a chain reaction with the wooden dummy in the training hall, the veterans' bayonets, and Li Meng's peace lock—all items related to Martial Arts around the world glowed at this moment.

"This is the residual Qi Energy from three hundred years ago." He pointed to the glowing patterns on the statue. "Technology will advance, but the soul of Martial Arts has not changed. Just like this statue, having weathered storms, it still stands here."

When he turned around, a holographic projection of a virtual martial arts manual suddenly appeared in the air. The image of a Qing Dynasty Martial Master overlapped with Chen Wu, both striking a "Crushing Fist" simultaneously, the trajectory of their Qi Energy perfectly overlapping, causing all questioning voices to get stuck in their throats.

The reporters' questions gradually softened, like sunlight piercing through clouds after a rainstorm. A Japanese housewife asked how to teach children to practice Taiji; a Brazilian farmer wanted to know if "Winding Energy" could be used to pick coconuts. Most moving was a video connection with a Syrian girl, her headscarf still stained with dust, yet she said in fluent Chinese: "My father taught me 'Cloud Hands,' saying this is a gesture of peace."

Chen Wu's Qi Energy was suddenly sent through the lens, and blue-gold light spots followed the signal waves into the refugee camp's mobile phones. The girl's headscarf suddenly moved without wind, forming a small Taiji diagram above her head. From the surrounding artillery shells, tender green grass sprouts actually emerged—this was a miracle of life catalyzed by Qi Energy, leaving 250 million viewers worldwide silent simultaneously.

The last question came from the CCTV reporter, her eyes red: "Can you tell the whole world, what exactly is it that you practice?" This seemingly simple question made all the cameras hold their breath, and even Grandpa Wang's dry tobacco pipe stopped in mid-air.

Chen Wu's gaze slowly swept across the venue: the blue brick dust under the spotlights, the veterans' bayonets, the faces of different skin colors on the screens, and finally landing on the blue-gold patterns on his own palms.

Qi Energy surged within him, like the Yangtze and Yellow Rivers flowing through his Bloodline. Three thousand years of martial arts history suddenly unfolded in his mind, from the cold light of bronze swords to the softness of the Taiji diagram, from the shouts on the battlefield to the morning practice in the martial arts hall.

He took a deep breath, his voice not loud, but it exploded in every corner like a thunderclap: "What I practice is, Chinese Martial Arts."

The moment the five words were spoken, the wooden dummy in the training hall suddenly shattered, and the fragments of the century-old stake condensed into a huge Taiji diagram in the air; Grandpa Wang's bronze statue shot out a beam of light into the sky, engraving the "Wu" character on the clouds; the screens of 250 million viewers worldwide lit up simultaneously, and the barrage of "Chinese Martial Arts" in different languages formed a river of light crossing continents.

The veterans in the nursing home suddenly began to sing military songs, the rhythm of bayonets tapping on the ground perfectly synchronized with Chen Wu's Qi Energy; in Li Meng's hospital room, the red string of the peace lock suddenly straightened, projecting the four seal characters for "Chinese Martial Arts" onto the ceiling; Master Kimura of the Tokyo Martial Arts Hall bowed to the screen, his forehead knocking onto the *Essentials of Baji Fist*, and the Japanese annotations were gradually covered by Chinese characters.

Chen Wu bowed deeply to the camera, the blue-gold Qi Energy flowing with his movements, forming a flowing river in the global broadcast—the upstream was the sword light and shadows of the Old Ancestor, the middle stream was the bayonets and bandages of the veterans, and the downstream was the tender figures of children holding branches.

When he straightened up, he found that his fist was tightly pressed against Zhao Lao's bayonet. The bullet marks on the veteran's blade and the calluses on his fist formed a peculiar medal in the sunlight. This might be the true meaning of Chinese Martial Arts: it is not a performance for self-admiration, but a spark passed down through generations; it is the river in the Bloodline of every Chinese person, capable of breaking bricks and cracking stones, yet also gentle as water; it can resist foreign insults, and it can also embrace the world.

The final frame of the broadcast was a huge Taiji diagram composed of barrages sent spontaneously by global viewers. The Yin fish was filled with the character "Hard," and the Yang fish was filled with the character "Soft," while the center of the Taiji diagram was the reflection of those five words from Chen Wu, shining with golden light, heavier than a thousand catties.

The spotlights in the training hall slowly extinguished, leaving only the blue-gold Qi Energy in Chen Wu's palm still pulsing. He knew that this interview would not change all the skepticism, but at least it let the world see: Chinese Martial Arts is not a specimen in a museum, not a fantasy in a Wuxia novel, but a living Legacy; it is a power that can shatter prejudice and illuminate hearts, just like the light in his palm at this moment—small, yet firm.

The sunset outside the door was just right, stretching Chen Wu's shadow long, merging with Grandpa Wang's bronze statue, the veterans' bayonets, and the blue brick dust. On the bluestone slab, they formed a huge "Wu" character—the radical on the left is a blade, the radical on the right is to stop, as if saying: The ultimate meaning of Martial Arts is to stop fighting and protect peace.