Chapter Forty-Seven: Teetering and Tumbling Through the Drunken Fist (First Update)

Wang Ling was eager to win Cheng Fu over, and Wang Long, who had once been a bandit himself, felt an instant kinship upon witnessing Cheng Fu’s uninhibited, wolfish appetite. He noticed the shopkeeper’s anxious gaze from behind the counter, so he strode over, grabbed a large sea bowl, filled it to the brim, and slammed it down in front of Cheng Fu with a resounding thud. “Good lad, you’re straightforward—come, drink!”

Cheng Fu, who ran a modest vegetable stall by the docks, barely made enough to get by; drinking was a luxury, and he certainly couldn’t afford meat. Even peanuts or other snacks to accompany his liquor were beyond his means. Now, faced with a table laden with dishes, including a whole braised chicken, he could not resist. His nature was unrestrained; upon hearing the invitation, he rushed over without a second thought and devoured two chicken legs before pausing to catch his breath.

Smacking his lips and licking the oil from his mouth, Cheng Fu saw the massive bowl of liquor before him and burst out laughing. “All right, bottoms up!” That sea bowl held nearly a pound of strong spirits. Cheng Fu lifted the bowl, straightened his back, tilted his head, and gulped it down in great swallows. Wang Ling watched as the liquor trickled from the corners of his mouth, following the movement of his Adam’s apple, and marvelled as Cheng Fu emptied the bowl in one go.

“Hahaha… Excellent!” Wang Long laughed heartily, filling his own sea bowl and downing it in a single draught, then seized a piece of spicy, crispy, grilled beef rib and chewed it down. He filled another bowl for Cheng Fu, then one for himself, and raised it, saying, “Let’s have another!”

With a loud clatter, their bowls collided, sending splashes of liquor over the dishes below. Without further ado, Wang Long and Cheng Fu went back and forth, bowl after bowl, and soon had drained the entire twenty-pound cask of high-proof spirits. The shopkeeper and waiters looked on, dumbfounded, unable to believe that these two drunkards could hold so much liquor.

After finishing the cask, Cheng Fu’s face was as red as a monkey’s backside, his nose swollen and crimson, and his breath hot. Wang Long had stripped down to his bare torso, his rolls of fat flushed and his brow streaming with sweat; his eyes were glazed.

Cheng Fu grabbed the empty cask, tipped it upside down to catch the last drops, smacked his lips, and shouted, “Uncle Li, bring another cask!”

The shopkeeper, concerned, had been watching them closely. If not for Wang Long’s intimidating presence, he would have stopped Cheng Fu from drinking long ago. Hearing Cheng Fu’s demand, he waved his hands hurriedly, “You’ve had enough today! I’ll bring you some sobering soup…”

“What sobering soup!” Wang Long slammed the table so hard that the plates bounced, shouting, “I’m in a good mood today! Haven’t met anyone who can drink like me in ages—bring another cask!”

Wang Ling, seeing the state of the two, realized they were clearly drunk. Two martial arts masters drunk was no laughing matter, so he smiled wryly at the shopkeeper, “Just bring more liquor. They won’t stop until they’re knocked out. Let them drink their fill.”

Another cask of sixty-eight proof spirits was brought to the chaotic table. Wang Long, his head spinning, opened the seal and, seeing Wang Ling’s bowl empty, filled it to the brim. “Boss! Why haven’t you had a drop? If you’re a man, you have to drink!”

Wang Ling’s eyelid twitched as he stared at the bowl. If it were beer, he wouldn’t mind, but he hardly ever drank spirits, and finishing such a bowl would surely knock him out. He was about to refuse when the equally drunk Cheng Fu slapped him on the shoulder, “Brother Wang is right! A man must drink; if you’re a brother, bottoms up!”

These two were true drunkards—Chinese-style drunkards at that—who, when tipsy, started calling everyone brother and forced others to drink. If you refused, you lost face, and weren’t considered a true friend. Wanting to win Cheng Fu over, Wang Ling could only raise the bowl with a bitter smile. He sipped a little, found it burning and foul, braced himself, held his breath, closed his eyes, and swallowed the entire bowl as if it were water.

“Cough, cough…” He managed to finish the bowl, coughing so hard tears sprang to his eyes. As he coughed, Cheng Fu filled him another bowl. After three bowls in quick succession, Wang Ling’s face turned red, his vision blurred, and his body began to sway. Feeling the fiery heat from throat to stomach, a surge of boldness welled up within him—life should be about drinking heartily and eating meat with gusto!

He poured himself another bowl, and, to the applause of Wang Long and Cheng Fu, drained it in one go. Dizzy and muddled, Wang Ling gasped for air, feeling stifled and itching to move—he had an urge to start a fight.

As someone who had hardly ever drunk spirits, Wang Ling had been forced to down over two pounds of sixty-eight proof liquor. Naturally, he was drunk. Some people sleep when drunk, some babble, others weep; but Wang Ling’s hidden violent streak surfaced, and he felt like fighting. Yet, his constitution was stronger than most, and his willpower and resistance were not weak. He suppressed the urge, looked at the laughing Cheng Fu—who looked remarkably like Jackie Chan in his younger days—and suddenly a memory flashed in his mind: a man, a song, a set of fists.

He recalled the movie Drunken Master II, where Jackie Chan played Wong Fei Hung, stormed the steel mill, defeated British fighters, and finally drank industrial alcohol to unleash wild drunken boxing and defeat the leg-fighting master Lu Hui Guang, reclaiming the national treasure—a scene full of heroic spirit.

Taking a deep breath, Wang Ling opened his mouth, and the film’s classic theme song burst forth:

I stumble and sway, like waves crashing,
A thousand grievances, shrugged off with a smile.
Sometimes low, sometimes high,
Swaying but refusing to fall,
I alone know the world within the wine.
Carving a name in the martial world, never needing a blade.
A thousand-pound burden, I bear on one shoulder,
Never cry injustice, never beg for mercy,
For friendship, I’ll bend my pride,
A hero among immortals in drunkenness.
Call me wild, yet kindness rests in my heart,
Laugh at my foolishness, for true passion is rare,
Fear not drunkenness, for beyond it lies a vast sky.

Let me be wild, be foolish, and be drunk while still young…

The song was catchy and evocative, much like “A Laugh in the Sea.” Both melody and lyrics had a powerful appeal, especially when heard in a drunken state, as if voicing the very hearts of drunkards.

For someone who practiced “Drunken Boxing,” who spent his days drinking to dispel worries and hid everything deep within, yet faced the world with a smile, Cheng Fu felt this song was made for him. Its impact was particularly strong; after hearing Wang Ling sing it once, he was nearly moved to tears.

“A thousand grievances, shrugged off with a smile… I alone know the world within the wine… Let me be wild, be foolish, and be drunk while still young…” Cheng Fu savored the lyrics silently, then suddenly stood up, swaying as he moved to the center of the restaurant. His face flushed, he belched, releasing a rich aroma of liquor, then raised both hands, curling middle, ring, and little fingers into a fist, thumb and index finger extended and slightly bent, forming a distinctive pose, as if holding an invisible wine cup.

The opening stance of Drunken Boxing—holding the cup!

“Drunken Boxing, Drunken Boxing—wine gives courage and births Drunken Boxing! Man and boxing both drunk—watch my set of Drunken Boxing!”

Cheng Fu’s right foot crossed before his left, his body crouched in a half-kneel, hands held high in a circle, presenting wine in the kneeling step. Then, with a bounce of both legs, he leapt, executing a heavy jumping kick; his loose lantern pants snapped loudly in the wind. The move was distinctive—leaping and splitting the legs, landing with the body weight pressing down.

Upon landing, Cheng Fu retracted his arms, moved up and down, then bent back as if performing an iron bridge, head thrown back, waist supporting his posture, feet retreating in a stumbling run, arms striking alternately, his cup-holding hand switching through several gestures—pointing, striking, pinching, charging, pressing, blocking, bumping—he even performed a finishing move from the game:

“Furious Drunken Tiger Strike!”

After that, Cheng Fu resumed his swaying posture—the “Drunken Step,” a basic stance in Drunken Boxing, where the body’s unstable swaying drives the footwork, moving left and right, forward and back, in sync with the upper body’s tilting. It’s also called the “Staggering Step,” as fundamental as the cup-holding hand.

With the Drunken Step, Cheng Fu’s movements were dynamic, his clothes whistling in the wind, his actions blending illusion and reality, hidden with lethal intent. Completing the full set of Drunken Boxing, he finished with the “Yellow Dragon Kick”—a straight kick to the sky, then a reverse kick landing him flat on the ground.

It was the first time Wang Ling and Wang Long had witnessed such a brilliant display of Drunken Boxing; even the shopkeeper, waiters, and the chef who came out to watch were stunned. They knew Cheng Fu drank every day and seemed never sober and that he had martial skills, but none realized his mastery was so profound, his boxing so beautiful!

But after performing Drunken Boxing, Cheng Fu lay motionless on the floor like a dead man. The shopkeeper rushed over to check on him—it turned out he had drunk too much, expended energy in his performance, which sped up the circulation of alcohol throughout his body, and now he was completely knocked out.

Wang Long, dizzy, wiped sweat from his face. He and Cheng Fu had finished more than a cask of strong spirits; no matter how good their capacity, it was enough to fell them. He hadn’t moved, so the alcohol’s effects were slower, but now the drunkenness hit him hard. He rubbed his face several times, then suddenly collapsed onto the table with a thud, and soon his snoring filled the air—he too was asleep.