According to Dr. Thomas Tang, the spread of Northern Fist to the South is an unstoppable trend.
Jack Young was no stranger to this whole 'Northern Fist heads South' thing—the old master in The Grandmaster movie dropped that line more times than I can count. But in the real world of martial arts, it’s not just about national unity and spreading kung fu. There’s a deeper reason for this migration.
After everything that’s happened lately, Jack Young felt like his horizons had seriously broadened. Sure, he’d only scratched the surface, but he’d seen enough to get the big picture. In this martial arts world, 'fist' and 'power' always go hand in hand. The grandmasters at the top of the pyramid aren’t just fighters—they’re basically politicians. Guns aren’t the scariest thing anymore; fists are.
Sure, you can’t take on an army head-to-head, but when it comes to infiltration and assassination—not even counting legends like Dr. Thomas Tang, just think about that giant eunuch guy—who could stop them? Having a gun doesn’t guarantee your safety if you’re in charge, but having a top-tier martial artist on your side just might.
Since fist and power are basically inseparable, the southward spread of Northern Fist was just bound to happen.
Back when the power center was in Beijing and Tianjin, all the top martial artists flocked there to make a name for themselves. Take Yang Luchan, the legendary Tai Chi master—once he mastered the art, he headed straight for the capital. That kind of gathering effect is what made Northern Fist so dominant.
Back in the day, Henry Huo was known as 'Number One in Tianjin.' Sure, that only meant he was the champ of one city—not the whole country or the world—but in the golden age of Northern Fist, being Tianjin’s top dog really meant something.
It’s like this: being China’s national ping-pong champion isn’t the same as being an Olympic champ, but let’s be honest—nobody in the global table tennis scene dares underestimate them.
Then, as the country changed, so did politics. The spotlight shifted from Beijing and Tianjin down to Shanghai, so Henry Huo, Samuel Lee, and all the grandmasters headed south to spread their philosophies and teach their own styles.
That’s why, in this martial arts world, the very top masters are kind of like the philosophers from ancient China—they’ve got status, smarts, and a way of doing things that makes them legends.
If the country’s trajectory here isn’t too different from what Jack Young remembers, then once the Yangtze River Delta martial artists gain momentum, the trend will keep shifting south to the Pearl River Delta. So from Beijing and Tianjin to Shanghai, and then from Shanghai to Guangzhou and Hong Kong—that’s the path of Northern Fist heading south.
Right now, Shanghai’s revolutionary forces are huge, and the martial arts scene is booming. But the Qing dynasty’s still kicking, and Beijing and Tianjin are still the holy land for martial artists. So after a ton of wrangling and behind-the-scenes drama, this year’s Martial Arts Tournament ended up being held in Tianjin.
Jack Young got another taste of Dr. Thomas Tang’s legendary status—it was like how ancient warlords would roll out the red carpet for a famous philosopher. Forget the fancy cars; the organizers even booked him into the swankiest hotel of the era and planned a huge welcome banquet, with every big shot in town showing up to pay their respects.
Dr. Thomas Tang just waved his hand and said, "Skip it." And just like that, the whole thing was called off. Talk about clout.
In the end, only the organizers and a few of the most famous guests showed up for a small, private dinner. These martial arts legends were all big names, and each brought along a young protégé to see how the grown-ups do things.
Naturally, the younger folks couldn’t sit at the same table as the old masters, so they did a quick lap, greeted everyone, and then headed off to the next table. Jack Young was about to join them, but Dr. Thomas Tang put a hand on his shoulder and kept him firmly at the main table.
"This is Jack Young, our resident Western science teacher at the Jingwu Athletic Association. Guy knows his stuff." Dr. Thomas Tang introduced him, and the masters all exchanged looks—what’s a science teacher doing at the VIP table?
"I’m nothing special," Dr. Thomas Tang said, "just taught him a few moves." The crowd suddenly got it—so Jack was his disciple. But from the way he said it, it didn’t sound like a strict master-student thing. More like equals. Maybe this kid’s got some serious background?
"We’re here at the Martial Arts Tournament for two reasons: to get to know everyone and let Jack Young see the world. He’s also going to try his hand at the ring."
"Ah, Dr. Thomas Tang, you’re too kind. Of course, mingling is a must. As for Mr. Jack—well, competing is no problem! He looks pretty young, so let’s put him in the youth division. Good chance to spar with the younger crowd, right?"
With Dr. Thomas Tang paving the way, everything went smoothly. But a few of the younger martial artists weren’t having it—they shot Jack Young some serious stink-eye, all tough and competitive. That’s youth for you, especially in martial arts: full of fire, always itching for a fight. Jack didn’t care; he barely noticed.
While the old masters were busy buttering each other up and the young ones listened respectfully, nobody dared pick up their chopsticks. Jack Young, though, just grabbed a slice of pork belly—ham, chew chew chew, gulped it down, and flashed a grin at the stunned juniors.
"Who does this guy think he is? What a cocky brat!" The elders pretended not to notice, but the younger crowd was in an uproar. In this era, eating before your master does is a major no-no! They clenched their fists, vowing to teach Jack Young a lesson.
The next day, the World's Number One Martial Arts Tournament kicked off. Of course, there were some speeches, but martial artists don’t mess around—short and sweet. Since everyone’s skill and experience varies by age, the tournament was split into three groups.
Under-eighteens went into the youth division—a bunch of pint-sized warriors, all yelling and flailing. Fun to watch, but unless you’re a proud parent, nobody really cares.
Eighteen to thirty? That’s the young guns—the future stars. This is where you really see who’s got the chops and who’s just pretending.
Thirty and up? That’s the pros. These folks are tough, experienced, and honestly the main attraction of the whole event.
So Jack Young didn’t bother with the youth or young guns—he went straight to the pro ring, totally engrossed in the action.
"Don’t let all the different styles of Chinese martial arts fool you into underestimating the world’s fighters. Every style has its strengths, but none are perfect. Thinking you’re flawless is the real danger, so you’ve got to learn from foreign martial arts to level up." Dr. Thomas Tang pointed out, "See that British boxer? His punches are fierce and fast—great for controlling the middle distance."
"Makes sense, makes sense," Jack Young nodded, mentally jotting it down. "All these techniques could be worked into basic fistwork."
Jack Young watched and took notes, totally absorbed—martial artists from all over the world, all styles, all in one place. It was a once-in-a-lifetime spectacle. He was deep in thought when suddenly someone called out: "Number 91, Jack Young! Number 124, Gavin Gong! To the ring!" He looked up—turns out it was his turn in the youth division.
Someone in the crowd leapt onto the four-foot-high ring in one smooth move, getting a round of cheers from the younger crowd. Had to be Gavin Gong. Jack Young took it slow and steady, stepping up and stopping three meters from Gavin.
Gavin Gong sized Jack Young up. "So you’re the one Dr. Thomas Tang brought? I’ve heard you’re pretty rude—today, I’m going to teach you some manners."
"Eh, suit yourself," Jack Young shrugged. He’d thought about doing the traditional fist salute, but nah, not today. He waved his hand, "Let’s get this over with. The sooner we finish, the sooner I can go check out the pro matches."
"You sure don’t respect anyone!" Gavin Gong charged forward, threw out a straight jab, and yelled, "Bagua Palm!"