The Seven Steps of Master Yi

(An ancient tale from the time when people still listened to the wind and never interrupted the rain)

I. A Dusty Village Beneath the Mountain
Many years ago, in the shadow of Mount Lanshan, lay a village with a simple name — Xiaojing.
They grew beans there, cursed during holidays, and believed every third child was born with the soul of a tiger.
Xiaojing had just over a hundred people, but among them was one called simply: Master Yi.

He was thin as dried bamboo, wore an old blue robe, and never said more than two words in a row.
Children thought he was mute.
The elders knew — he only spoke what was necessary.
And every word of his, they said, could be placed in a bowl and drunk like a decoction of truth.

One day, a stranger came to the village.
He was young, proud, and stubborn, and his name was Jin Hui.
A broken sword hung from his belt, and in his eyes burned a question he never voiced.

“Where is Master Yi?” he asked the first peasant he saw.
“Where the tea is hot, and the tongue is cold,” came the reply, without lifting a head.

So Jin Hui walked on.

II. The Right to Be a Disciple
Master Yi met him seated by a tea table, pouring a clear infusion from dried leaves.
He said nothing, just pointed at a stool.

“I’ve come to learn,” said Jin Hui.
“Seven steps,” said Master Yi.
“What?”
“After the strike.”

The Master stood, took a sip, and punched the young man in the chest.

Jin Hui flew back like a sack of grain. He fell. He rose in silence.
He took a step. Then another. Breathing heavily, but walking.
On the seventh step, his legs gave out and he collapsed into the dust.
Master Yi nodded.

“Disciple.”

Thus the training began.

III. The Way of the Fist and the Brush
Master Yi taught in strange ways.
He showed no techniques.
He served tea, wrote calligraphy, and made Jin Hui stand all day in a crane stance.
When Jin Hui complained, the Master threw boiling water at him.

“Why tea?” the student finally asked.
“Water knows the strike before the hand does,” the Master replied.

And then, true kung fu began.
Not with fists — with spirit.
Jin Hui learned to listen to the wind, read reflections in water, and strike without touching skin.
He learned to sense when a rock was about to fall, when a snake was ready to strike, and when an opponent was about to destroy himself.

One night, he saw Master Yi sitting by the water, writing something in the sand.
Next to him lay a snake, unmoving.
By morning, the writing was gone, and the snake slept in the Master’s tea bowl.

“You didn’t kill it?”
“It listened,” said the Master.
Then added:

一以贯之 (yī yǐ guàn zhī) — “Pierce all with a single thread.”
If you listen — truly listen.
If you strike — strike.
If you live — live.

IV. The Challenge
In the third year of training, a man came to the village — Iron Lou, a bandit, killer, and master of the northern style “Fist of Darkness.”
He came to prove that no one in the region was worthy of the title master.

“Where’s that mute old man of yours?” he demanded.

Jin Hui stepped forward.
“He won’t fight.”
“And you?”
“I’ve taken seven steps.”

The fight lasted ninety-three strikes.
On the ninety-fourth, Jin Hui stopped Lou’s hand a finger’s width from his throat.
The bandit froze. Then collapsed.

Master Yi approached and poured tea.

“Why didn’t you fight him yourself?” Jin Hui asked.

“A master does not take the fight. He gives the fight.”
“And now?”
“Now, you pour the tea.”

V. The Wisdom of the Eighth Step
Many years passed.
Jin Hui became a Master himself.
He built a house by the river, took only one student a year, and always poured tea in silence.

One day, a boy came to him.
Stubborn. Thin. A scar on his chest — a souvenir from a childhood brawl.
“I want to learn.”
“Seven steps,” said Jin Hui.

He struck the boy. Softly, but with precision.
The boy rose. Took one step. Then two. Three.
He breathed like a little animal.

Seven.

Then — eight.
Then nine. He did not fall.

Jin Hui smiled for the first time in many years.

“What does it mean?” the boy asked.
“It means you are not me. Which means — you can go further.”

He poured green tea. The boy drank.

And in the sky above the mountains, the clouds began to boil — quietly, like the breath of a tiger before it leaps.