Chapter Forty-Four: Hao Mingxing’s Potential

A good thing?

Hao Mingxing pondered for quite a while but still couldn’t figure out what good news Wang Mo might have to share with him.

Wang Mo didn’t explain, instead asking, “Brother Xing, you came to see me—did you need something?”

“Nothing much.” Hao Mingxing rubbed his hands together and gave a sheepish smile. “I’ve been swamped with gigs for over a month now, barely had a moment to breathe. Today’s the first time I can finally take a break, so I thought—if you’re free, Brother Mo, let me treat you to a meal.”

The truth was, ever since Hao Mingxing had first received Wang Mo’s invitation to test a song, he’d wanted to treat him to dinner. At first, though, he hadn’t felt confident enough. Then, after the song “It Doesn’t Matter” made him famous, his schedule had left him no time at all. But he’d carried this intention with him all along. So, now that he finally had a free day, he rushed over first thing in the morning, afraid Wang Mo might already have plans.

Nearby, a group of composers watched, their eyelids twitching in disbelief. Hao Mingxing’s posture was just too humble—even the way he stood spoke of deference.

At this point, thanks to “It Doesn’t Matter” becoming a nationwide hit, Hao Mingxing’s fame could already rival that of second- or third-tier celebrities. His foundation might not be deep yet, but he was without a doubt a popular singer. At this level, singers in the company were usually held in high esteem. Let alone showing humility in front of composers—some would even boss Liu Zhengwen around.

So, seeing Hao Mingxing’s attitude toward Wang Mo left everyone full of emotion.

“Brother Mo really is incredible.”

“Hao Mingxing is truly grateful, too.”

“This is a two-way street for both of them.”

“Wait… is that really how the phrase ‘a two-way street’ is used?”

“…”

As for the glances and whispers from the surrounding composers, Hao Mingxing pretended not to notice. Wang Mo didn’t pay them any mind, either. He simply nodded. “All right.”

He just so happened to need to speak with Hao Mingxing as well.

…

By noon, the two were seated in a refined Hunan restaurant’s private dining room, a table packed with classic Hunan dishes: stir-fried pork, fish head with chopped chili, stir-fried bacon with wild rice shoots, You County smoked tofu, Yongzhou blood duck, spicy chicken giblets, Chairman Mao’s braised pork—all dishes Wang Mo loved.

This was another reason Wang Mo admired Hao Mingxing: though the man looked burly and rough around the edges, his actions always revealed a thoughtful attention to detail. Knowing Wang Mo was from Hunan, he’d specially chosen a Hunan restaurant to host him.

“Can you handle spicy food?” Wang Mo asked.

“I can.” Hao Mingxing picked up a piece of stir-fried pork and popped it into his mouth—only for his expression to change instantly. Trying to maintain his composure, he cracked open a cold cola and gulped it down, but his eyes turned red and a thin wisp of steam seemed to rise from his head—he was nearly at his limit.

Wang Mo chuckled and shook his head, calling over the waiter to add a few milder dishes. At the same time, he explained, “Sichuan cuisine is numbing and spicy, Guizhou cuisine is fragrant and spicy, but our Hunan cuisine is pure heat. Unless you grew up with it, it’s rare for people from other provinces to handle Hunan’s level of spice.”

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Hao Mingxing gave a rueful smile. “I thought I could handle it, but it seems I was wrong. This chili is no joke. Even when I practiced martial arts and broke a bone, I wouldn’t so much as frown, but this chili has undone me.”

Wang Mo’s interest was piqued. “Brother Xing, are you any good at martial arts?”

Hao Mingxing shook his head. “Just so-so. I haven’t trained for a long time. Martial arts require strict self-discipline—if you skip even a day, you fall behind. Still, I’ve kept up the basics. Three to five people wouldn’t be able to get close to me.”

Wang Mo’s eyes lit up. “That’s impressive! I’ve heard that, when martial arts reach a high level, you can hurt someone with a flower petal or a falling leaf. Is that true?”

Hao Mingxing shook his head. “That’s just fiction. Real martial arts are all about fists, feet, and weapons—none of those fancy tricks. The more ordinary something looks, the more powerful it likely is.”

Wang Mo asked, “So what did you train in?”

“I practiced the inch punch,” Hao Mingxing replied.

“Inch punch? Like hitting a cow through a mountain? Can you show me?” Wang Mo asked with curiosity.

If anyone else had asked, Hao Mingxing probably would’ve ignored them. True martial artists never show off their skills lightly. But hearing Wang Mo’s question, he barely hesitated. “I’ll show you, but I might be a bit rusty.”

He looked around but couldn’t find anything suitable. Finally, his gaze settled on the tea tray.

Hao Mingxing walked over and tapped it. It was solid wood, about an inch thick.

Wang Mo tested its hardness—a punch from him nearly broke his hand, making him yelp in pain, but the tea tray remained utterly unscathed.

At that moment, a waiter entered to bring more dishes.

Hao Mingxing stopped him. “Could you ask your boss how much this tea tray costs? I’d like to buy it.”

“Huh?” The waiter was stunned—this was probably the first time a guest had ever asked to buy a tea tray. He glanced at the table; there was no alcohol, so it didn’t seem like drunken nonsense. Hastily, he went out to ask.

Two or three minutes later, the owner walked in.

Hao Mingxing repeated his request.

The owner was baffled. “Buy the tea tray? Why?”

Hao Mingxing explained, “I want to punch it, but I’m worried I might break it, so I’d like to buy it first.”

At first, the owner was taken aback, then he laughed. “Sir, this tea tray is made of sandalwood. Not even a hammer could break it, let alone a fist. If you can break it with your fist, I won’t charge you a thing—your meal is on the house.”

What a joke—breaking it with a fist?

The owner figured he’d just picked up a great story for his next drinking session.

“All right,” Hao Mingxing replied, not wasting another word.

He dropped into a horse stance, propped the tea tray up with one hand, and brought his other hand slowly close to it. After taking a few deep breaths, with Wang Mo, the owner, and the waiter all watching in confusion, Hao Mingxing’s right hand shot forward in a lightning-fast push.

He moved so quickly, none of them could even see an afterimage.

The next second—

Bang!

The tea tray had a hole punched clean through it.

Wang Mo froze.

The owner’s jaw dropped.

The waiter was dumbstruck.

The private dining room fell into a deathly silence.

Hao Mingxing, meanwhile, inspected the hole with a slight frown. “Not sandalwood—just regular red pine.”

But none of the others heard his comment.

At that moment, Wang Mo felt his heart trembling. When Hao Mingxing unleashed his power, a chill crept through Wang Mo’s core, his hair standing on end, his scalp tingling. For an instant, he felt suffocated.

He’d known Hao Mingxing practiced martial arts, but always thought his skills were nothing special. Even when Hao Mingxing mentioned the inch punch, Wang Mo had taken it as a joke.

But after witnessing the surge of force in Hao Mingxing’s move and the fist-sized hole in the tea tray before him, Wang Mo’s mouth went dry.

What kind of person was this?

It wasn’t just that three or five people couldn’t get near him—three or five special forces soldiers might not even manage it.

A thought suddenly occurred to Wang Mo: with this kind of real martial arts skill, if Hao Mingxing were to shoot action movies like “Fist of Fury” or “Ip Man,” the results would be every bit as good as Donnie Yen’s, perhaps even better.

Of course, that was just Wang Mo’s own speculation. After all, Hao Mingxing was wholeheartedly focused on singing now and might not be interested in acting.

But what excited Wang Mo was this: he had discovered Hao Mingxing’s immense potential.

And once you see someone’s potential, there’s a chance to bring it out.