Zheng Wuqing — The 10th Generation Grandmaster of Wudang Zhaobao Tai Chi
A forgotten master, a living lineage. The remarkable true story of Zheng Wuqing — the man who carried Zhaobao Tai Chi from a small village in Henan to the modern world.
Authors: Cindy Peng and Timothy Griswold
Part I: Early Life and Hardship
Zheng Wuqing (1895–1984), a native of Zhaobao Town in Wen County, Henan Province, was the 10th-generation Grandmaster of Wudang Zhaobao Tai Chi.
He was born on March 30, 1895 — the twenty-first year of Emperor Guangxu’s reign — into a prosperous scholarly family in Zhaobao. The Zheng household had long upheld the dual traditions of farming and study, and young Wuqing grew up amid comfort and refinement, surrounded by poetry, books, and the cultured ease of a family rooted in generations of learning.
Yet as the saying goes, “Heaven’s winds change without warning, and fortune never stays the same.” The social upheavals that swept late Qing China brought ruin to the family’s business ventures. Commerce failed, wealth vanished, and the household, once comfortable, fell into poverty almost overnight.
For the young Zheng Wuqing, accustomed to a sheltered life, this collapse marked the abrupt end of childhood ease. At thirteen, he fell gravely ill with tuberculosis, and the years that followed were marked by both sickness and hardship. When he was nineteen, his father passed away, leaving the family destitute. To support his mother and siblings, Zheng sought employment in a pawnshop in Xinjiang County, Shanxi Province.
There, as a junior accountant, he labored from dawn until night, surrounded by the thick fumes of kerosene lamps that lit the small rooms during the long winter months. He earned barely enough to buy food — a mere few strings of copper coins per year. Life was bitter, and his health, already fragile, worsened under the strain.
By twenty-nine, after years of deprivation and overwork, his body finally broke down. He developed advanced pulmonary disease. Blood came with every cough. He could no longer stand, no longer eat. He returned home to Zhaobao, frail and fading, and soon became bedridden. The family, already anxious at his decline, now feared the worst.
As the only son of the Zheng household, his condition cast a long shadow. Sons in old China were bearers of the ancestral line — and his illness was felt not merely as personal tragedy, but as the potential end of the family’s future. Desperate to save him, his family summoned doctors from every direction. Even Western-trained physicians were hired at extraordinary expense, bringing their tonics and strange equipment — but nothing helped. Eventually, Zheng stopped speaking, stopped eating, and lay in silence while his sisters kept vigil by his side.
One day, word of Zheng’s condition reached He Qingxi, the stern and enigmatic 9th-generation master of Zhaobao Tai Chi, who lived nearby. Moved by concern, he came uninvited to the Zheng residence. When the sisters tried to bar his entrance, he brushed past them, saying only, “I’m going in.”
He approached the darkened room where Zheng lay motionless and spoke sharply: “Do you want to live?”
Zheng did not answer.
“Do you want to learn Tai Chi?” he asked again, louder this time.
Still no response.
Then, leaning in close, the master said, “If you want to live, nod.”
Part I: Early Life and Hardship
Zheng Wuqing (1895–1984), a native of Zhaobao Town in Wen County, Henan Province, was the 10th-generation Grandmaster of Wudang Zhaobao Tai Chi.
He was born on March 30, 1895 — the twenty-first year of Emperor Guangxu’s reign — into a prosperous scholarly family in Zhaobao. The Zheng household had long upheld the dual traditions of farming and study, and young Wuqing grew up amid comfort and refinement, surrounded by poetry, books, and the cultured ease of a family rooted in generations of learning.
Yet as the saying goes, “Heaven’s winds change without warning, and fortune never stays the same.” The social upheavals that swept late Qing China brought ruin to the family’s business ventures. Commerce failed, wealth vanished, and the household, once comfortable, fell into poverty almost overnight.
For the young Zheng Wuqing, accustomed to a sheltered life, this collapse marked the abrupt end of childhood ease. At thirteen, he fell gravely ill with tuberculosis, and the years that followed were marked by both sickness and hardship. When he was nineteen, his father passed away, leaving the family destitute. To support his mother and siblings, Zheng sought employment in a pawnshop in Xinjiang County, Shanxi Province.
There, as a junior accountant, he labored from dawn until night, surrounded by the thick fumes of kerosene lamps that lit the small rooms during the long winter months. He earned barely enough to buy food — a mere few strings of copper coins per year. Life was bitter, and his health, already fragile, worsened under the strain.
By twenty-nine, after years of deprivation and overwork, his body finally broke down. He developed advanced pulmonary disease. Blood came with every cough. He could no longer stand, no longer eat. He returned home to Zhaobao, frail and fading, and soon became bedridden. The family, already anxious at his decline, now feared the worst.
As the only son of the Zheng household, his condition cast a long shadow. Sons in old China were bearers of the ancestral line — and his illness was felt not merely as personal tragedy, but as the potential end of the family’s future. Desperate to save him, his family summoned doctors from every direction. Even Western-trained physicians were hired at extraordinary expense, bringing their tonics and strange equipment — but nothing helped. Eventually, Zheng stopped speaking, stopped eating, and lay in silence while his sisters kept vigil by his side.
One day, word of Zheng’s condition reached He Qingxi, the stern and enigmatic 9th-generation master of Zhaobao Tai Chi, who lived nearby. Moved by concern, he came uninvited to the Zheng residence. When the sisters tried to bar his entrance, he brushed past them, saying only, “I’m going in.”
He approached the darkened room where Zheng lay motionless and spoke sharply: “Do you want to live?”
Zheng did not answer.
“Do you want to learn Tai Chi?” he asked again, louder this time.
Still no response.
Then, leaning in close, the master said, “If you want to live, nod.”
After a pause, Zheng’s head moved slightly. A faint murmur escaped his lips — the ghost of a yes.
Without another word, He Qingxi began to show him small, subtle movements — gentle spirals of the wrists and breath-guided expansions through the chest, designed to open blocked meridians and initiate Qi flow through the upper body. “Do these every day,” he said. “I will return tomorrow.”
Zheng began to practice — at first from the bed, barely able to lift his arms. But within days, he asked for porridge, the first food he had eaten willingly in weeks. Soon after, he could sit up. Then he began practicing at the edge of the bed, then standing beside it, his legs trembling but determined. After several weeks, he could walk outside. And within six months, his lungs had cleared. The disease vanished — not through medicine, but through the slow, spiraling return of breath, movement, and spirit.
He had been on the brink of death. Now, he was reborn.
Without another word, He Qingxi began to show him small, subtle movements — gentle spirals of the wrists and breath-guided expansions through the chest, designed to open blocked meridians and initiate Qi flow through the upper body. “Do these every day,” he said. “I will return tomorrow.”
Zheng began to practice — at first from the bed, barely able to lift his arms. But within days, he asked for porridge, the first food he had eaten willingly in weeks. Soon after, he could sit up. Then he began practicing at the edge of the bed, then standing beside it, his legs trembling but determined. After several weeks, he could walk outside. And within six months, his lungs had cleared. The disease vanished — not through medicine, but through the slow, spiraling return of breath, movement, and spirit.
He had been on the brink of death. Now, he was reborn.
Within two years, Zheng Wuqing became one of Master He’s finest students — not merely for his skill, but for his unwavering gratitude. The art that had saved him became his path, his purpose, and his vow.
He formally apprenticed himself to Master He Qingxi, who was seventy-two at the time. Zheng studied with exceptional sincerity. Intelligent, humble, and respectful, he quickly earned his teacher’s deep affection. Master He taught him the core “Substitute Frame” (代理架) methods of Zhaobao Tai Chi — the refined inner practice usually reserved for the most gifted disciples.
Zheng’s progress was rapid. Like “a fish returned to water,” he absorbed each lesson wholeheartedly, studying diligently, training methodically, and maintaining lifelong discipline. His talent for internal understanding was extraordinary, and over years of practice, his skill deepened from proficiency to mastery.
Eventually, Zheng attained what his teacher called “the true essence of Tai Chi” — a union of body and spirit where form dissolved into principle.
Part II: The Move to Xi’an and the Breaking of Zhaobao’s Isolation
In 1937, as the full-scale Japanese invasion swept across China, the northern provinces of Shanxi, Shandong, Hebei, and Henan fell in rapid succession. Like countless families fleeing the war, Zheng Wuqing led his household westward in search of safety. They crossed the Yellow River at the Fengling Ferry, leaving behind the quiet ancestral village of Zhaobao — and with that crossing, ended centuries of isolation.
For generations, people had said, “Zhaobao never leaves the village.” The art of Zhaobao Tai Chi, transmitted in secret through select disciples, had remained confined to that small town on the banks of the Yellow River. But when Zheng departed for the west, carrying his art in his body and spirit, the tradition finally took root beyond its birthplace.
It is said that the crossing itself became the scene of a defining event.
On that day, the ferry was crowded with refugees and their families. Seven burly boatmen, seeing the desperation of those fleeing the war, began to abuse their power. Intoxicated with their own strength, they stripped off their clothes, jeered obscenely, and harassed the women on board. The atmosphere turned tense — shame and fear spreading among the passengers.
Zheng Wuqing, unable to bear such cruelty, stepped forward. With calm courtesy, he bowed and tried to reason with them, urging restraint. But the boatmen, arrogant and brutal, mocked his scholar’s frame and ignored his words. When they grew even bolder, Zheng could no longer remain silent.
In an instant, his body moved. His arms coiled and extended like silk threads drawn taut, his steps light and sure. Within seconds, three of the boatmen were struck and fell into the river. Seeing the danger, he quickly shifted from fists to open palms — but when his hand touched the chest of the next aggressor, the man was lifted a full ten feet into the air and plunged into the water with a splash.
He formally apprenticed himself to Master He Qingxi, who was seventy-two at the time. Zheng studied with exceptional sincerity. Intelligent, humble, and respectful, he quickly earned his teacher’s deep affection. Master He taught him the core “Substitute Frame” (代理架) methods of Zhaobao Tai Chi — the refined inner practice usually reserved for the most gifted disciples.
Zheng’s progress was rapid. Like “a fish returned to water,” he absorbed each lesson wholeheartedly, studying diligently, training methodically, and maintaining lifelong discipline. His talent for internal understanding was extraordinary, and over years of practice, his skill deepened from proficiency to mastery.
Eventually, Zheng attained what his teacher called “the true essence of Tai Chi” — a union of body and spirit where form dissolved into principle.
Part II: The Move to Xi’an and the Breaking of Zhaobao’s Isolation
In 1937, as the full-scale Japanese invasion swept across China, the northern provinces of Shanxi, Shandong, Hebei, and Henan fell in rapid succession. Like countless families fleeing the war, Zheng Wuqing led his household westward in search of safety. They crossed the Yellow River at the Fengling Ferry, leaving behind the quiet ancestral village of Zhaobao — and with that crossing, ended centuries of isolation.
For generations, people had said, “Zhaobao never leaves the village.” The art of Zhaobao Tai Chi, transmitted in secret through select disciples, had remained confined to that small town on the banks of the Yellow River. But when Zheng departed for the west, carrying his art in his body and spirit, the tradition finally took root beyond its birthplace.
It is said that the crossing itself became the scene of a defining event.
On that day, the ferry was crowded with refugees and their families. Seven burly boatmen, seeing the desperation of those fleeing the war, began to abuse their power. Intoxicated with their own strength, they stripped off their clothes, jeered obscenely, and harassed the women on board. The atmosphere turned tense — shame and fear spreading among the passengers.
Zheng Wuqing, unable to bear such cruelty, stepped forward. With calm courtesy, he bowed and tried to reason with them, urging restraint. But the boatmen, arrogant and brutal, mocked his scholar’s frame and ignored his words. When they grew even bolder, Zheng could no longer remain silent.
In an instant, his body moved. His arms coiled and extended like silk threads drawn taut, his steps light and sure. Within seconds, three of the boatmen were struck and fell into the river. Seeing the danger, he quickly shifted from fists to open palms — but when his hand touched the chest of the next aggressor, the man was lifted a full ten feet into the air and plunged into the water with a splash.
In that moment, Zheng surprised even himself.
Though he had trained for years, he had never used the art in a real confrontation. The response had been instinctive — as natural as breathing — yet the result was undeniable. For the first time, he realized that the power he had cultivated in silence would rise to meet him when truly needed. From that day forward, his confidence was unshakable.
The ferry fell silent. The onlookers stood frozen in stunned disbelief, their eyes darting from the boatmen flailing in the water to the slender, scholarly man who had knocked them back with almost imperceptible force. No one had seen him strike with visible effort. It was as if the air itself had moved through him.
Then the silence broke into cheers. The remaining men scrambled to dress themselves, knelt, and begged forgiveness. Zheng helped them up, saying simply, “Let this be a lesson. Use your strength to ferry people across the river, not to harm them.”
After reaching Shaanxi, Zheng settled with his family in Xi’an, where he would live and teach for more than forty years. There he quietly became a legend — a man of virtue, refinement, and unshakable calm.
In the decades that followed, he served as martial arts instructor to the Xi’an Garrison Command, the Seventh Branch of the Whampoa Military Academy (with the rank of Major), the Xi’an Office of the Nationalist Ministry of War, the Northwest Supply Command, and the Shaanxi Provincial Government. He also served as a member of the Xi’an Martial Arts Institute, and after 1949, as a member of the Xi’an Sports Committee.
In Xi’an, his teachings spread widely, and students from all walks of life came to learn. Among his disciples were soldiers, scholars, and officials — many of whom would later carry his art across the nation. Through his patient instruction, Zheng Wuqing not only restored his own health but also gave the Zhaobao system a new home far from the banks of its origin.
Through him, the art’s spirit was renewed — no longer confined to one village, but alive in the heart of a changing China.
Part III: Encounters and Legends — The Duel with the Bodyguard and Other Tales
During his years in Xi’an, Master Zheng Wuqing’s reputation for both skill and integrity spread far and wide. He was known not only for his martial excellence but for his gentle humility, teaching quietly, never boasting, and never harming a fellow practitioner. Those who met him often described him as “a man of upright spirit and boundless grace.”
While he preferred to remain unobtrusive, the times did not always allow for quietude. In the turbulent years after his arrival in Xi’an, Zheng occasionally found himself drawn into public arenas — not out of pride, but from necessity. One of the most remarkable of these episodes involved a competition held by Huangpu Junxiao — the Nationalist military academy often referred to as “the West Point of China.”
The Contest for Huangpu Junxiao
In those years, the academy was seeking the finest martial artist in the region to serve as instructor. Word spread quickly, and a large open challenge was organized — a fierce melee in which martial artists from across the province would compete simultaneously. The rules were simple: the last man standing would be given the honor of teaching the cadets.
Zheng Wuqing, modest in demeanor but in need of work, arrived quietly.
As the whistle sounded, chaos erupted. Dozens of fighters leapt into the courtyard, striking, shouting, grappling — a storm of limbs and ambition. But Zheng did not move. He stepped calmly into the center of the chaos, hands behind his back, posture relaxed, eyes still. While the others tore into one another, he simply stood — unmoved and unafraid.
One by one, the fighters exhausted themselves. Some were knocked unconscious, others limped off the field. Eventually, only a handful remained — and when they finally turned toward the quiet man at the center, Zheng Wuqing responded with such fluid ease and internal power that none could stand before him. They fell as though caught in invisible currents.
The academy staff, watching from the sidelines, were stunned. How could such a slender, scholarly-looking man have bested hardened fighters without striking first — and with almost no visible exertion?
When the contest ended, the officers approached him with reverence. “You must not teach the common soldiers,” they said. “Your skills are far too refined. You will teach the cadre — the future leaders of the nation.”
And so, Master Zheng became a martial arts instructor for Huangpu Junxiao’s elite leadership corps — a role he would fulfill with dignity, patience, and profound effectiveness.
The Duel with the Unbeaten Bodyguard
Among the many stories that circulated about him, one in particular became legend — the duel with the famed bodyguard Shang Chengxia.
In the autumn of 1955, when golden leaves carpeted the courtyards of Xi’an, a wealthy merchant named Lu Zhide hired a new martial arts instructor. His name was Shang Chengxia, a tall, powerfully built man who had once worked as an armed escort for a Kaifeng security bureau. He stood over six feet tall, with massive arms and agile movements. He could leap onto walls, break bricks with his palm, and perform feats of physical prowess that left onlookers in awe.
Shang was proud — perhaps too proud. He often declared, “I have traveled all across China and fought countless challengers. I have never once met a man who could defeat me!”
His boasts soon drew attention from the martial community of Xi’an, and before long, many sought him out to test his claims. None could best him. Word of his dominance spread quickly — until it reached the ears of three of Zheng Wuqing’s younger disciples: Wu Sheng’an, Li Hailong, and Gu Tailong.
Curiosity and youthful eagerness got the better of them. The three arranged to visit Lu Zhide’s residence and observe the famous bodyguard for themselves. Lu welcomed them warmly, introducing them to Shang Chengxia. A friendly match was soon proposed in the rear courtyard.
But the results were humbling.
The first disciple stepped forward — only to be struck down with a single palm and sent stumbling backward several yards. The second met the same fate, and so did the third. Each was thrown effortlessly, dazed and breathless, unable to continue.
The bodyguard laughed heartily, his confidence swelling. “You three came together, and yet you cannot even touch me,” he boasted. “Go tell your teacher that the tales of his greatness are exaggerated!”
A Challenge Accepted
When Zheng Wuqing heard what had happened, he smiled quietly. He neither scolded nor boasted, but agreed to meet the man. A few weeks later, the encounter was arranged at the home of disciple Li Hailong.
On the appointed day, the courtyard was swept clean and a simple table laid with tea and wine. As guests arrived, Master Zheng walked in — serene and unhurried, dressed in a plain indigo robe, leaning lightly on his cane. He greeted everyone with a warm smile and reminded his students, “When facing any guest, remember — do not strike first, and never with hostility. We meet to learn, not to conquer.”
Then he took his seat beside Shang Chengxia.
The two men bowed, exchanged courtesies, and then rose to “cross hands.”
Though he had trained for years, he had never used the art in a real confrontation. The response had been instinctive — as natural as breathing — yet the result was undeniable. For the first time, he realized that the power he had cultivated in silence would rise to meet him when truly needed. From that day forward, his confidence was unshakable.
The ferry fell silent. The onlookers stood frozen in stunned disbelief, their eyes darting from the boatmen flailing in the water to the slender, scholarly man who had knocked them back with almost imperceptible force. No one had seen him strike with visible effort. It was as if the air itself had moved through him.
Then the silence broke into cheers. The remaining men scrambled to dress themselves, knelt, and begged forgiveness. Zheng helped them up, saying simply, “Let this be a lesson. Use your strength to ferry people across the river, not to harm them.”
After reaching Shaanxi, Zheng settled with his family in Xi’an, where he would live and teach for more than forty years. There he quietly became a legend — a man of virtue, refinement, and unshakable calm.
In the decades that followed, he served as martial arts instructor to the Xi’an Garrison Command, the Seventh Branch of the Whampoa Military Academy (with the rank of Major), the Xi’an Office of the Nationalist Ministry of War, the Northwest Supply Command, and the Shaanxi Provincial Government. He also served as a member of the Xi’an Martial Arts Institute, and after 1949, as a member of the Xi’an Sports Committee.
In Xi’an, his teachings spread widely, and students from all walks of life came to learn. Among his disciples were soldiers, scholars, and officials — many of whom would later carry his art across the nation. Through his patient instruction, Zheng Wuqing not only restored his own health but also gave the Zhaobao system a new home far from the banks of its origin.
Through him, the art’s spirit was renewed — no longer confined to one village, but alive in the heart of a changing China.
Part III: Encounters and Legends — The Duel with the Bodyguard and Other Tales
During his years in Xi’an, Master Zheng Wuqing’s reputation for both skill and integrity spread far and wide. He was known not only for his martial excellence but for his gentle humility, teaching quietly, never boasting, and never harming a fellow practitioner. Those who met him often described him as “a man of upright spirit and boundless grace.”
While he preferred to remain unobtrusive, the times did not always allow for quietude. In the turbulent years after his arrival in Xi’an, Zheng occasionally found himself drawn into public arenas — not out of pride, but from necessity. One of the most remarkable of these episodes involved a competition held by Huangpu Junxiao — the Nationalist military academy often referred to as “the West Point of China.”
The Contest for Huangpu Junxiao
In those years, the academy was seeking the finest martial artist in the region to serve as instructor. Word spread quickly, and a large open challenge was organized — a fierce melee in which martial artists from across the province would compete simultaneously. The rules were simple: the last man standing would be given the honor of teaching the cadets.
Zheng Wuqing, modest in demeanor but in need of work, arrived quietly.
As the whistle sounded, chaos erupted. Dozens of fighters leapt into the courtyard, striking, shouting, grappling — a storm of limbs and ambition. But Zheng did not move. He stepped calmly into the center of the chaos, hands behind his back, posture relaxed, eyes still. While the others tore into one another, he simply stood — unmoved and unafraid.
One by one, the fighters exhausted themselves. Some were knocked unconscious, others limped off the field. Eventually, only a handful remained — and when they finally turned toward the quiet man at the center, Zheng Wuqing responded with such fluid ease and internal power that none could stand before him. They fell as though caught in invisible currents.
The academy staff, watching from the sidelines, were stunned. How could such a slender, scholarly-looking man have bested hardened fighters without striking first — and with almost no visible exertion?
When the contest ended, the officers approached him with reverence. “You must not teach the common soldiers,” they said. “Your skills are far too refined. You will teach the cadre — the future leaders of the nation.”
And so, Master Zheng became a martial arts instructor for Huangpu Junxiao’s elite leadership corps — a role he would fulfill with dignity, patience, and profound effectiveness.
The Duel with the Unbeaten Bodyguard
Among the many stories that circulated about him, one in particular became legend — the duel with the famed bodyguard Shang Chengxia.
In the autumn of 1955, when golden leaves carpeted the courtyards of Xi’an, a wealthy merchant named Lu Zhide hired a new martial arts instructor. His name was Shang Chengxia, a tall, powerfully built man who had once worked as an armed escort for a Kaifeng security bureau. He stood over six feet tall, with massive arms and agile movements. He could leap onto walls, break bricks with his palm, and perform feats of physical prowess that left onlookers in awe.
Shang was proud — perhaps too proud. He often declared, “I have traveled all across China and fought countless challengers. I have never once met a man who could defeat me!”
His boasts soon drew attention from the martial community of Xi’an, and before long, many sought him out to test his claims. None could best him. Word of his dominance spread quickly — until it reached the ears of three of Zheng Wuqing’s younger disciples: Wu Sheng’an, Li Hailong, and Gu Tailong.
Curiosity and youthful eagerness got the better of them. The three arranged to visit Lu Zhide’s residence and observe the famous bodyguard for themselves. Lu welcomed them warmly, introducing them to Shang Chengxia. A friendly match was soon proposed in the rear courtyard.
But the results were humbling.
The first disciple stepped forward — only to be struck down with a single palm and sent stumbling backward several yards. The second met the same fate, and so did the third. Each was thrown effortlessly, dazed and breathless, unable to continue.
The bodyguard laughed heartily, his confidence swelling. “You three came together, and yet you cannot even touch me,” he boasted. “Go tell your teacher that the tales of his greatness are exaggerated!”
A Challenge Accepted
When Zheng Wuqing heard what had happened, he smiled quietly. He neither scolded nor boasted, but agreed to meet the man. A few weeks later, the encounter was arranged at the home of disciple Li Hailong.
On the appointed day, the courtyard was swept clean and a simple table laid with tea and wine. As guests arrived, Master Zheng walked in — serene and unhurried, dressed in a plain indigo robe, leaning lightly on his cane. He greeted everyone with a warm smile and reminded his students, “When facing any guest, remember — do not strike first, and never with hostility. We meet to learn, not to conquer.”
Then he took his seat beside Shang Chengxia.
The two men bowed, exchanged courtesies, and then rose to “cross hands.”
The Contest
At first, the bodyguard tested his strength with light contact, circling and probing. Then, with a sudden shout, he lunged, his arm coiling for a powerful strike. But before his blow could land, Zheng’s body moved only slightly — a subtle shift of balance, a soft spiral through the waist — and the burly man’s arm was deflected as though by invisible current.
When Shang tried again, his wrist struck against Zheng’s arm and pain shot up through his forearm; a bruise began to rise before his eyes. Master Zheng said gently, “That was not me who injured you — it was your own force returning.”
Flushed with surprise, Shang attacked again, shouting “Once more, Master Zheng!” But with another effortless motion, Zheng caught the direction of his momentum and guided him onto a nearby stone bench, where the man sat down hard, unable to move for a moment.
Still unwilling to concede, Shang roared and leapt up again, using his signature stance “Hungry Tiger Pounces on Prey.” But each time he advanced, Zheng met him with calm stillness — neither raising his feet nor lifting his hands. Yet each contact sent the bodyguard sprawling, as though struck by unseen energy.
After several such exchanges, the outcome was clear. Exhausted and chastened, Shang dropped to his knees and bowed deeply.
“Master Zheng,” he said, “today I have witnessed true skill. You are a sage of the martial way. I cannot even see how you move, yet every motion strikes without form. Please teach me the path to such mastery.”
Zheng smiled and replied, “When strength becomes heavy, it stagnates; when light, it flows. Use strength, and it binds; release it, and it lives.”
The bodyguard looked up, still stunned. “You are not soft,” he said, “you are empty. I never touched your body, yet I felt the power strike through me. Your movement leaves no trace — where does such force come from?”
Zheng only chuckled softly. “The Dao is everywhere,” he said. “When the heart is still, even a whisper moves mountains.”
From that day on, Shang Chengxia vanished from Xi’an, humbled and transformed.
A Martial Saint in the West
Stories like this spread quickly through Shaanxi and beyond. In the martial world, Zheng Wuqing became known as “The Tai Chi Sage of the Northwest” and “The Supreme of the Martial Forest.” Those who met him were struck not only by his power but by his extraordinary composure — an aura of peace that seemed to dissolve aggression itself.
He could stand on ice wearing skates, yet move through the Tai Chi form as steadily as on solid ground. Nails driven against his skin would not pierce; stones thrown into water by his hand left no splash. When he issued force, opponents were thrown without seeing the strike.
His mastery was silent, formless, and complete.
Part IV: Philosophy, Teaching, and Legacy
Though Zheng Wuqing’s martial ability was awe-inspiring, what defined him even more deeply was his character. He was upright and humble, with a quiet dignity that made everyone feel at ease in his presence. In over forty years of teaching in Xi’an, he never injured a single student. His kindness was matched by a fierce moral clarity — he valued integrity above victory, sincerity above reputation.
He often said, “To practice Tai Chi is first to cultivate the heart and refine the nature. Follow the flow of Heaven and Earth — light, relaxed, and natural. Let form follow Qi, and Qi align form. Avoid stiffness, avoid excess intent. Small movements should be expansive; large movements, contained. The waist must be upright, the body balanced. When the spirit is centered, the whole form becomes round, alive, and harmonious. Where there is no force, there is power; where there is no intent, there is presence.”
Integration of Dao, Confucianism, and Medicine
Zheng Wuqing was more than a martial artist — he was a scholar of the old world, steeped in the study of Yi Jing, Daoist metaphysics, and the internal alchemy of the human body. In Xi’an, he befriended a celebrated geomancer named An Boyi, whose mastery of mathematics and image theory (象数理学) profoundly influenced him.
Under An’s guidance, Zheng deepened his understanding of natural law, correspondence, and the subtle movements of Qi through Heaven, Earth, and the human form. He came to see Tai Chi as the living embodiment of universal principle — the same balance that governs stars, seasons, and the human pulse.
He read widely: the Analects and Book of Changes for moral clarity, the Huangdi Neijing for medicine, and the Dao De Jing for the essence of effortless power. From this synthesis, he forged a philosophy uniquely his own:
“Tai Chi,” he said, “is not merely for defense or health — it is the cultivation of wholeness.
Through it, one refines both body and mind, nourishing vitality until the spirit shines forth of itself.”
He taught that true cultivation must unite the Three Teachings — Confucian virtue, Daoist naturalness, and Buddhist stillness. “Tai Chi without moral foundation,” he would say, “is an empty shell. Power must be tempered by virtue; movement must serve peace.”
The Science of Longevity
Zheng’s insight into health and Qi circulation made him as respected by doctors as by martial artists. He emphasized the role of meridians and biomechanics, insisting that internal practice could only succeed when guided by understanding of structure and physiology.
Through decades of disciplined practice, he transformed his frail, consumptive body into one of robust vitality. Having been near death at thirty, he lived to ninety without a single serious illness. He often said, “My illness was my first teacher.”
Students recalled that his skin in old age remained supple and warm, his voice clear, his teeth unbroken. Even in his eighties, he could walk faster than men half his age, his steps light yet steady, as if rooted in invisible strength.
When asked the secret to his health, he would smile and reply, “I simply never stopped breathing correctly.”
A Teacher of Spirit, Not Just Form
Zheng’s classroom was simple — a courtyard, a mat, and endless patience. He believed that each student must discover the essence through direct experience, not imitation. “Form is only a bridge,” he would say. “You cross it to reach what cannot be spoken.”
At first, the bodyguard tested his strength with light contact, circling and probing. Then, with a sudden shout, he lunged, his arm coiling for a powerful strike. But before his blow could land, Zheng’s body moved only slightly — a subtle shift of balance, a soft spiral through the waist — and the burly man’s arm was deflected as though by invisible current.
When Shang tried again, his wrist struck against Zheng’s arm and pain shot up through his forearm; a bruise began to rise before his eyes. Master Zheng said gently, “That was not me who injured you — it was your own force returning.”
Flushed with surprise, Shang attacked again, shouting “Once more, Master Zheng!” But with another effortless motion, Zheng caught the direction of his momentum and guided him onto a nearby stone bench, where the man sat down hard, unable to move for a moment.
Still unwilling to concede, Shang roared and leapt up again, using his signature stance “Hungry Tiger Pounces on Prey.” But each time he advanced, Zheng met him with calm stillness — neither raising his feet nor lifting his hands. Yet each contact sent the bodyguard sprawling, as though struck by unseen energy.
After several such exchanges, the outcome was clear. Exhausted and chastened, Shang dropped to his knees and bowed deeply.
“Master Zheng,” he said, “today I have witnessed true skill. You are a sage of the martial way. I cannot even see how you move, yet every motion strikes without form. Please teach me the path to such mastery.”
Zheng smiled and replied, “When strength becomes heavy, it stagnates; when light, it flows. Use strength, and it binds; release it, and it lives.”
The bodyguard looked up, still stunned. “You are not soft,” he said, “you are empty. I never touched your body, yet I felt the power strike through me. Your movement leaves no trace — where does such force come from?”
Zheng only chuckled softly. “The Dao is everywhere,” he said. “When the heart is still, even a whisper moves mountains.”
From that day on, Shang Chengxia vanished from Xi’an, humbled and transformed.
A Martial Saint in the West
Stories like this spread quickly through Shaanxi and beyond. In the martial world, Zheng Wuqing became known as “The Tai Chi Sage of the Northwest” and “The Supreme of the Martial Forest.” Those who met him were struck not only by his power but by his extraordinary composure — an aura of peace that seemed to dissolve aggression itself.
He could stand on ice wearing skates, yet move through the Tai Chi form as steadily as on solid ground. Nails driven against his skin would not pierce; stones thrown into water by his hand left no splash. When he issued force, opponents were thrown without seeing the strike.
His mastery was silent, formless, and complete.
Part IV: Philosophy, Teaching, and Legacy
Though Zheng Wuqing’s martial ability was awe-inspiring, what defined him even more deeply was his character. He was upright and humble, with a quiet dignity that made everyone feel at ease in his presence. In over forty years of teaching in Xi’an, he never injured a single student. His kindness was matched by a fierce moral clarity — he valued integrity above victory, sincerity above reputation.
He often said, “To practice Tai Chi is first to cultivate the heart and refine the nature. Follow the flow of Heaven and Earth — light, relaxed, and natural. Let form follow Qi, and Qi align form. Avoid stiffness, avoid excess intent. Small movements should be expansive; large movements, contained. The waist must be upright, the body balanced. When the spirit is centered, the whole form becomes round, alive, and harmonious. Where there is no force, there is power; where there is no intent, there is presence.”
Integration of Dao, Confucianism, and Medicine
Zheng Wuqing was more than a martial artist — he was a scholar of the old world, steeped in the study of Yi Jing, Daoist metaphysics, and the internal alchemy of the human body. In Xi’an, he befriended a celebrated geomancer named An Boyi, whose mastery of mathematics and image theory (象数理学) profoundly influenced him.
Under An’s guidance, Zheng deepened his understanding of natural law, correspondence, and the subtle movements of Qi through Heaven, Earth, and the human form. He came to see Tai Chi as the living embodiment of universal principle — the same balance that governs stars, seasons, and the human pulse.
He read widely: the Analects and Book of Changes for moral clarity, the Huangdi Neijing for medicine, and the Dao De Jing for the essence of effortless power. From this synthesis, he forged a philosophy uniquely his own:
“Tai Chi,” he said, “is not merely for defense or health — it is the cultivation of wholeness.
Through it, one refines both body and mind, nourishing vitality until the spirit shines forth of itself.”
He taught that true cultivation must unite the Three Teachings — Confucian virtue, Daoist naturalness, and Buddhist stillness. “Tai Chi without moral foundation,” he would say, “is an empty shell. Power must be tempered by virtue; movement must serve peace.”
The Science of Longevity
Zheng’s insight into health and Qi circulation made him as respected by doctors as by martial artists. He emphasized the role of meridians and biomechanics, insisting that internal practice could only succeed when guided by understanding of structure and physiology.
Through decades of disciplined practice, he transformed his frail, consumptive body into one of robust vitality. Having been near death at thirty, he lived to ninety without a single serious illness. He often said, “My illness was my first teacher.”
Students recalled that his skin in old age remained supple and warm, his voice clear, his teeth unbroken. Even in his eighties, he could walk faster than men half his age, his steps light yet steady, as if rooted in invisible strength.
When asked the secret to his health, he would smile and reply, “I simply never stopped breathing correctly.”
A Teacher of Spirit, Not Just Form
Zheng’s classroom was simple — a courtyard, a mat, and endless patience. He believed that each student must discover the essence through direct experience, not imitation. “Form is only a bridge,” he would say. “You cross it to reach what cannot be spoken.”
He taught that the purpose of Tai Chi was not to defeat others but to overcome the self — to dissolve tension, desire, and fear until the whole being became transparent and unified.
Many of his disciples noted that during practice with him, one could sense an invisible field — soft yet irresistible — that seemed to draw their movements into harmony. He rarely spoke of “Qi” in mystical terms; to him, it was simply life itself, unblocked.
He also wrote short treatises, such as Explanation of the Practice of Tai Chi and Essentials for Beginners, in which he emphasized calm awareness over mechanical repetition:
“The beginner must stand correctly, to set a foundation.
Never practice carelessly.
If the eyes do not follow the hands, and the hands do not follow the steps, this is blind training.
Move slowly, let the breath settle, and the Qi will naturally circulate.
When breath and mind are one, movement becomes effortless — and what is natural is true.”
Ethics and Transmission
To his students, Zheng was not only a master but a moral compass. He lived with great frugality, refused all arrogance, and treated disciples as family. “A teacher,” he said, “is not one who commands, but one who reminds you of what you already know.”
Many of his disciples noted that during practice with him, one could sense an invisible field — soft yet irresistible — that seemed to draw their movements into harmony. He rarely spoke of “Qi” in mystical terms; to him, it was simply life itself, unblocked.
He also wrote short treatises, such as Explanation of the Practice of Tai Chi and Essentials for Beginners, in which he emphasized calm awareness over mechanical repetition:
“The beginner must stand correctly, to set a foundation.
Never practice carelessly.
If the eyes do not follow the hands, and the hands do not follow the steps, this is blind training.
Move slowly, let the breath settle, and the Qi will naturally circulate.
When breath and mind are one, movement becomes effortless — and what is natural is true.”
Ethics and Transmission
To his students, Zheng was not only a master but a moral compass. He lived with great frugality, refused all arrogance, and treated disciples as family. “A teacher,” he said, “is not one who commands, but one who reminds you of what you already know.”
He frequently quoted an old saying: “All under Heaven’s martial families are one.” He believed that jealousy and rivalry were poisons to true cultivation. His teaching emphasized fellowship over fame, insisting that the martial world should “strive together in virtue.”
Among his many students, those who stood out included Gu Tailong, Sun Lanting, Sun Maoyun, and Yuan Yunlong in the 1930s and 1940s, and Li Hailong and Li Xiutong in later decades.
In the 1960s, to everyone’s surprise, the aging master broke his lifelong rule and accepted several children under fifteen as formal disciples — an act unprecedented for him. Among them was the young Song Yunhua, who would later become the 11th-generation Grandmaster of Zhaobao Tai Chi.
Through Song and later Peng Wen (Wayne Peng), the art spread beyond China, reaching Hong Kong, Thailand, Singapore, and eventually the United States — carrying with it the essence of Zheng’s lineage, refined through centuries but reborn through his hands.
Part V: Final Years, Death, and Continuing Influence
In his later years, Master Zheng Wuqing remained the embodiment of calm vitality. Even in his eighties, his posture was straight, his gait light, and his voice as resonant as a temple bell. Visitors to his home in Xi’an often marveled that his eyes shone like polished glass — bright, alert, and free of fatigue.
He rose before dawn each day, practiced slowly in the courtyard, and taught whoever came with sincerity. Though his fame had spread across the martial world, he lived simply, eating sparingly and refusing luxury. When asked how he could remain so energetic at such an age, he would smile and say, “When the heart is upright, Qi circulates of itself.”
Passing Peacefully
In 1984, after a lifetime of practice and teaching, Zheng Wuqing passed away quietly in his sleep, free of illness and pain — his breath fading as gently as a candle at dawn.
The Xi’an Municipal Sports Committee sent an official message to the Wen County Sports Bureau, praising him for “his profound contribution to the inheritance and development of Zhaobao Tai Chi.”
He had lived nearly ninety years, but his vitality seemed untouched by time — as if the current of Tai Chi continued to flow within him even as his body grew still.
In 1987, on the third anniversary of his passing, Zheng’s disciples from across China and abroad gathered in his hometown of Zhaobao to erect a memorial stele in his honor. Inscribed across the top were the words of Li Tianji, one of China’s leading martial arts scholars:
“Stele in Honor of Master Zheng Wuqing — Renowned Tai Chi Master, Preserver of Wudang Essence.”
The Wudang magazine and the Wudang Boxing Research Association jointly composed an elegy:
“In remembrance of the passing of a generation’s Grandmaster of Zhaobao Tai Chi --
His virtue spread through the western capital;
His art radiated across the four seas.
From Wudang’s spirit he drew his power,
Leaving behind a legacy that glorifies China.”
In 1994, on the tenth anniversary of his death and the centenary of his birth, another grand commemoration was held in Zhaobao Town. The hall overflowed with students, admirers, and officials from across China.
Among the dedications were inscriptions from prominent martial artists and scholars. Liu Xiasheng, then Director of the Xi’an Sports Committee and Chairman of the Martial Arts Association, wrote with deep respect:
“A patriarch of internal power — the mountain of inner cultivation.”
Letters and telegrams arrived from across the nation and overseas, all honoring a man whose presence had shaped generations of martial artists.
A Living Legacy
By then, Zheng’s disciples had founded schools and associations across China and beyond, many of which still bear his name. At the proposal of local leaders in Wen County, the Zhaobao Tai Chi Zheng Wuqing Research Association was formally established, dedicated to preserving and promoting his methods and theories.
Several of his direct disciples went on to publish books and manuals based on his teaching, spreading the essence of his art to new generations.
Articles about him appeared in People’s Daily, China Sports News, Chinese Martial Arts, Wudang, China Tai Chi, Wu Hun, and even in international journals in Italy and other countries. His biography was later included in the Dictionary of Contemporary Chinese Martial Artists, the Dictionary of Chinese Notables, and National Martial Arts Elite Anthology.
Through these efforts, Zheng’s teachings transcended the confines of time and geography — transforming from a local tradition into a global inheritance.
The Essence of His Teaching
Those closest to him often recalled not his physical demonstrations, but the few quiet words he would speak that revealed the heart of Tai Chi:
“A beginner must first calm the mind.
Let the body be still and the breath gentle.
Move only when the heart moves.
Strength is born of stillness; stillness is born of strength.
When the mind is tranquil, Qi flows; when Qi flows, spirit arises.
Only then does one glimpse the gate of the Dao.”
For Zheng Wuqing, Tai Chi was never simply an art of combat or health. It was a lifelong dialogue between man and nature — a way to embody balance amid chaos, to cultivate serenity amid hardship, and to discover in the simplest movement the deepest truth of life itself.
Articles about him appeared in People’s Daily, China Sports News, Chinese Martial Arts, Wudang, China Tai Chi, Wu Hun, and even in international journals in Italy and other countries. His biography was later included in the Dictionary of Contemporary Chinese Martial Artists, the Dictionary of Chinese Notables, and National Martial Arts Elite Anthology.
Through these efforts, Zheng’s teachings transcended the confines of time and geography — transforming from a local tradition into a global inheritance.
The Essence of His Teaching
Those closest to him often recalled not his physical demonstrations, but the few quiet words he would speak that revealed the heart of Tai Chi:
“A beginner must first calm the mind.
Let the body be still and the breath gentle.
Move only when the heart moves.
Strength is born of stillness; stillness is born of strength.
When the mind is tranquil, Qi flows; when Qi flows, spirit arises.
Only then does one glimpse the gate of the Dao.”
For Zheng Wuqing, Tai Chi was never simply an art of combat or health. It was a lifelong dialogue between man and nature — a way to embody balance amid chaos, to cultivate serenity amid hardship, and to discover in the simplest movement the deepest truth of life itself.
A World Renewed Through His Students
Among the new generation who carried his torch, Song Yunhua stood out as both successor and pioneer. Trained by Zheng from boyhood, Song possessed extraordinary dedication and insight. In later years, he would bring Zhaobao Tai Chi beyond China’s borders — to Hong Kong, Thailand, Singapore, and Southeast Asia — planting the seeds of the lineage across continents.
One of Song’s most devoted disciples, Peng Wen (Wayne Peng), later carried that same art even further, bringing it to the United States and continuing the transmission of Zhaobao Tai Chi in the modern world.
Through this unbroken chain of teacher and student, Master Zheng’s art — once confined to a single village — crossed oceans and languages, entering the global stage.
Epilogue
From a frail youth on the brink of death to a grandmaster revered across nations, Zheng Wuqing’s life traced the arc of transformation itself. He healed his body through practice, his heart through discipline, and his world through virtue.
What began as a search for survival became a path to immortality — not of the body, but of spirit.
Today, every practitioner who stands quietly, breath steady and heart calm, continues the current that once began in Zhaobao’s dusty courtyards — the current of Zheng Wuqing’s living art.
Among the new generation who carried his torch, Song Yunhua stood out as both successor and pioneer. Trained by Zheng from boyhood, Song possessed extraordinary dedication and insight. In later years, he would bring Zhaobao Tai Chi beyond China’s borders — to Hong Kong, Thailand, Singapore, and Southeast Asia — planting the seeds of the lineage across continents.
One of Song’s most devoted disciples, Peng Wen (Wayne Peng), later carried that same art even further, bringing it to the United States and continuing the transmission of Zhaobao Tai Chi in the modern world.
Through this unbroken chain of teacher and student, Master Zheng’s art — once confined to a single village — crossed oceans and languages, entering the global stage.
Epilogue
From a frail youth on the brink of death to a grandmaster revered across nations, Zheng Wuqing’s life traced the arc of transformation itself. He healed his body through practice, his heart through discipline, and his world through virtue.
What began as a search for survival became a path to immortality — not of the body, but of spirit.
Today, every practitioner who stands quietly, breath steady and heart calm, continues the current that once began in Zhaobao’s dusty courtyards — the current of Zheng Wuqing’s living art.
