Peter Ragnar – Thunderball Qigong and Martial Arts Techniques


Peter Ragnar – Thunderball Qigong and Martial Arts Techniques

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Archive : Peter Ragnar – Thunderball Qigong and Martial Arts Techniques

Course Download Size : 317.64 MB

This DVD contains a collection of Thunderball Qigong and Martial Arts Techniques from his “Moonlight Doesn’t Wet the Water” Course Bonus DVD.
Below is the sales copy.
“If you want to reach the sky-scraped pinnacle of vitality and long life, you won’t be able to put Peter’s novel down!” Tony Balistreri’s In 1943, he began the drama in a remote village in China.
The plot includes romance, adventure, martial arts, and Qi Gong instruction.
I was completely engrossed.
“Secrets long hidden in antiquity’s dustbins are revealed in detail.” If you have even a passing interest in Traditional Chinese Medicine’s healing techniques, you’ll be overjoyed with your newfound knowledge.
Peter has outdone himself with this one.
To top it all off, while visiting Peter a few weeks ago, he let me film him doing a new Qi Gong technique introduced in this new novel that he has been working on for the past year! I experienced immediate results the first time I tried it.
Later that day, Peter’s Martial Arts partner Laurence arrived, and I was able to film them both sparring outside! I asked them to repeat each technique in slow motion.
Then I put it all on DVD so you could learn these simple and effective self-defense moves that even a child could master! “I guarantee your eyes will tear up with joy and courage by the time you finish this incredible novel.” You’ll also receive this exciting DVD that I filmed with Peter performing martial arts techniques! Plus, if you act now, you’ll receive a FREE Book of Quotes! (As long as supplies last.) You’ll get everything for just $49.97! I asked Peter if I could share the first few pages with you to whet your appetite.
Below is an excerpt from Peter’s new novel…
China, 1943, “Moonlight Doesn’t Wet the Water: The Search for the Jade Spring Immortal.” “When you try too hard, it turns into business; when you don’t, it turns into art.” When we first met on the mountain trail, all I could see were the old man’s eyes.
I was only seventeen when I ran into him.
I didn’t even notice him because I was picking blackberries for my mother.
“On the mountain, there are dragons,” he explained.
His voice was deep and smooth.
I jumped, my sleeve catching on the thorny briars.
I fell forward toward the stranger as I tried to free myself, but he was as elusive as air.
He picked me up from behind just as I was about to hit the ground, laughing in a way my father never laughed.
It made me feel strange on the inside.
Not funny in the sense of a joke, but rather strange.
He reminded me of someone I knew but couldn’t place.
His eyes giggled like a baby as he set me down.
“You need to be more cautious, young man.
Life is all about finding the right balance.” I liked how he referred to me as “young man” rather than “boy,” as Dad did.
Goosebumps jumped up on my arm as I looked at my partially filled basket.
“Are you concerned about your mother?” “How did you figure out what I was thinking?” His quick fingers started rolling over the branches.
“Please hand me your basket.”
“Hey, I – ” Where does he get all those berries? I pondered.
I swear I just picked them apart.
Not me, mind you, but the birds “This berry picking business, young man, can be dangerous.
That is, if you take it seriously, which you obviously cannot.
The reason for this is that if you have to find them, they will begin to hide on you.
When you try too hard, it turns into a business; when you don’t, it turns into art.” “Mom is concerned – ” He interrupted me once more, this time with his finger to his lips.
“You may not realize it right now, but worry is a persistent form of fear caused by indecision.
We are all where we are because of the decisions we have made.
You’re here with me picking berries; please stay as long as you can.” “But…\s” “Yes, I am aware. ” His hand heated up my shoulder.
As I made my way to the village that grew in the shadow of the mountain, it was getting dark.
Crops grew on terraces stacked on the hillside like dishes.
Catalpa and wild plum dotted the winding valleys.
When it rained heavily in the lowlands, the Wei River would overflow its banks.
I was too young to remember, but my mother often reminded me that it was better not to be the child of a rice farmer.
“Life wasn’t much better when we moved to the Highlands of the Chungnan Mountains,” I reflected as I passed one of the abandoned temples Chiang Kai-shek had sought to destroy in the 1930s.
The Red Guards forced many people into hiding during the Great Cultural Revolution.
Mother informed me that some monks became hermits.
Worse, some were shamans, magical people who were said to follow the Way, according to my father.
I wondered if I had met someone like that today.
Dad had warned me that if I ever got too close to one, I’d be kidnapped or worse.
He claimed that being without a woman for so long was unnatural.
I didn’t understand, but I figured I was too young.
Anyway, he told me what he’d do if he ever tracked one down.
As I approached my house, I could hear my father’s voice above the din of the village.
Mother was in tears once more.
Our rice paper blinds didn’t provide much privacy, but the neighbors pretended to be busy and didn’t hear us.
“How could you possibly? And she’s not even older than your son!” Mother objected.
“Don’t give me that lip, or I’ll send you and your son back to the Wei River swamp and make the boy work for the rice picker who fathered him!” My eyes began to well up, and my body shook as a result of what I’d just heard.
My father looked at the basket of berries as I walked through the door.
“Is that all you chose? You’ve been gone all day and that’s all there is to it?” My cheek was pricked by his heavy hand.
“That is insufficient to produce wine! Pick up what you’ve dropped.” Most Chinese people drank rice wine, but he insisted on berries.
I began refilling the basket while crawling on my hands and knees.
My fingers shook with fear and embarrassment, unlike the nimble fingers that had effortlessly picked the berries for me.
When Father burped, I knew he’d had another drink.
“You have the appearance of a dog! Do you hear me, kid?” I remained silent, trying not to enrage him further, because he would undoubtedly take it out on Mother.
“A clever dog, eh?” Dad was a martial artist who took pride in how hard he could kick.
I was expecting it.
The first kick went over my head as I collapsed to the ground, but the next one didn’t.
“Get out, take this stinking basket with you, and don’t come back empty-handed!” he yelled.
I limped out of town, feeling like a stray dog.
I crouched in the corner of the abandoned temple and fell asleep after finding the trail that led up the mountain.


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