Chapter Twenty-Four: It's Been a Long Time Since Anyone Praised Me Like This

The first rays of morning sunlight filtered through the window, illuminating the bed sheets, which were damp and tangled in a heap at the foot of the bed. Standing at the table, Zhou Yu gulped down the cold tea left over from the previous night. After a night of electric shock therapy and forcibly clearing his meridians, he had sweated so much that the entire bedding was slightly soaked.

His messy bangs clung wetly to his forehead, a bead of sweat hung at his temple, shimmering with iridescent colors in the sunlight. Liu Yueming was already gone, the old man was indeed old, but Zhou Yu was still young. To survive, to make it back alive, to protect those most dear to him, Zhou Yu had no choice but to give it his all, to fight with every ounce of strength he possessed.

He set the teapot down on the table, the purple clay pot clinking crisply against the hard stone surface, leaving a few cracks on its side.

With a creak, the door opened. The old man came in, carrying a steaming pot of porridge with one hand. Seeing Zhou Yu already awake, he said, “Why not rest a bit longer? Did you not sleep at all last night?”

Zhou Yu took a seat at the table and smiled. “The early bird catches the worm. Not sleeping last night was yesterday’s business. Today’s tasks can’t be delayed because of yesterday.”

The old man set the pot down, scooped himself a bowl, and placed it in front of himself. Then he pushed the whole pot towards Zhou Yu. “You might as well eat directly from the pot. Watching you go bowl after bowl is too much for me.”

Zhou Yu ladled a spoonful, blew on it, and asked, “Why does it bother you?”

The old man shot him a look. “Watching you eat bowl after bowl reminds me of my younger days. Youth is a wonderful thing. Now I’m just an old wreck. How could I not feel a pang?”

“But if I eat straight from the pot, I’ll still eat just as much. Why wouldn’t that bother you?”

The old man raised a middle finger at Zhou Yu. “In that case, I’d only think you’re a glutton.”

Zhou Yu was speechless.

The old man had only one bowl from the large pot; Zhou Yu finished the rest. His powerful digestion swiftly converted the food into energy, fueling every part of his body.

After a brief rest, Zhou Yu prepared to begin another round of electric therapy and forced meridian clearing. Just then, a knock sounded at the door. “Zhou, it’s Abuli.”

“Come in, Abuli. The door’s open,” Zhou Yu called out.

Abuli pushed the door open, glanced at the empty pot in front of Zhou Yu, then at Zhou Yu himself. “Back in my hometown, not even the bravest warriors could eat as much as you.”

Zhou Yu chuckled and invited Abuli to sit. “So, is there something you need?”

“It’s about the duel,” Abuli replied. “I just heard this morning—other locals will be participating, too.”

“What? You mean people from Lingjing will also take part?” Zhou Yu asked in surprise.

Abuli waved his hand. “Not quite. People from other parts of this place, not Lingjing itself.” Realizing he hadn’t explained clearly, he added, “I mean those bald fellows.”

Zhou Yu understood: Zuo Hao and the other envoys would be joining as well. But why?

“What are the rules?” Zhou Yu asked.

“The rules are like this: you can enter solo or as a team. If you want to fight alone, register yourself. Teams can have up to three people,” Abuli explained.

“What if no one signs up solo?” Zhou Yu pressed.

“That won’t happen. Teams are limited to three, so it’s not much different from fighting alone,” Abuli answered.

It turned out this team rule was suggested by Hua Queyue. If a team won, the prize would be split evenly. And if a team reached the top five, they’d have to compete individually to decide who moved on. This was meant to protect weaker travelers; the strong would naturally aim for ranking and rewards, so strong alliances wouldn’t form—only the weak would choose to team up. This maximized the safety of the travelers.

“So, can I join too?” the old man asked from the side.

Abuli wasn’t sure what the old man meant. After Zhou Yu repeated the question, Abuli scratched his curly black hair and after a moment said, “I’m not sure. I heard there are limited spots.”

Zhou Yu and Abuli chatted for a while longer about other things before Abuli took his leave. He’d come mainly to check on Zhou Yu’s health, not to discuss participation.

From Abuli, Zhou Yu learned that the travelers were split into three main factions: Asia-Africa-Latin America as one, the US-Japan-Korea-UK-France as another, and, most strangely, Russia and Germany united as a third.

Morrison’s strength was enough to sweep all the travelers, and the white man named Jack who always followed him was also formidable. According to Abuli, the Korean and Japanese travelers were the most cunning, though not particularly strong. The other nations had their powerhouses, but despite being allied with the US group, they didn’t really follow Morrison’s orders, acting more in name than in spirit.

As for Abuli’s own group, while overall strong, they lacked any truly outstanding individuals. Besides Abuli, who signed up to fight solo, everyone else registered as teams.

The Russians and Germans rarely revealed their strength, but the fact that five of them signed up for solo duels suggested they were formidable.

Zhou Yu pondered all this. He wasn’t optimistic about Abuli’s group—not simply because they were weaker, but because the format didn’t suit them. Their collective strength was great, enough to match the Americans in group combat, but once forced to split into teams or fight solo, they would fall to the stronger individuals.

But what troubled Zhou Yu even more was that the major sects and powers were also sending participants. Why? He couldn’t figure it out, so he decided to ask Hua Queyue.

Another day passed with endless arguments, and still nothing meaningful was decided. Shaking his head, Hua Queyue left the council hall. By one of the red columns, Zhou Yu had been waiting for some time.

“You don’t look well,” Hua Queyue remarked, frowning at the sweat-soaked Zhou Yu.

Zhou Yu’s face was pale, fatigue written in every line. He waved a hand. “Let’s not talk about that. I wanted to ask you about the duel.”

“You want to take part?” Hua Queyue asked in surprise.

“That’s not it. I want to know why those people are allowed to participate,” Zhou Yu said, pointing at the departing envoys.

Hua Queyue pulled Zhou Yu along. “Let’s talk while we walk. I’m starving—let’s eat.”

“Food? Good, I’m hungry too.”

“What’s with you? How are you recovering so fast? You’re walking quicker today than the day before. Are you already healed?” Hua Queyue stopped after a few steps, scrutinizing Zhou Yu.

“Not quite, but much better,” Zhou Yu replied.

“You’re a monster.” Hua Queyue sighed in admiration.

Zhou Yu smiled. “No one’s praised me like that in a long time.”

In the grand hall where food was served, Zhou Yu was surrounded by a mountain of bowls, and he kept eating. Hua Queyue, increasingly uncomfortable as the crowd around them grew, whispered awkwardly, “Let’s get out of here. Maybe we should come back when there are fewer people?”

His voice nearly broke with embarrassment. As one of the strongest second-generation scions of Lingjing, renowned for his striking good looks, Hua Queyue had never been the subject of such public scrutiny. Even though the attention was on the glutton Zhou Yu, sitting beside him was mortifying.

“Then tell me what’s really going on,” Zhou Yu said, wiping his mouth and burping, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“I’ll tell you, just let’s leave first,” Hua Queyue said hastily.

“Right this minute?” Zhou Yu pressed.

“Right now!” Hua Queyue grabbed Zhou Yu by the arm, his tone brooking no argument.