Chapter Sixteen: Sparring

Bang!

A middle-aged martial artist in white fell and was sent flying, his feet stumbling back several steps. His breath came in ragged gasps, and the face that moments ago bore a gentle, confident smile was now flushed with embarrassment.

He could feel the gazes around him shift from initial curiosity and admiration to scornful mockery. He could bear it no longer.

He panted heavily.

At last, clenching his fists tightly and forcing himself to remain calm, he declared, “Master Daoist, your skill is impressive. I concede defeat. Farewell!”

Without another word, he stepped away and vanished into the crowd.

The spectators were left speechless.

They had assumed the first challenger would be a formidable expert—why else step forward so boldly? Though few had heard his name, in a place as vast as Guangyong, there were always solitary wanderers, some perhaps hiding their true strength.

But now, it seemed the man was either a schemer seeking to take advantage of the chaos or a fool arrogantly overestimating himself.

How dull.

On the stage, Priest Jiang’s face remained impassive throughout, never showing his opponent much courtesy. His strikes were decisive; in less than ten moves, he had defeated the other man, leaving him like a whipped cur.

It might have appeared heartless, but only Priest Jiang himself knew that, in a way, he was saving that reckless disciple of the Feiyue Sect from greater disgrace.

He glanced back at the elders of the various Daoist factions, gathered not far behind him, hands tucked into their sleeves or clasped behind their backs, all with serene expressions and warm smiles. Yet, after days of preparing for the ritual and interacting with these venerable figures, Priest Jiang knew well—they were furious.

Especially the one to his left, whose forced smile barely concealed a chilling, murderous glare that sent shivers down Jiang’s spine.

He quickly looked away. Others might not realize it, but he knew his own master’s temperament all too well; after that last exchange, his master had probably entertained thoughts of striking the man dead with his horsetail whisk.

“How can someone who has spent half a lifetime cultivating the Dao still harbor such a ferocious killing intent?” Jiang sometimes wondered if his master had secretly practiced some forbidden art behind his disciples’ backs, for he often seemed unlike any Daoist priest at all.

Fortunately, Jiang had acted swiftly and stepped forward himself; otherwise, this contest might have taken a disastrous turn. To have blood spilled at the very start—what a disgrace that would have been for the Daoist community.

But was he not angry? Of course he was. Priest Jiang valued Haiyun Monastery deeply. Thanks to his efforts, Haiyun had risen above the other leading sects in the neighboring counties and was now at the center of the first match—a perfect opportunity to make a name for themselves.

So it should have been.

“At least my intervention salvaged our reputation,” he thought, “We won't walk away empty-handed.”

As these thoughts flitted through his mind, he considered whether to proceed as planned or to call out another challenger.

A martial contest was much shorter than a debate on the Dao, lasting only half a day.

Just then, a loud thud interrupted his thoughts as a figure surged forward.

“Are you a top disciple of Haiyun Monastery? I am Zhao Zhongyun of the Iron Fist School, and I’ve come to seek your guidance.”

The newcomer was a burly man, his fists calloused and hardened by years of training.

Priest Jiang wasted no time. He loosened his sleeves and readied his stance.

…

Crunch.

“These pastries are quite good,” Chen Yu remarked, squatting on a wooden bench not far from the arena. His keen eyesight allowed him to take in the action easily.

“The fight’s entertaining, too.”

Priest Jiang was no slouch. As the second senior brother of Haiyun Monastery, he seemed stern and perhaps even burdened with the woes of the world, but when it came to martial skill, he was far superior to those wandering mercenaries who had never been properly trained or learned a complete set of martial techniques.

His moves flowed with effortless grace—a delight to watch.

His opponent, by contrast, was all raw power and aggression, but could not land a solid blow, at best brushing Jiang’s sleeves.

Yet Chen Yu could see that neither man fought with lethal intent. Priest Jiang, after a month on the road, had blood on his hands, but in this contest, there was no need to go all out.

“With things as they are... I’d like to give it a try myself.”

He wasn’t seeking the spotlight—he simply wanted more practice in the protective arts he’d only recently begun to learn. The martial skills recorded in the “Crane and Cloud Manual” were only familiar to him in theory; now, with so many skilled opponents available and the rules precluding deadly force, it was the perfect opportunity.

The more he thought about it, the more tempted he became. Where else would he find such a gathering of formidable martial artists to hone his skills against?

Besides, he hoped to draw inspiration from these matches.

Others might not see it, but having lived his previous life in a world without martial arts, Chen Yu valued this path deeply.

Even if he sought a new way forward, it would always be tied to both martial prowess and Daoist principles.

Having made up his mind, Chen Yu prepared to step forward.

Crunch.

He popped the last pastry into his mouth, savoring the sweet taste as he watched the match with keen interest.

…

“Thank you, Master Daoist... for your mercy!”

As expected, Priest Jiang won again, but unlike before, he now returned the salute with a smile, no longer radiating that forbidding aura.

With the Haiyun priest remaining undefeated, the other martial artists grew restless, their eyes alight as they prepared to challenge him.

At that moment, someone familiar to Chen Yu emerged from the crowd.

Dressed as always in azure robes, with sword-like brows and shining, clear eyes, his face was fair and resolute. His appearance drew exclamations from the surrounding fighters.

“The Blue-Clad Sword!”

This young hero had reportedly crossed swords with the White Lotus Sect several times, forcing them to retreat each time. He had traveled from other provinces, upholding justice wherever he went.

Chen Yu was not surprised. So, Qian Xuanzhong had not left the Western Prefecture—he was still in Guangyong, perhaps due to that earlier confrontation with the White Lotus Sect.

“Is he still investigating?” Chen Yu wondered.

Back then, Liu Bao had said he had been hired and directed by a woman whose wrist bore a lotus mark—she had orchestrated disturbances throughout the Western Prefecture and was plotting in secret.

Afterwards, Chen Yu had connected the events with the recent turmoil involving the White Lotus Sect at the foot of the mountain. Seeing Qian Xuanzhong again, he thought he might ask later whether it truly was the White Lotus behind the slaughter of villagers by hired martial artists.

In the arena, the Blue-Clad Sword and Priest Jiang faced each other.

With a flourish of his robes, Qian Xuanzhong sent a crisp, echoing crack through the air.

He had mastered the art of harmonizing internal force!

In only a month, it seemed, he had made new breakthroughs and surpassed the bottleneck that had limited him before.

In truth, his cultivation was secondary; having mastered the technique of “soft force,” the martial arts of his Yuanshuo Sect were now fully at his disposal, doubling his strength.

This, too, was why the White Lotus Sect had thus far failed to overcome him.

Recently, he had heard the White Lotus Saint Lord would be coming south to the Western Prefecture. Qian had considered heading north to investigate, as many White Lotus followers had been captured in Guangyong, but none had revealed anything valuable.

As for the beautiful woman with the lotus mark described by Liu Bao, he had not seen her. She was likely in hiding, making her difficult to find.

Just a month ago, news had come from Zhengyuan Temple about a grand ritual to be held in Pingcheng, Guangyong.

Without hesitation, Qian Xuanzhong had decided to stay. Even in the prosperous White Prefecture of the southwest, such public rituals were rare; most sects held their own behind closed doors, with outsiders seldom allowed to observe.

Now, back in the arena, Priest Jiang—a man several years older—saluted first, then unslung his sword and drew it with a resonant ring.

Clearly, he had heard of this young hero’s reputation; unlike the previous matches, this time he was prepared to give his all.