Chapter Seventeen: Taking the Stage

While the fight raged on in the center, several others entered the arena from the side. They exchanged bows, then turned to the nearby Daoists, issuing challenges. Of course, it wasn't only Daoists who were targeted; some, wielding swords and blades and boasting of their martial prowess, loudly proclaimed their readiness to all the assembled heroes.

"Come forward if you dare."

For a moment, the martial discussions at this ritual gathering took on the atmosphere of a grand tournament. Excitement flared, reminiscent of yesterday's debate among the Daoists.

Chen Yu watched for a while, observing the most prominent sparring match between two familiar faces. Then, after surveying the scene, he chose a spot neither too close nor too distant. There, a martial artist had set up a challenge platform. Since Chen Yu had decided to test his skills, he felt no hesitation.

He intended to try his fists and kicks first, then test his agility and footwork. Chen Yu thought to himself, as for swordplay… he didn’t have the equipment with him.

More than that, he wanted to experiment with his newly developed technique—the Internal Organ Rebirth Method. This new approach combined internal cultivation with external defense and attack. It had originally evolved from a sound-based assault, which he had merged into the method. Now, his mental energy could reach into his organs, and he was eager to see what effect combining soft force, vocal exclamations, and internal vibrations might produce.

With these thoughts, Chen Yu stepped forward. While others remained captivated by the display between Daoist Jiang and Qian Xuan Zhong, he faced the challenger directly.

The man was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with eyes like copper bells, muscles tightly knotted, and arms as thick as his thighs. His palms were large and flat, and he eyed the young Daoist before him like a wolf sizing up prey.

He observed Chen Yu, and Chen Yu, in turn, sized him up.

The Daoist was young, much younger than the other competitors—barely in his twenties, likely only a few years into his training. He was not thin, but neither was he muscular; his bones were narrow, his face healthy and rosy, clearly untested by hardship.

"Such courage," the burly man remarked, pulling a fierce grin that might frighten children, trying to emulate the concern of a senior for a junior. After all, Chen Yu was a Daoist, and this was a Daoist gathering; elders might be watching. The man decided to go easy, lest he crush the youth's spirit and cause trouble.

Chen Yu couldn’t guess what was swirling in the man's mind, but he sensed a degree of underestimation.

He didn’t mind; he was here to practice, not to win every bout.

"Qingtai Mountain, Yunhe Temple," he said quietly, not even revealing his name.

Chen Yu bowed, then assumed his stance. From the man’s attire and physique, he estimated his fighting style—likely a practitioner of fists and palm strikes, with strong legs as well.

With a sudden burst, Chen Yu moved first. He kicked off, darting forward like a snake emerging from its hole, his fists forming pointed beaks as he struck.

The burly man was unhurried, chopping down with one hand. There was a sharp sound as their blows met and they separated.

The force was indeed impressive. Chen Yu glanced at his slightly numb right palm; had he not changed moves in time, this strike might have shattered his hand as if hitting a steel plate.

Of course, the man hadn’t used internal energy.

"Again!" the man shouted.

Chen Yu spun and punched, only to be parried. He followed with a kick from an unusual angle, sweeping toward the man's waist.

The burly man swung his arms like hammers, colliding with Chen Yu’s attack.

Chen Yu staggered back several steps, seeming at a disadvantage, dust clinging to him and looking a bit battered.

But the burly man’s attitude had shifted; he was now solemn, staring intently.

This Daoist was stronger than he looked. The man wondered if Chen Yu was an external style practitioner, but saw no sign of it from his appearance. He himself had confidence in his "Bronze Body Technique," but even before mastering it, he couldn’t exert such strength.

Before he could sort it out, Chen Yu advanced, his waist rising fluidly, his feet gliding like floating duckweed, his movement light and swift. He struck again, his hand transforming from a palm to a fist as it crashed into the man’s chest.

A sound like a drum echoed as the burly man staggered back several steps, his face flushing pale then red, chest burning and throat itching, nearly coughing.

"Kid, I admit I was wrong about you—next time, I won't let you have it so easy!"

Before his words finished, the man gathered his energy, advancing with dragon steps and elbows raised outward. He suddenly stepped sideways.

Mountain Press!

The attack was formidable, his shoulder and arm tensing and crackling. Chen Yu tried to dodge, but they were too close. He pressed his palms down, wind swirling from his hands.

With a loud crash, he was sent flying several feet!

The burly man pursued, stepping and leaping, arms spread like a golden eagle, striking again!

The blows rained down—Chen Yu, barely upright, defended rapidly. Fists and feet flew in a flurry, drawing the crowd’s attention.

"Eight Hammer Sweep!"

Crash!

"Falling Elephant Smash!"

Crash!

Anyone watching could see the battle clearly.

One was burly, the other delicate; their figures crossed the arena, the advantage shifting toward the former.

Yet most eyes were on the youthful Daoist, whose appearance was less intimidating.

"Who is that Daoist?"

"No idea."

"He's young, but strong—he’s exchanged thirty or forty moves with Ox Fist Xu San Gui without defeat. Must be from a major temple like Zhengyuan or Haiyun."

"Possibly, but why isn’t he using Zhengyuan’s Five Beast Fist? Or Haiyun’s Qi Yun Hand?"

"Perhaps he's from another province, or some hidden Daoist sect?"

"I think his hand strikes and footwork look familiar—could he be the disciple of an old friend?"

"How can you tell?"

"Of course! I was once the terror of Guangyong—I’ve seen more heroes than you’ve eaten salt!"

While the spectators debated, Chen Yu was not as concerned as they imagined. He was indeed at a disadvantage, but he remained calm and composed. Aside from wincing when thrown by the Mountain Press, he showed no distress.

He wasn’t anxious; instead, the burly man grew impatient.

This damn Daoist is obviously using me for practice!

The man had initially dismissed Chen Yu—just a youngster, how much skill could he have? But now, even after exerting seventy or eighty percent of his strength and deploying all but his deadliest techniques, he could not defeat the youth.

The Daoist was becoming increasingly slippery; his footwork more agile, his strikes less reckless and more refined.

They clashed again, and the burly man discreetly shook his arms, feeling as though his bones might crack. He bit down hard; who knew where this kid got such strength, or how his slender frame could be so tough?

With each exchange, the man witnessed Chen Yu’s progress—now the youth could counter every move.

Frustrated, he looked at Chen Yu, who had deftly absorbed and redirected the force, flying lightly away. The man realized his latest attack had no effect; he couldn’t even disrupt Chen Yu’s rhythm.

"Enough! Enough!" the man declared, standing upright. "I concede!"

"I’m done!"

Though he said so, the burly man still bowed before leaving the arena.

Just as Chen Yu prepared to return the gesture, he heard the man shout, "Slippery as an eel! If not for your footwork, I’d finish you with a single punch!"

Rubbing his reddened shoulder and arm, the man thought he’d need medicinal wine for his chest later. He laughed, urging others to challenge Chen Yu, claiming the young Daoist’s fists were as soft as an infant’s.

He nearly claimed Chen Yu had nothing but his footwork.

Chen Yu took no offense—he was pleased.

His eyes glimmered as he looked down at his hands, feeling that after this bout, he had gained a deeper understanding of Yunhe Temple's martial arts, and was no longer as unfamiliar with them.

More practice would be welcome.

He cared not whether he won or lost, so long as he could hone his skills.