Chapter Eighteen: Beyond the Arena

Long Yu-zhen of She Mountain Sect steps forward, declaring his challenge. Another opponent enters the arena. Chen Yu clenches his fists, still absorbing the lessons gleaned from his recent bout. He restrains his eagerness, nodding for the match to begin.

The contest is barely underway when his opponent raises one leg, stamping it down, then crouches low and springs forward, his outstretched right leg slicing the air, leaving afterimages in its wake.

His speed is impressive—his strength, however, is not.

With a sharp crack, Chen Yu parries the attack with his palm. Another kick follows, but he brings his hands together to block, pressing and pushing in tandem. In that instant, inspiration strikes—he employs a technique snatched from the brawny man earlier, twisting his palms and, catching his adversary as his momentum fades, locks the outstretched leg against his chest.

Before the startled challenger can react, Chen Yu pulls and yanks him forward, lifts his back, squares his shoulders, and hurls himself into a collision—

A thud resounds. Dust billows as the hapless challenger is flung atop a knot of onlookers, who grumble and curse as he, red-faced and speechless, turns away to cover his shame and slink off.

"Layman, your sword," Chen Yu calls, tossing the long blade picked from the ground. Only a mumbled, crumpled thanks drifts back as the defeated man flees.

Shaking his head, Chen Yu sits cross-legged to steady his breath, awaiting the next challenger in silence.

---

Blades clash with a flurry of ringing strikes.

A sudden slash whirls by.

The two iron swords burst with cold light, scattering sparks.

Daoist Jiang pants, his trouser legs muddied, while his opponent, Qian Xuanzhong, fares even worse—drenched in sweat, his garments in tatters, crisscrossed with cuts.

“My admiration!” one declares.

“Superb swordplay!” the other replies.

Their exchange has left both exhilarated.

Qian Xuanzhong finds himself especially invigorated. In terms of raw power, he lags behind his opponent, having only recently grasped the art of soft force, and while he can wield his sect’s techniques, he has yet to master them. Even so, though Haiyun Monastery is outshone by Yuanhua Sect, its tradition remains formidable, and its soft force techniques are not few.

Should things turn deadly, Qian Xuanzhong secretly doubts his chances of surviving the Daoist’s blade.

“The Daoist’s cultivation is profound. Should I face any martial quandaries in the future, I hope you will not hesitate to offer your guidance,” he says.

“You flatter me, Layman Qian. To have attained such skill at your age is remarkable—not only in Guangyong, but across all seven southwestern provinces, you are truly a young hero. If I managed to win by half a point, it is only due to ten extra years of practice. I do not dare accept your praise,” Jiang replies.

They exchange modest words, each elevating the other, and the spectators find their comments reasonable. Having witnessed their duel, these martial artists recognize genuine skill when they see it.

---

“Impressive, Haiyun Monastery! I thought only Zhengyuan Monastery in Guangyong was noteworthy, but first Yue Haiping emerged, and now Jiang Qin’an—these young talents are truly formidable!”

“Daoist Jiang is indeed formidable, but the Blue-Robed Swordsman is not far behind. I hear he’s barely past twenty, has not only mastered force but also reached proficiency in soft force. His future is bright!”

The crowd buzzes with discussion, but Jiang and Qian pay them no mind. Both exhausted—one having fought three matches in succession, the other having exerted every skill—now withdraw together to rest among the Daoists.

The Blue-Robed Swordsman borrows a pale blue long robe to cover his shredded attire. The two fall into conversation, ranging widely in their topics. The swordsman, well-traveled and experienced, is well-versed in the martial world, his family itself leading a sect. The Daoist, hailing from another province, has seen much himself.

As they discuss current affairs, Jiang sighs, admitting that chaos looms near.

“Alas, it’s the same in other provinces,” Qian replies. Though the Southwest is relatively calm, especially compared to the war-torn Central Plains, unrest still brews, with undercurrents of strife in every prefecture. As someone from outside, he finds West Province fairly stable, and Guangyong the most peaceful within it.

“Peaceful? Hmph, that’s only because you weren’t here for the Taoyang incident. The carnage then was unspeakable!” Jiang fumes, unable to quell his anger even with a cup of water. He very nearly curses the so-called Grand General by name.

“Calm yourself, Daoist. I’ve heard of him too—a bloodthirsty butcher, the tales say,” Qian soothes.

Now Qian sees it clearly—though the Daoist is solemn and reserved, he is kind-hearted and cares deeply for the people.

“Purity!” A calm, measured chant rings out. The Blue-Robed Swordsman looks up to see the elderly Daoist who has just tucked his gloves into his sleeves. The old man smiles, and, ignoring Jiang’s awkwardness, waves his horsetail whisk and taps Jiang on the forehead.

“Do not be rash!”

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Jiang bows his head at last. “I understand, Master.”

With a sidelong glance, the old Daoist turns away.

Qian, ever attentive, catches a mutter as the old man walks off: “Over thirty and still so much trouble.”

He lets that pass, turning the conversation to other matters. As they talk, they notice the number of Daoists around them dwindling. Raising their eyes, they see the grounds have been divided into a dozen arenas, where Daoists and martial artists alike spar and contest with fierce enthusiasm.

Wait—

---

“Is that... Daoist Chen?” Jiang follows Qian’s gaze and sees a man deftly deflecting an opponent with one hand, then leaping high, launching a flurry of kicks.

It is indeed Chen Yu.

“Oh? Layman Qian, you know Daoist Chen as well?”

Qian grins. “Of course. When I once encountered bandits on the road, it was Daoist Chen who greatly aided me.”

Only now does Jiang notice that Chen Yu, whom he had always considered scholarly and otherworldly, is also formidable in martial arts.

“His force is steady, his movements nimble—he must be at the level of refined force,” he observes. Judging by his composure, he has not reached this level recently.

Jiang realizes he has underestimated his peer. He recalls their first meeting—delivering an invitation and finding the Daoist ethereal and extraordinary. He had assumed a young Daoist wounded by bandits could not possess much martial skill.

In hindsight, it seems his friend is a master in disguise.

“But then, how did rumors arise that he was seriously injured by mere brigands?”

Unable to make sense of it, Jiang lets the matter drop. Perhaps Chen Yu recovered over the past half year and even made a breakthrough.

Wait—

Just then, he sees Chen Yu dispatch another challenger, sending him flying out of the arena. Jiang is momentarily stunned—he recognizes the use of soft force in that move, which allowed Chen Yu to focus energy and hurl a man weighing well over a hundred pounds a full ten feet.

Soft force...

To progress from no understanding of force to proficiency in soft force within half a year—while recovering from injury—could this be possible?

Jiang recalls that it took him over three years to make the same journey.

Meanwhile, Qian’s hands tremble as he sips his tea to steady himself. Unlike Jiang, he does not know Chen Yu was wounded half a year ago, but he does recall that at their last meeting, Chen Yu’s force was awkward and unrefined—he had only just broken through.

So in just a few days?

Qian’s mind reels. His father and uncle always told him he was a rare talent in Qiyang, but how long did it take him? Nine months, perhaps?

The Blue-Robed Swordsman’s lips twitch. Father, Uncle—you always said I was a genius. But in that case, what does that make him?