Rapid Advancement to a Second-Rate Expert in the Martial World

Inside the imperial palace, near Qianchuan Hall, a squad of the emperor's personal guards was on patrol. The commander of this imperial guard unit was surnamed Zhou, named Tiejun, and bore the courtesy name Chen Ge.

At the mention of that name in the capital's martial world, anyone who had spent even two years in the jianghu would turn a little pale.

Ten years ago, Zhou Tiejun had been the chief disciple of the Iron Sword Sect, a renowned sect in the Southern Border's martial world. He had wielded the Rift Abyss Sword Art with consummate skill, and by twenty-eight, he had already joined the ranks of the jianghu's First-Rate Experts.

Later, the Iron Sword Sect was implicated in a rebellion in the Southern Border, and its entire membership was executed. Zhou Tiejun alone received a pardon from the reigning emperor and was taken into the personal guard. In five years, he rose from an ordinary guard to commander, leading two hundred red-armored personal guards charged specifically with patrolling the palace.

The jianghu's assessment of him was summed up in eight words: "His sword struck like iron; he settled kindness and enmity alike."

At that moment, he was leading a twelve-man patrol slowly along the western route through the palace.

Torchlight flickered in the night wind, making the dark patterns on their red armor appear and disappear.

This area lay near the Cold Palace and abandoned halls. Few people usually came here; even the eunuchs and palace maids went out of their way to avoid it. Yet the patrol route had to pass through it, for the more secluded a place was, the more assassins and spies liked to exploit it.

Zhou Tiejun walked at the front, his right hand resting on his sword hilt out of habit, his gaze sweeping every shadow like a hawk's.

The personal guards behind him were equally alert. Their steps were light and steady, and though all twelve walked together, they made almost no sound.

The squad rounded a moon gate, and the courtyard wall of Qianchuan Hall came into view ahead.

The dilapidated library hall looked especially desolate in the moonlight. Dry grass filled the cracks between the bricks of its courtyard wall, and the plaque above the gate hung crooked.

Zhou Tiejun instinctively slowed his steps. He knew who was confined in Qianchuan Hall: the seventh prince, Su Yuanzheng.

He had also been on duty several days ago during the scandal that had shocked court and country. He had watched with his own eyes as the prince, a scholar who was normally gentle and refined, was escorted from the banquet, his face deathly pale and his robe still stained with wine thrown at him by the princess of a neighboring country.

On the night the seventh prince was taken to the imperial prison, Zhou Tiejun heard his subordinates discussing how the prince had been drugged.

But such things were all too common in the struggle for the throne. No one would speak up for a prince born of a concubine, one with no backing whatsoever.

For the seventh prince, being banished to house arrest in Qianchuan Hall was already the last scrap of mercy the emperor had shown in consideration of their blood ties.

That ruined hall would very likely be his entire world for the rest of his life.

Zhou Tiejun sighed inwardly and was just about to lead the squad onward when, all of a sudden, a black shadow flashed across the edge of his vision.

Fast! Blindingly fast!

The black shadow darted out of a side window of Qianchuan Hall, pushed off the courtyard wall, and slipped through the branches of a dead locust tree, as fast as a shadow scattered by the wind.

Zhou Tiejun's pupils contracted sharply. This had to be an extremely fast footwork technique.

Ten years ago in the Southern Border, he had seen an elder of the Iron Sword Sect perform a masterful footwork technique. The elder had moved like a bird skimming through the air, too fast for even a sword to follow, with much the same effect.

Though he ranked among First-Rate Experts, he was not skilled in footwork.

After all, mastering any martial art took at least several decades.

That elder had spent a full forty years bringing this intermediate martial art to perfection, and such skill was not something an ordinary person could possess.

Who lived in Qianchuan Hall? The seventh prince, that scholar prince who lacked even the strength to truss a chicken.

The few servants attending him were all old eunuchs transferred from the Cold Palace, their legs trembling even when they walked.

A few days. They had been under house arrest here for only a few days.

Then who was this shadow?

There was only one answer.

"An assassin!"

Zhou Tiejun gave a low shout, and the twelve personal guards behind him scattered at once, fanning out to surround the front and rear exits of Qianchuan Hall.

Zhou Tiejun himself had already shot forward like an arrow loosed from its string. Planting a foot on the courtyard wall, he sprang into the air and, in the blink of an eye, vaulted over it and landed in Qianchuan Hall's courtyard.

The moment he landed, the black shadow noticed him too and abruptly changed direction in midair, darting toward the back of the hall.

Zhou Tiejun would not give his opponent a chance to escape. He held his sword in his right hand, its tip pointing diagonally toward the ground.

His left hand thrust forward, its five fingers hooked into a claw, and a fierce surge of true qi gathered in his palm.

Immediately afterward, he struck out with his palm!

"Iron Lock Across the River!"

This was a grappling move, the opening form of the superior martial art Iron Prison Hand. When the palm struck, true qi became several strands of force like chains, weaving into a net designed to seal the enemy's escape routes.

Zhou Tiejun had always been known among the personal guard for "capture first, interrogate later." He rarely killed unless he had no other choice, because a live captive was worth more than a corpse.

He had put only half his strength into this palm strike, intending to restrain his opponent rather than take his life.

The black shadow had clearly not expected the newcomer to possess such formidable martial arts. His birdlike form abruptly faltered beneath the enveloping chainlike force.

But his opponent reacted just as quickly. Instead of retreating, he advanced, flipping head-down in midair. His right palm emerged from his sleeve and struck downward through the air.

Fiendish qi surged in his palm.

The instant Zhou Tiejun saw that strike, a judgment flashed through his mind like lightning: this palm force must have originated from a second-rate martial art, but it had been cultivated to the pinnacle.

The palm force was vicious, its fiendish qi concentrated in the palm. A hit would sever the victim's meridians inch by inch.

Anyone in the jianghu who could cultivate the Black Tiger Fist to this level was at least a skilled second-rate fighter.

He did not hesitate. He changed his palm into a fist, and the chainlike force instantly drew together, forming a protective barrier of true qi before him.

Bang!

Fist met palm, and a muffled impact exploded beneath the silent night sky.

Force scattered in all directions, flattening swathes of dry grass in the courtyard. Several dead branches snapped off the crooked locust tree and crashed to the ground.

Zhou Tiejun stood firm where he was, not retreating so much as half a step.

His opponent used the recoil from the palm strike to drift backward, landing lightly on the stone steps before the hall.

The torchlight finally fell on his opponent's face.

The instant Zhou Tiejun saw it clearly, he felt as though someone had punched him head-on. His pupils widened, and the longsword in his hand nearly slipped from his grasp.

It was a face he knew.

Fair and thin, with the scholarly air that came from years of reading in his features. He was still wearing the same blue-green robe he had worn when he was taken to the imperial prison a few days ago.

He was no assassin, but the seventh prince, Su Yuanzheng.

That scholar prince who could not even hold a sword steady a few days ago,

The prince universally acknowledged throughout court and country as the weakest,

The son of a concubine who had been framed and taken to the imperial prison without the slightest ability to fight back,

That young man under house arrest in Qianchuan Hall, waiting to die.

Not only had he mastered such swift and elusive footwork, the power behind that palm strike just now was enough to place him among the finest Second-Rate Experts.

And all this had happened in only a few days.

Could it be that the seventh prince was a once-in-an-age martial arts genius who simply had never encountered martial arts before?

There were quite a few martial arts manuals in Qianchuan Hall, but it was not a place a mere commander like him could enter either.

Zhou Tiejun felt as though his brain had turned to paste. He stood rooted to the spot, sword in hand, unable to utter a single word for a long while.

Chen Du stood on the stone steps, studying the uninvited guest who had suddenly burst in.

Red armor, a longsword, and a fierce bearing about him, as though he had weathered countless battles.

In that exchange of fist and palm just now, his opponent had clearly not used his full strength, yet the chainlike force had left Chen Du's entire right arm numb.

If the Flying Bird Body-Flicker Technique had not dispersed most of the force, he might already have been lying on the ground.

Judging by his attire, he was probably a commander of the personal guard.

To become a commander, one needed at least the strength of a First-Rate Expert.

So this was the strength of a First-Rate Expert?

Sure enough, there was a chasm between the first and second rates.

The two stared at each other like that for several breaths.

Then Zhou Tiejun thrust his longsword into the ground, its blade sinking three inches into the blue brick.

Immediately afterward, he dropped to one knee, his armor striking the stone paving with a heavy thud!

"Your subordinate Zhou Tiejun was late to defend Your Highness and offended you. My crime deserves ten thousand deaths!"

His head was lowered, his voice hoarse, and fine beads of sweat seeped from his forehead.

It was unclear whether he had been shaken by the palm strike just now or frightened by the facts before him.

Chen Du looked at him in silence for a while, then slowly descended the stone steps.

The fiendish qi of the Black Tiger Fiend Palm had already dissipated from his palm, leaving him with a scholar's hands once more,

With distinct knuckles and long, fair fingers, showing none of the marks a martial artist's hands should bear, save for a small, thin callus freshly rubbed onto the web between his thumb and forefinger.

"Commander Zhou," he said, his voice so calm that it was hard to believe he had just fought someone, "stand up and speak."

Zhou Tiejun's mind was still racing. A prince under house arrest had gone from nothing to the level of a Second-Rate Expert in a matter of days, matching what would take someone in the martial world ten years of cultivation.

If word of this got out, what would the factions at court that supported the other princes do?

They would eliminate this threat at any cost!

And what if the emperor found out? Would he be pleased or worried? Would he think this son of his finally had the strength to protect himself, or suspect that he had secretly colluded with some jianghu faction?

More importantly, once this news spread, the seventh prince would no longer be a useless piece already swept from the board. He would return to everyone's attention, becoming a wild card in the struggle for the throne, perhaps even a target.

Cold sweat ran down the lining of Zhou Tiejun's armor.

"Your Highness," he said in a lowered voice, without rising, "your subordinate will not breathe a word of what happened tonight."

Chen Du looked down at him. Moonlight spilled through gaps in the clouds onto his young face, a mingling of light and shadow that made his expression impossible to read.

Only after a long while did he give a quiet murmur of assent.

"Thank you for your efforts on patrol, Commander Zhou. You may go."

Zhou Tiejun rose, pulled the longsword from the ground, and sheathed it.

He took three steps back, turned, and vaulted over the courtyard wall, landing in the alley outside.

The twelve personal guards had already surrounded Qianchuan Hall. When they saw him come out, they all looked at him.

"Commander, where's the assassin?"

Without a change of expression, Zhou Tiejun said, "I saw wrong. It was an old eunuch in the hall bringing in clothes, and the wind blew a shadow."

The personal guards exchanged looks, but none dared question their commander's judgment.

The squad reformed, and the torchlight continued moving forward along the patrol route.

Only Zhou Tiejun himself knew that the hand holding his sword was still trembling slightly.

He suddenly realized that everyone had miscalculated one variable in this struggle for the throne.

And that variable had now become unconcerned with worldly affairs and begun to study martial arts with a tranquil mind.