Chen Wuya's palm was still smeared with blood. Dark red seeped through his fingers, slid along the edge of the wooden sword, and struck the ground, leaving a tiny dent. He neither shook his hand nor stepped back. He merely slowly pressed the bloodstained dart in his hand into the soil, neither hurried nor slow, as though driving down a silent boundary marker.
It was so quiet that one could hear withered grass snapping in the wind.
The gray-robed old man still stood where he had been, his bronze staff planted against the ground, his gaze unmoving. But the crowd behind him had begun to shift. Some lowered their heads to avoid eye contact, while others quietly retreated half a step. Bai Zhi stood behind and to the side of Chen Wuya, her fingers resting on her sword hilt as her gaze swept over those faces that wanted to speak but held back. She said nothing.
"Three matches." Chen Wuya finally spoke. His voice was not loud, yet it reached every ear clearly. "One from the Heavenly Sword Sect, one from the Green City Sect, and a Cang Sect elder personally taking the field—I took them all."
He paused and raised his eyes toward the Heavenly Sword Sect. "You set the rules. If I won, you were not to seek the scroll for three years. Now, are you going to go back on your word before everyone, or let the world see that the Eight Great Sects cannot even honor a wager?"
A stir ran through the crowd as his words fell.
A Heavenly Sword Sect disciple could not help whispering, "But what he used was a Demonic Cult method..." Before he could finish, the elder beside him seized his shoulder.
"Shut up." The elder's face was livid, but he