First Probing of the Black Market, Arm-Wrestling to Determine Authenticity

The small door at the end of the alley was a boundary.

Outside the door were the ordinary lanes of Linyuan Prefecture; inside, a bizarre and twisted world entirely its own.

The moment Ye Qingxuan stepped through, the air around him turned foul—damp earthiness mixed with the black smoke of cheap burning oil, and a faint, lingering scent of blood, all drilling into his nostrils.

This was a massive underground cavern, its walls uneven, torchlight casting grotesque, dancing shadows on the rock that stretched and shrank human silhouettes like specters.

His steps were steady, always keeping his back close to the cavern wall, so no one could strike from behind. A black cloth covered his face, leaving only a pair of eyes that swept warily over everything around him.

By the path sat vendors on the ground. One had a few rusted blades laid out before him, claimed to be relics of a former dynasty's general; another held a wooden box containing withered herbs that gave off a strange odor. Further off, a man in handcuffs stared with hollow eyes, a wooden plaque stuck in the ground before him, a price written on it.

This was the Ghost Market, where official law did not reach. Only gleaming silver and hard fists served as passes that went unimpeded.

His gaze swept past the stone wall hung with bamboo slips deeper in. The Fengtian Division's wanted notices stood out harshly in the dim firelight.

[Wanted: Remnants of the Green Fish Gang. Capture alive, one person, reward five taels of silver.]

Five taels of silver was no small sum.

But that money was hot to the touch. The Green Fish Gang were desperate men; capturing one alive would mean a fierce fight. He needed money, but he needed safety more. Tomorrow was the deadline—he could afford no misstep.

He withdrew his gaze and found a spot in a corner of the cavern, back against a stone pillar. The position was excellent—his back was covered, and the path ahead was fully visible.

From his bosom he pulled out a leftover charcoal stick, then took out an old wooden board he carried with him. Bending down, he scratched a few characters onto it.

[Clumsy Strength Art, trade for three taels of silver.]

This name, he had thought up on the way. This technique was the crudest scrap he had stripped from the Indestructible Vajra Body—teaching how to tense flesh and hold breath to exert force. It could give an ordinary person a bit of brute strength, but it was worlds apart from true martial cultivation.

The goods were real, but their use was limited. Still, for the bottom-feeders struggling to survive in this Ghost Market, it might be a rare opportunity.

Three taels of silver wasn't cheap, but it was just enough to weed out the idlers looking for a freebie.

He set the board upright before him, then sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and slowed his breath. He seemed to melt into the shadow of the stone pillar.

Time flowed slowly amid the clamor.

Now and then, someone stopped, pointed at the board, and let out a few snickers.

"Clumsy Strength Art? Honest name, at least."

"Three taels? This kid's gone mad for money!"

Ye Qingxuan paid them no heed, his form utterly still.

After who knew how long, a figure stopped in front of his stall. The man was short and stout, wearing a wide bamboo hat that hid most of his face.

He stared at the board for a long while before speaking in a muffled voice: "This 'Clumsy Strength Art' of yours—what's its background? Give me a bit to hear. If it makes sense, the price can be negotiated."

Ye Qingxuan didn't even lift his eyelids. From beneath his mask, he spat out three words.

"Silver first, goods later."

The stout man let out a low chuckle from his throat: "Young man, that's not how business is done in the Ghost Market. You have to let a customer see the wares before he can make an offer, no?"

Ye Qingxuan said nothing more, like a stone carving.

Silence was the most direct refusal.

The stout man waited a moment, saw no reaction, felt snubbed, shook his head, and melted back into the crowd.

This small exchange stirred no waves, but it drew another pair of eyes.

A burly man, built like an ox, had somehow appeared before the stall. His face was covered in a thick beard, and his copper-bell-like eyes swept over Ye Qingxuan. A stench of cheap liquor mixed with sweat hit the air.

"'Clumsy Strength Art,' selling for three taels?" The man's voice was like a cracked gong, dripping with mockery. "Kid, are you selling a recipe for eating two extra bowls of rice?"

A few loafers nearby burst into laughter.

Only then did Ye Qingxuan slowly open his eyes, meeting the burly man's gaze. This fellow's hands were thick and large, the knuckles all calluses—clearly a martial artist who lived by his strength.

"It can increase strength." Ye Qingxuan's voice was hoarse, deliberately lowered.

"Bullshit!" The bearded man spat on the ground. "In this Ghost Market, nine out of ten selling techniques are swindlers. Spend money to take it home, and it's just a few sheets of waste paper teaching you how to sunbathe or visualize. How do I know you're not peddling junk?"

"You don't." Ye Qingxuan's answer was unexpectedly blunt.

The bearded man froze. He had expected a glib defense.

"So you admit you're here to cheat?"

"I sell. You buy." Ye Qingxuan pointed at the board before him. "The price is written."

The bearded man narrowed his eyes. This masked man was too calm. If he wasn't a greenhorn fool, he was a tough hand with backing.

"Let me see the goods first."

"Three taels of silver."

"What if it's fake?"

"Your own bad luck."

"In this Ghost Market, selling fakes gets your hands chopped off!" The man's tone turned dark, threat seeping through his words.

"You can try." The hand resting on Ye Qingxuan's knee moved slightly.

Just a tiny motion, but it instantly tightened the air around them.

The few onlookers nearby instinctively stepped back several paces, clearing a space. They could smell the gunpowder in the air.

The burly, bearded man sized up Ye Qingxuan. His frame was lean, but his seated posture was as steady as a rock. The eyes visible above his face covering were dark and deep, betraying not a hint of panic.

"All talk and no action is just empty air." The man grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth. "You say your technique can build strength—fine! Then let me see your strength!"

Before his words faded, he slammed his thick right elbow—bang—onto a stone chest serving as a table nearby, kicking up a cloud of dust.

"Arm wrestling!" His voice boomed like a bell as he pointed at Ye Qingxuan. "You. Me. Right here."

A stir rippled through the crowd. This was the most common and direct way to settle disputes in the Ghost Market.

"If you can hold out against me for ten breaths, I'll believe your technique has some merit, and I'll pay those three taels of silver!" The bearded man swept his gaze around, spittle flying. "But if you can't hold out... hmph, you'll kowtow to me three times, admit you're a fraud, and get out of the Ghost Market!"

He clasped his hands toward the crowd. "Everyone here is my witness!"

All eyes focused on Ye Qingxuan.

The stakes were undeniably heavy. This bearded man was somewhat famous in the Ghost Market, known as "Iron Arm Hu." His body was tempered through rigorous training, his strength immense. Few present would dare boast of beating him at arm wrestling.

Ye Qingxuan's gaze swept over the man's arm—as thick as his own thigh—then fell back to himself.

He said nothing, only silently rose to his feet.

He was slightly taller than the burly man, but his frame appeared much thinner.

He walked to the stone chest and, under everyone's watch, slowly rolled up the sleeve of his right arm.

His arm lacked the bulging muscles of Iron Arm Hu's. The skin was smooth, yet beneath the firelight, it carried an unusual texture—like warm, polished jade, concealing a hidden force of a thousand jun within.

He planted his elbow firmly on the stone chest, facing the burly man.

"Only ten breaths?" Ye Qingxuan's hoarse voice rang out, its tone unreadable.

Iron Arm Hu burst into laughter. "What? Afraid you can't even last ten breaths?"

Ye Qingxuan didn't reply. He simply raised his right hand.

Iron Arm Hu's grin widened. He reached out with a hand as large as a winnowing fan and seized Ye Qingxuan's hand. His fingers clenched like iron pincers, intending to give this reckless brat a taste of his power first.

But the sound of cracking bones he anticipated never came.

That hand was hard as iron, steady as a mountain. Under his full grip, it didn't budge an inch.

The smile on Iron Arm Hu's face froze for a moment.

He increased the force in his hand, veins bulging along his arm like coiled, writhing dragons.

Ye Qingxuan's hand remained rock-solid.

"Has it started or not?" someone in the crowd shouted impatiently.

A low growl rumbled from Iron Arm Hu's throat. "Count!"

He leaned forward, engaging his waist and back, and a surge of immense power slammed down through his arm!