The Bystander Sees Clearly, Factions Discriminate

Afternoon.

The copper gong on the training ground had barely stopped ringing when the first round of eliminations sent several hundred dejected men shuffling out the gates. The half who remained didn't look much better off.

In the dusty rest area, two worlds were starkly divided.

Under the eastern awning, large basins of ice billowed white vapor. Sons of noble families fanned themselves with folding fans while maids served chilled sour plum soup.

Jin Shijie lounged in a grand armchair, legs crossed, surrounded by a ring of sycophantic hangers-on. Bursts of grating laughter erupted from their circle every so often.

On the western open ground, hundreds of common examinees like Chen Ping could only crowd beneath a few sparse old locust trees.

Chen Ping squeezed himself to the very edge of the shade, minimizing every movement, even slowing his breath to a long, shallow rhythm.

The Longevity of Pine and Crane circulated slowly within him, letting his stamina recover quickly during this brief respite.

"Hey, you big oaf over there—make room for the young master!"

A sharp shout shattered the silence.

The rat-faced lackey at Jin Shijie's side had somehow wandered over, a club in hand, pointing arrogantly at Tie Niu, who was leaning against a tree trunk with his eyes closed.

Tie Niu's eyes snapped open, bloodshot and as big as copper bells.

He'd already spent plenty of energy on the stone-lifting round and was in a foul mood. Seeing this lackey picking a fight for no reason, he shot to his feet, his iron-tower frame casting a long shadow.

"Is this tree planted by your family? Why should I move?"

Tie Niu's voice boomed, startling even the cicadas into silence for a moment.

"Why? Because this spot's been picked by Young Master Jin to tie his horse!"

The lackey sneered, slapping the club against his palm in a lazy rhythm.

"What, you got a problem? Believe me, you won't even make it to the arena this afternoon."

Tie Niu was a straightforward man who couldn't stomach such humiliation. Veins bulged on his neck, and his massive hand was about to swing.

A thin but powerful hand silently clamped down on Tie Niu's wrist.

Chen Ping's sallow face wore its trademark fawning smile, but his body was wedged like a nail between the two men. He lowered his voice to a whisper in Tie Niu's ear:

"Brother Tie Niu, don't be rash. If you throw a punch now, you'll give them an excuse to disqualify you. Save your strength for the exam. Don't fall for their provocation."

Tie Niu froze. The word "disqualification" choked back his reckless fury. Breathing heavily, he shot the lackey a vicious glare, then finally shook off his hand and plopped back down on the ground.

Chen Ping turned to the lackey, bowing and scraping with a fawning smile:

"Esteemed sir, I'll talk some sense into him. Please, a great man doesn't hold a grudge against a petty fool like him."

Seeing Tie Niu back down and Chen Ping's spineless demeanor, the lackey lost interest.

He contemptuously spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the ground, right by Chen Ping's foot:

"Tch, a coward after all. What trash like you doing taking the Imperial Military Examination?"

With that, he swaggered off, but his sinister gaze swept over Chen Ping before he left—clearly marking that face.

Chen Ping kept his head down, staring at the phlegm. His humble expression didn't flicker, but his fingers, hidden in his sleeve, twitched slightly.

Patience was a knife balanced over the head.

A moment of reckless bravery now would make him a target for everyone.

The Jin Family had too much power. If he got on their radar now, the afternoon's combat round would be full of dirty tricks aimed at him.

Once the lackey was far away, Chen Ping sat back down cross-legged. Pretending to drink water, he swept his gaze casually across the crowd.

Besides obvious noble sons like Jin Shijie, there were plenty of tough nuts hidden in the crowd.

To his front left, a man in a blue short jacket had bulging temples and barely moved his chest when breathing—clearly trained in internal breathing techniques.

To his right, a skinny man kept filing his nails; his knuckles were thick and dark, likely from practicing something vicious like Eagle Claw technique.

Chen Ping silently marked these men with red crosses in his mind.

If he ran into them, he couldn't afford to be careless.

Suddenly, his gaze froze.

In the shadow of a broken wall far from the crowd stood a young man in black.

He held a long sword in its sheath against his chest, like a block of ice that had never thawed. No one dared come within three feet of him.

The man sensed the stare and snapped his eyes up.

What a sharp gaze!

Chen Ping's heart lurched. He quickly looked away, pretending to watch a nearby vendor.

That man in black was Leng Feng. Chen Ping had noticed him during the stone-lifting round.

He hadn't used brute force at all—he'd lifted the three-hundred-pound stone with one hand like it was a piece of tofu. And the killing intent that burst out in that instant was something only someone who'd rolled through piles of corpses would have.

This was a formidable opponent, even more dangerous than Jin Shijie.

"Coming through! Coming through! Family-recipe Strength Pills! Eat one and gain boundless strength—guaranteed to win you three straight matches on the arena this afternoon!"

"Maoshan Taoist personally drawn Victory Charm! Stick it on your chest, and no blade or spear can pierce you!"

A few peddlers who had slipped in through the cracks were hawking at the top of their lungs among the crowd.

Those colorful pills gave off a strange stench, and the talismans were crude and shoddy—any sharp-eyed person could see it was a scam.

But plenty of examinees still crowded around them anyway.

Someone emptied his coin pouch, bought a "Strength Pill," and swallowed it on the spot.

Someone else tremblingly pressed a "Victory Charm" against his undergarment, muttering incantations under his breath.

Chen Ping watched the scene, his heart utterly calm—if anything, he felt like laughing.

When people were desperate and anxious, even a straw could seem like a lifeline.

Too bad the martial path had never offered shortcuts.

"Boom—! Boom—! Boom—!"

Three drumbeats rang out, shaking everyone's hearts.

The once-chaotic training ground fell silent in an instant, and all eyes turned to the General's Platform.

A fully armored examiner strode forward, unrolling a scroll of yellow silk, his voice like a great bell:

"Noon has passed. The combat round begins! The rules are simple: draw lots to decide matches, two men fight. Whoever falls off the platform loses; whoever yields loses; death or injury... no questions asked!"

Those last four words carried a bloody edge, turning several greenhorns who had never seen real blood pale as sheets.

Chen Ping took a long breath, stood up, and followed the crowd toward the lottery urn.

The Longevity of Pine and Crane inside him quickened its circulation, adjusting his body to an optimal state—relaxed on the surface, taut beneath.

He reached into the urn, his fingertips brushing against a bamboo slip. It was icy cold to the touch.

He pulled it out and looked: Group D, Number Seven.

"Group D, Number Seven, step up!"

At the examiner's command, Chen Ping lowered his head, hunched his shoulders, and climbed step by step onto the rough-hewn wooden platform.

His opponent was already standing there.

What stood on the platform was a mountain of flesh.

A burly man, a full two meters tall, bare-chested and covered in thick black hair, hefting two cartwheel-sized Flower-engraved Axes.

The blades glinted coldly—clearly just sharpened.

Seeing the scrawny Chen Ping step up, the giant grinned savagely, slowly licked his crimson tongue across the icy axe blade, and looked at him like a weak chicken waiting to be slaughtered.

"Kid, if you don't want to be split in half, roll off on your own."