Betting in the Dark

The next morning, the sky was overcast.

Around the Training Ground, the crowd was already buzzing, even livelier than the day before.

Chen Ping didn't rush to the sign-in area. Instead, he pulled his bamboo hat lower and slipped into an unremarkable alley beside the Training Ground.

There hung a tattered banner reading "Xinglong Gambling House." Inside, the air was thick with smoke, the stench of sweat and unwashed feet stinging the eyes.

Chen Ping patted the silver pouch at his waist.

Inside were a few leftover silver scraps of his own, plus forty taels he'd borrowed from Tie Niu the night before, swallowing his pride.

That simpleton Tie Niu, when Chen Ping said he needed money to "grease some palms," had handed over his entire savings without a second thought.

Every coin was what Tie Niu had scrimped and saved from his own frugal living.

Under the wooden placard bearing his name, the odds of "one-to-ten" still glared harshly. After yesterday's "shoddy" victory, everyone saw him as a lucky bum who'd stumbled into a fluke.

"Fifty taels on Chen Ping to make the top ten."

Chen Ping deliberately lowered his voice, playing the part of a desperate gambler going all in, and slapped the heavy silver pouch onto the counter.

The shop clerk glanced at him like he was an idiot, then swiftly took the money and issued a ticket.

Pocketing the betting slip, Chen Ping walked out of the gambling house.

Fifty taels—if he won, it'd be five hundred, enough to buy a few decently aged herbs and push his Longevity of Pine and Crane a notch higher.

This time, he wasn't just betting money. He was betting his life was tough enough to hold.

The gong for the second round soon rang out.

Chen Ping stood on the arena platform, facing a lean man with a dark, sinister gaze.

This man was called Zhang San Tui, well-known south of the city. Word had it his legs could snap a thigh-thick wooden stake, and he specialized in speed.

"Kid, you got lucky yesterday. Today, you won't be so fortunate."

Zhang San Tui sneered, kicked off the ground, and shot forward like an arrow from a bow.

Fast!

Gasps rose from the crowd below.

But in Chen Ping's eyes, the man's movements were slowed several times over.

With the Longevity of Pine and Crane circulating day and night, his five senses had long surpassed ordinary men. Zhang San Tui's vaunted speed was, to him, just a bit quicker than the average person.

Chen Ping instinctively wanted to sidestep, but he checked his foot and forced himself to stop.

Can't dodge too easily.

Too easy, and he'd blow his cover.

He pretended to react too late, stumbling backward in a clumsy lean, barely evading the kick aimed at his face.

The wind of the strike stung his skin, making it look perilously close.

Zhang San Tui pressed his advantage, unleashing a flurry of kicks like a storm.

Chen Ping flailed and scrambled, looking utterly overwhelmed on the surface, but every step he took landed squarely in the blind spots of his opponent's attacks.

"This kid—he's like a damn eel!"

Frustrated by his inability to land a hit, Zhang San Tui's eyes turned vicious.

He took a deep breath, launched himself into the air, and whipped a powerful leg around with a howling wind, aimed straight at Chen Ping's temple.

If that kick connected, he'd either be dead or a vegetable.

No way to dodge.

Chen Ping's eyes sharpened. He stopped holding back.

Instead of retreating, he stepped half a pace forward, raising his left arm, muscles tensed like iron.

"Thud!"

A dull sound of flesh colliding rang out.

The expected scene of Chen Ping being sent flying didn't happen. Instead, Zhang San Tui's face twisted in agony, his features contorted.

He felt as if he'd kicked solid granite, a searing pain shooting through his shinbone.

"How is this possible..."

Before Zhang San Tui could react, Chen Ping's gaze turned fierce.

Opportunity.

He abandoned his signature Shattered Stone Palm killing move, turning his palm into a push—using an unremarkable technique from the style called "Push Mountain."

This move didn't rely on internal force penetrating the body; it was all about raw power.

Chen Ping pressed his right hand against Zhang San Tui's chest, dug his feet into the ground, and channeled force from his waist and abdomen, then shoved.

"Get down!"

The push was utterly plain, yet it carried the thousand-jun strength Chen Ping had honed over three years of tempering his bones and muscles.

Zhang San Tui felt an overwhelming, irresistible force surge into him, sending him flying uncontrollably off the arena. With a "thud," he crashed to the ground, clutching his leg and wailing in agony.

The arena fell silent for a moment, then erupted into sparse, scattered applause.

"That kid... he's got some serious strength."

"Yeah, Zhang San Tui was just unlucky—kicked a hard bone and got shoved right off."

The crowd buzzed with chatter, most assuming Chen Ping had won through brute force and a stroke of luck.

Only at the betting house, a few sharp-eyed clerks hurried backstage. Before long, Chen Ping's odds quietly dropped a notch.

Chen Ping dusted off his sleeves and hopped down from the arena. That block and push had been clean and efficient—winning the match without revealing too much of his hand. Just right.

But before he could relax, a commotion in the distance caught his attention.

On another arena, Jin Shijie stood with a twisted grin, his foot pressing down on an examinee's knee.

"Crack!"

The sickening sound of bone breaking rang out clearly.

The examinee screamed in agony and passed out cold. Jin Shijie didn't care in the least, even wiping his shoe sole on the victim's clothes with disdain.

He lifted his head, his gaze cutting through the crowd, and shot a provocative look toward Chen Ping.

More precisely, toward Tie Niu, who was about to take the stage.

Chen Ping's heart sank, a foreboding feeling creeping in.

When it was Tie Niu's turn, his opponent turned out to be a Black-Clad Man skilled in dirty tricks.

That man moved like a slippery eel, targeting only the lower body.

Tie Niu, with all his raw strength, couldn't land a hit. Instead, the Black-Clad Man caught an opening and struck him square in the back with a palm.

"Pfft!"

Tie Niu spat out a mouthful of blood, his massive frame crashing heavily to the ground.

The Black-Clad Man wasn't done yet, moving in for a finishing blow, but the referee slowly called a halt.

"Tie Niu!"

Chen Ping rushed over, helping up Tie Niu, whose face was as pale as paper.

As he touched him, Tie Niu's back muscles were stiff, his breathing faint—he'd suffered severe internal injuries.

"Ping... Ping-ge, I... I lost..."

Tie Niu barely opened his eyes, blood still trickling from his mouth, his gaze full of guilt.

"Shut up. Don't talk."

Chen Ping barked in a low voice. As he supported Tie Niu's back, he quietly pressed his palm against the vital acupoint on his spine.

From the warm, mellow Changchun inner energy within him, he drew a thread-thin stream, slowly channeling it into Tie Niu's body.

This energy wasn't meant to heal, only to protect the heart meridian and stabilize the injury.

If anyone found out he possessed such pure life-nurturing inner energy, it would spell instant death.

But seeing Tie Niu like this, Chen Ping couldn't harden his heart enough to ignore it.

Feeling that warm current, Tie Niu's breathing steadied, and he drifted into unconsciousness.

Chen Ping handed Tie Niu over to the arriving Medical Officer, then stood up, his gaze sweeping toward Jin Shijie in the distance.

The man made a throat-slitting gesture toward him, a cruel smile plastered on his face.

The chill in Chen Ping's eyes was colder than the frost of deep autumn.

At dusk, the second round ended.

Chen Ping looked at his name on the leaderboard—he'd successfully advanced to the top sixteen.

Just one step away from the top ten.

But when he saw his next opponent's name, his eyes narrowed.

The opponent was called "Ghost Hand Seven," with no hometown, no background.

Chen Ping had spent time in the Black Market and knew what a name like that meant.

This was a death warrior—a tool bred specifically for killing.

And in Jinguang City, the only family that could afford such a death warrior was the Jin Family, no question.

"They're trying to cut me down here, keep me out of the top ten."

Chen Ping saw it clearly.

The Jin Family wanted to sweep the top spots, so they couldn't tolerate a "variable" like him—especially since he was that "ungrateful" leftover from the Lin Manor.

As night deepened, Chen Ping walked home alone.

The west city alley was already rundown, and now it was eerily silent.

The cold wind swept up dead leaves, rustling against the Blue Stone pavement.

When Chen Ping reached a corner, he stopped.

In the shadows ahead stood several ruffians, arms crossed, each with a shifty air, twirling short clubs and daggers in their hands.

And among them stood a middle-aged man in a silk robe.

Chen Ping recognized him—he was a steward of Jin Manor, the sort who always lorded it over others like a dog relying on its master's power.

"Chen Ping, is it?"

Steward Jin sized Chen Ping up with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes, his gaze unmistakably that of a man eyeing a stray dog about to be butchered.

Chen Ping hunched his back slightly, hands tucked into his sleeves, and put on a timely look of panic:

"Gentlemen... what's this about? I don't have any money on me."

"No money? You were throwing it around pretty freely at the gambling den today."

Steward Jin snorted, casually pulled a heavy money pouch from his chest, and tossed it at Chen Ping's feet.

Clink.

The sound of silver hitting the ground rang out crisp and clear in the silent alley.

"That's a hundred taels."

Steward Jin clasped his hands behind his back, speaking slowly and deliberately, his tone dripping with arrogance:

"Tomorrow's match—lose to the man Young Master Jin has arranged, and this money's yours. Otherwise, you won't even have enough for a coffin."