At dawn, Rat Alley's fog mingled with the stench of stale, overnight slop.
Chen Ping squatted by the doorway of a broken-down shack, cradling a coarse porcelain bowl with a chip missing from its rim as he slurped his hot porridge.
Today, he'd made a point of adding an extra handful of pickled mustard stems. They crunched between his teeth, their salty taste spreading across his tongue and barely suppressing the faint, fishy sweetness deep in his throat.
The sensation of crushing the Jin Manor steward's throat bone last night was far too vivid.
That brittle snap, that warm, sticky touch—it felt as if they had taken root in his hand.
Chen Ping lowered his head and glanced at his hands. The black grime beneath his fingernails was still there, and his knuckles were thick and calloused. They looked just like the hands of a man who'd spent his life doing rough labor.
He forced the thrill of the kill down into his belly, swallowed the last mouthful of hot porridge with it, and slowly felt his heartbeat return to its usual calm.
"Full belly, now time to hit the road and put on a show."
Chen Ping wiped his mouth and headed out.
There were three roads to the Training Ground. He deliberately chose the longest one, taking a detour past the foul-smelling ditch on the west side of the city.
Weeds choked the ditch. A few wild dogs were tearing into something there, growling low in their throats as they fought over their prize.
The air reeked of rot, masking any trace of blood that might have been there.
Chen Ping walked past without looking aside, his steps never faltering, though the corner of his eye caught the dogs fighting over a few scraps of cloth.
They were scraps from the Jin Manor steward's clothes.
As for the corpse, that bottle of Corpse Dissolving Powder hadn't been bought for nothing. It had long since melted him into a puddle of yellow water, which had mingled with the filth filling the ditch.
No one had noticed. No one had reported it to the authorities.
Chen Ping's tense back relaxed a little. At last, the weight hanging over him settled back into his gut.
In this world, a person's death was no different from a dog's. As long as no one came looking for them, the authorities couldn't be bothered to fish bones out of a stinking ditch.
By the time he reached the Training Ground, the sun had just poked its head out from behind the clouds.
Today's matches would narrow the sixteen contestants down to eight. The crowd was larger than it had been in previous days, and the uproar shook the heavens.
Chen Ping hunched his shoulders and squeezed through the crowd like a startled quail, but his eyes keenly swept toward the highest stand.
The Jin Family's canopy.
Something about the atmosphere there felt off.
The Jin Family's young master, Jin Shijie, wasn't wearing his showy Golden Silk Armor today. Instead, he was dressed in black robes, his face so gloomy it looked ready to drip.
The guards behind him looked flustered, huddling together to whisper.
"...The steward still hasn't come back?"
"We asked at the Drunken Spring Pavilion. The madam said he left last night..."
"The young master's in a foul mood. Who'd dare invite his wrath..."
Chen Ping withdrew his gaze, the corner of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly before he put on another miserable expression.
It seemed the Jin Family had noticed the steward was missing, but they would never guess that the poor scholar who'd meekly taken their bribe would dare to stir up trouble right under their noses.
"Group D, draw your lots!"
The registrar's hoarse voice rang out.
Chen Ping shuffled along with the crowd to the platform. His calves started trembling, and the hand he plunged into the bamboo lot tube shook like a sieve.
He rummaged around inside for a long while before finally pulling out a bamboo stick with trembling fingers.
The registrar snatched the lot from him, glanced at it, then called out with a smile that never reached his eyes, "Group D, contestant number seven, Chen Ping, versus Group D, contestant number two, 'Ghost Hand Seven'!"
A wave of boos rose around them.
"Ghost Hand Seven? He's one of the Jin Family's enforcers, a master of hidden weapons!"
"That kid Chen's luck has finally run out."
"It's over, it's over. They'll be carrying him off on a stretcher this time."
When Chen Ping heard the name "Ghost Hand Seven," his body stiffened. He went deathly pale and staggered off to one side, looking as if his soul had left his body.
In truth, the instant he turned around, a glint of icy coldness flashed in his eyes.
Just as he'd thought. The Jin Family had paid to buy him off; for insurance, they'd naturally arrange for a vicious opponent to "check" the results.
If he obediently threw the match, fine. But if he dared to fight back...
Chen Ping found a corner to squat in and closed his eyes to rest.
The gamblers in the stands were still pointing at him. Some cursed him as a "lucky piece of shit," while others lamented that the few coins they'd bet on him were about to go down the drain.
Chen Ping let the foul abuse go in one ear and out the other. He regulated his breathing as the Longevity of Pine and Crane circulated slowly through his body, bringing him into peak condition.
"Ah—!"
A shrill scream cut through the air.
The first match had begun.
On the ring, a man with a saber had his chest crushed by a hammer. Blood sprayed out, spattering the edge of the ring and even splashing onto the faces of spectators in the front row.
The crowd didn't panic. Instead, they erupted in even more frenzied howls, like sharks scenting blood.
Chen Ping cracked his eyes open and looked toward the judges' seats.
Jin Zhenshan sat upright in a Grand Master Chair, rolling two iron balls in his hand. He didn't even raise an eyelid at the life-and-death fight on the ring.
In his eyes, these low-level martial artists risking their lives for fame were no more than beasts kept for entertainment.
"Next match: Chen Ping versus Ghost Hand Seven!"
At last, it was his turn.
Chen Ping took a deep breath, pretended his legs were weak, and stumbled as he climbed onto the ring.
A stooped man stood opposite him. His arms were strangely long, hanging almost to his knees.
His hands were as gaunt as kindling, his fingernails black. He clearly had poison palms, honed by years of soaking them in toxins.
This was Ghost Hand Seven.
Ghost Hand Seven looked at Chen Ping's pathetic appearance, his gaze full of contempt and cruelty.
He raised a gaunt hand and slowly drew it across his throat. His mouth stretched into a grin, revealing a full set of yellow teeth.
It was a death warrant.
The Jin Family didn't just want him to lose. They wanted him dead.
The steward's disappearance hadn't been traced to Chen Ping, but the Jin Family would rather kill an innocent than let a guilty man go. They meant to wipe out every last trace.
"The match... begins!"
Before the final word had even left the official's mouth, Ghost Hand Seven moved.
He had no regard for the rules of martial conduct. He didn't bother testing his opponent. His gaunt right hand snapped out, and three streaks of dark light shot forth from his sleeve in a triangular formation!
Bone Piercing Nails!
And they were poisoned Bone Piercing Nails, gleaming with a ghostly blue death-glow beneath the sun. They cut off every avenue of escape to Chen Ping's left and right.
The crowd below gasped.
Chen Ping's heart tightened. Ghost Hand Seven's attack was too fast, too vicious.
If he used the Light Body Movement Technique to dodge, he would inevitably expose his true strength. If he took the attack head-on, even the Shattered Stone Palm couldn't keep the poisoned nails from piercing his flesh.
At the critical moment, Chen Ping suddenly stumbled, as if he'd been so frightened he'd lost his footing, and toppled backward.
"It's over!"
Someone cried out.
Yet no one noticed that Chen Ping's heel had landed just at the edge of a slightly loose paving brick.
The instant the three poisoned nails came rushing toward his brow with a blood-sour gust, the scene seemed to freeze.
The terror remained on Chen Ping's face, but his toes had already clamped tightly around the loose brick, a surge of hidden force poised to erupt.
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