Ghost Hand Claims Life

The morning mist in Rat Alley was thick with the stench of last night's slop.

Chen Ping crouched at the door of a rundown shack, slurping hot porridge from a chipped coarse-ware bowl.

Today he'd tossed in an extra handful of pickled veg, crunching it between his teeth as the saltiness spread across his tongue, barely suppressing that faint, coppery tang lurking deep in his throat.

The feel of crushing that Jin Manor steward's throat last night was still too vivid.

That crack, that warm, sticky sensation—it felt like it had taken root in his hands.

Chen Ping glanced down at his own palms. Black grime still clung to his nail beds, his knuckles thick and calloused—the hands of a man who'd done rough labor for years.

He forced the thrill of that kill down into his gut, swallowing it along with the last mouthful of hot porridge, his heartbeat slowly settling back to its usual calm.

"Full belly, time to hit the road and play my part."

Chen Ping wiped his mouth, stood, and headed out.

There were three paths to the Training Ground. He picked the longest one, taking a detour past the stinking ditch on the west side of town.

Weeds grew thick along the ditch. A few stray dogs were tearing into something, snarling and growling over their prize.

The air reeked of rot, drowning out any trace of blood that might have lingered.

Chen Ping walked past without a sideways glance, his steps steady, but his peripheral vision caught the dogs fighting over scraps of cloth.

Remnants of the Jin steward's clothes.

As for the body—that bottle of Corpse Dissolving Powder hadn't been bought for nothing. It had already melted into a puddle of yellow fluid, mingling with the filth in the ditch.

No one had noticed. No one had reported it to the authorities.

Chen Ping's tense back relaxed a fraction, the weight in his chest settling back where it belonged.

In this world, a dead man was no different from a dead dog. As long as no one came looking, the authorities couldn't be bothered to fish bones out of a sewer.

By the time he reached the Training Ground, the sun had just peeked out from behind the clouds.

Today was the round of sixteen, narrowing down to eight. The crowd was bigger than the previous days, the noise deafening.

Chen Ping hunched his neck, squeezing through the throng like a startled quail, but his eyes swept sharply toward the highest viewing stand.

The Jin Family's awning.

Something was off about the atmosphere there.

Jin Shijie, the eldest young master of the Jin Family, wasn't wearing his flashy Golden Silk Armor today. Instead, he was clad in black robes, his face dark enough to drip water.

The guards behind him looked flustered, huddled together and muttering.

"...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 rage. Who dares poke that hornet's nest..."

Chen Ping looked away, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips before he replaced it with a grim, worried expression.

So the Jin Family had noticed the steward was missing. But they'd never guess that the timid, broke scholar who'd taken their bribe would dare to tweak the tiger's whiskers.

"Group D, draw lots!"

The registrar's raspy voice rang out.

Chen Ping shuffled forward with the crowd, his legs trembling, his hand shaking like a sieve as he reached into the lottery tube.

He fumbled around for a while before finally pulling out a bamboo slip.

The registrar snatched it, glanced at it, and announced with a thin, insincere smile: "Group D, number seven, Chen Ping, versus Group D, number two, 'Ghost Hand Seven'!"

A wave of jeers erupted around him.

"Ghost Hand Seven? That's the Jin Family's enforcer, a master of hidden weapons!"

"That Chen guy's luck has run out."

"He's done for. He'll be carried off on a stretcher this time."

Chen Ping's body stiffened at the name "Ghost Hand Seven." His face went pale, and he retreated to the side, looking utterly defeated.

But in the moment he turned, a chill gleamed in his eyes.

Just as expected.

The Jin Family had paid him off, and to be safe, they'd naturally arranged a ruthless opponent to "verify" the results.

If he lost obediently, fine. If he dared to resist...

Chen Ping found a corner, crouched down, and closed his eyes to rest.

The gamblers in the stands were still pointing at him, cursing him as "lucky dog shit," lamenting the few coins they'd bet on him going down the drain.

The insults buzzed in his ears, but Chen Ping tuned them out, focusing on his breathing. The Longevity of Pine and Crane circulated slowly through his body, honing his state to its peak.

"Ahhh--!"

A bloodcurdling scream tore through the air.

The first match had begun.

On the arena, a man wielding a blade had his chest shattered by an opponent's hammer. Blood sprayed out, splattering the edge of the platform and even the faces of the front-row spectators.

The crowd didn't flinch in fear—instead, they erupted into even more frenzied roars, like sharks drawn to the scent of blood.

Chen Ping cracked his eyes open slightly, glancing toward the examiner's seat.

Jin Zhenshan sat upright in a grand armchair, idly rolling two iron balls in his palm. He didn't so much as lift an eyelid at the life-and-death struggle on the stage.

In his eyes, these low-tier martial artists fighting tooth and nail for fame were nothing more than beasts in a pit, put on display for his amusement.

"Next match: Chen Ping versus Ghost Hand Seven!"

Finally, it was his turn.

Chen Ping took a deep breath, feigned weak legs, and stumbled clumsily onto the arena.

Across from him stood a hunched man with abnormally long arms, hanging down nearly past his knees.

Those hands were withered like dry branches, nails blackened—clearly the result of years of soaking in poison to cultivate a venomous palm technique.

This was Ghost Hand Seven.

Ghost Hand Seven looked at Chen Ping's pathetic demeanor, his eyes filled with contempt and cruelty.

He raised that shriveled hand and slowly drew a horizontal slicing motion across his own throat, lips curling back to reveal a mouthful of yellow teeth.

A death warrant.

It seemed the Jin Family didn't just want him to lose—they wanted him dead.

The steward's disappearance hadn't been traced back to Chen Ping, but the Jin Family would rather kill the wrong man than let a threat slip by. This was a clean sweep.

"Begin... the match!"

Before the words had even faded, Ghost Hand Seven's figure moved.

The man had no martial honor whatsoever. He didn't bother testing the waters—his withered right hand snapped out, sleeve tearing through the air as three streaks of black light shot forth in a triangular formation!

Bone Piercing Nails!

And these were laced with lethal poison, gleaming with a ghostly blue sheen under the sun, sealing off all paths of retreat to Chen Ping's left and right.

Gasps rose from the crowd below.

Chen Ping's heart tightened. Ghost Hand Seven struck too fast, too vicious.

If he used the Light Body Movement Technique to dodge by force now, he'd expose his true strength. If he tried to block, even with the Shattered Stone Palm protecting his body, those poisoned nails would still tear through flesh and skin.

In that split second, Chen Ping's foot suddenly slipped—like he'd been scared stiff and lost his balance—and he toppled backward.

"He's done for!"

Someone shouted.

But no one noticed that Chen Ping's heel had precisely stepped onto the edge of a slightly loose blue brick.

Just as the three poisoned nails, reeking of blood, closed in on his brow, the scene froze for an instant.

The terror in Chen Ping's eyes still lingered on his face, but his toes had already clenched tightly around that loose brick, a hidden force coiling, ready to strike.