Acting

"Ow—!"

A shrill cry of alarm rang out across the arena.

Just as the bluish, venomous spike was about to pierce his brow, Chen Ping's boot sole slipped, and he toppled backward.

"Clang!"

The spike grazed the tip of Chen Ping's nose and embedded itself deep into the redwood pillar behind him.

It sank three inches into the wood, the tail still quivering violently, while the surrounding timber rapidly blackened with a sizzling, corrosive hiss.

Chen Ping landed flat on his back, face pale as death, scrambling backward with hands and feet, shouting:

"Murder! This isn't a spar—this is a hit on my life!"

Across from him, "Ghost Hand Seven" missed his strike, and the murderous glint in his eyes only sharpened.

The hunched man gave Chen Ping no chance to catch his breath. With a flick of his toe, he closed in like a phantom.

His withered hands, grotesquely oversized, hooked into eagle claws, reeking of blood, aimed straight for Chen Ping's throat.

Every move was vicious, intent on a quick kill.

The Jin Family's order was death, not defeat.

"Ma!"

Chen Ping yelped, abandoning all pretense of martial dignity. He curled up and executed a "Lazy Donkey Rolling" right there on the spot.

The roll was hideous, like a mangy dog wallowing in mud, drawing a wave of laughter and jeers from the crowd below.

"Get off! You pathetic disgrace!"

"And this guy made it to the second round? I'd do better myself!"

Up in the stands, Jin Shijie held a white porcelain teacup, sneering with contempt.

In his eyes, this slippery rat had been cornered, and in the next second, Ghost Hand Seven would tear out his throat.

But beneath the cover of dust and curses, Chen Ping's eyes—outwardly panicked and vacant—held an unfathomable calm.

Inside him, the Longevity of Pine and Crane quietly circulated, its warm current flowing through his ears and skin.

Everything around him slowed. Ghost Hand Seven's swift claw strikes became clear and distinct in his senses, down to the subtle muscle twitches in his opponent's landing foot.

Left... no, right rear.

As he rolled, Chen Ping's right hand, hidden by the ground, appeared to flail for support, but his index and middle fingers silently pinched a pebble the size of a fingernail.

Just as Ghost Hand Seven leaped into the air, ready to crush Chen Ping's chest with a mountain-shattering stomp—

Chen Ping's fingers flicked covertly.

That flick carried the penetrating force of a Great Accomplishment Shattered Stone Palm, silent yet swift as a shooting star.

"Pfft."

A faint, muffled thud.

The pebble struck Ghost Hand Seven's left leg precisely at the "Weizhong Acupoint" behind the knee.

This was a nerve hub in the leg's meridians. Struck hard, half the limb would instantly go numb.

Midair, Ghost Hand Seven felt his left leg give way. His originally thunderous pounce twisted off-balance, and he stumbled forward.

This was the chance!

Chen Ping, "flustered," scrambled to his feet, eyes squeezed shut, arms flailing like a drowning man grabbing at straws, throwing a wild, clumsy flurry of punches.

"Stay back! Stay back!"

He screamed as he swung his right arm in a full arc.

The punch looked limp and weak, its trajectory laughably absurd.

Yet, just as Ghost Hand Seven's body lurched out of control and his head lunged forward, that wild punch "coincidentally" landed square on his temple.

"Bam!"

What seemed like a feather-light blow actually carried a spiraling, drilling force.

Ghost Hand Seven didn't even grunt. His eyes rolled back, stars bursting in his vision.

The immense impact, combined with his own lost momentum, sent him flying sideways like a torn sack.

One step, two steps.

His foot found empty air, and he tumbled over the edge of the arena.

"Thud!"

The sound of a heavy body hitting the ground silenced the noisy Training Ground in an instant.

Ghost Hand Seven lay in the mud below the arena, twitched twice, and passed out cold.

The referee's hand, holding the command flag, froze midair. He stared for a full three breaths, then looked in disbelief at the "waste" on the stage, who was panting heavily with hands on his knees, then at the fallen favorite for the championship below.

"Group D, Number Two... wins!"

A whoosh--!

After a brief silence, the crowd erupted in startled cries, quickly followed by even fiercer curses, most of them calling Ghost Hand Seven a useless waste for losing to some brawler who got lucky with a fluke punch.

On the ring, Chen Ping looked like he'd just escaped death, slumped against a pillar, gasping for air with cold sweat beading his forehead.

He'd forced that sweat out with his inner energy.

"Scared me to death... scared me to death..."

He patted his chest, eyes unfocused, pretending that punch was pure dumb luck.

Up on the high platform, chief examiner Jin Zhenshan narrowed his eyes, fixing Chen Ping with a hawk-like stare.

Once was luck, twice was luck, but this third time...

That pebble had been too well-hidden, too fast—even he had only caught a blur.

That kid's lower body, in that moment, had been rock-solid, unnaturally so.

Jin Zhenshan tapped his fingers lightly on the table, a deep suspicion clouding his gaze.

But Chen Ping's inner energy felt utterly ordinary, and that pathetic look from before didn't seem fake.

If it was an act, his cunning ran too deep.

In the end, Jin Zhenshan held back, shooting Chen Ping one last penetrating glance before looking away.

On the other side of the viewing stand.

"Crack!"

A sharp snap.

Jin Shijie crushed the white porcelain teacup in his hand to pieces, scalding tea mixed with blood from the cuts dripping through his fingers.

He felt no pain. His handsome, arrogant face twisted slightly with rage.

Ghost Hand Seven was a death warrior he'd personally arranged—and he'd lost like this?

Lost to some backwater thug who only knew cheap tricks?

This wasn't just losing a match; it was a public slap to the Jin Family's face.

"Useless, all of you useless."

Jin Shijie casually flicked away the porcelain shards, took a handkerchief from a maid to wipe his hand, and fixed his sinister gaze through the crowd on the figure in the ring.

If his underlings couldn't get the job done, he'd have to do it himself.

On the ring, Chen Ping was about to step down when his back suddenly tightened.

The keen instincts from Longevity of Pine and Crane screamed a warning—a tangible killing intent locked onto him, like a needle at his back, a bone in his throat.

He turned his head instinctively.

Across half the Training Ground, he met Jin Shijie's bloodthirsty, cruel eyes, looking at him like he was already a corpse.

Chen Ping shrank his neck, pretending to be scared, quickly lowering his head and blending into the crowd.

But in the shadow of his bowed head, the corner of his once-panicked mouth slowly curled into a cold smirk.

Since you want to play, let's have some fun.