Acting

"Ow!"

A shrill cry rang across the arena.

Just as the poison dart, gleaming with a faint blue light, was about to pierce Chen Ping's brow, the sole of his boot slipped, and he toppled backward.

"Thwack!"

The dart grazed Chen Ping's nose and sank deep into the redwood pillar behind him.

It pierced three inches into the wood, its tail still trembling violently. The wood around it quickly turned charred black, with a faint sizzling sound.

Chen Ping landed hard on his backside, his face deathly pale. He scrambled backward on his hands and feet, shouting, "Murder! This isn't a martial arts match—it's an attempt on my life!"

Across from him, Ghost Hand Seven's eyes grew even more vicious after his first strike missed.

The hunched man gave Chen Ping no chance to catch his breath. He tapped the ground with his toe and darted forward like a specter.

His unnaturally bony hands curled into eagle claws, carrying a foul wind as they went straight for Chen Ping's throat.

Every move was ruthless, meant to end the fight swiftly.

The Jin Family had ordered him to kill, not to lose.

"Good heavens!"

Chen Ping let out a strange yelp, not caring a whit about a martial artist's dignity. He curled up and immediately performed a Lazy Donkey Rolling.

The roll looked utterly ridiculous, like a wild dog throwing a fit in the mud. The spectators below burst into laughter and jeers.

"Get off the stage! You're an embarrassment!"

"He made it to the semifinals? I'd do better than him, and I haven't even stepped up there!"

In the stands, Jin Shijie held a white porcelain teacup and gave a contemptuous sneer.

In his eyes, this street rat who knew nothing but dirty tricks had already been driven into a corner. In the next moment, Ghost Hand Seven would tear out his throat.

Yet beneath the billowing dust and the flood of insults, Chen Ping's eyes—seemingly panicked and unfocused—were as calm as a bottomless pool.

The Longevity of Pine and Crane quietly circulated within him, its gentle current flowing past his ears and over his skin.

Everything around him seemed to slow. Ghost Hand Seven's swift claw strikes became clear in his senses; even the slightest tremor of the man's muscles as he landed was caught.

Left... no, the right rear.

As he rolled, Chen Ping used his right hand, hidden by the ground, to appear to scrabble about and support himself. In truth, his index and middle fingers had silently pinched up a pebble the size of a fingernail.

Just as Ghost Hand Seven leaped into the air, preparing to crush Chen Ping's breastbone with a blow like Mount Tai bearing down, Chen Ping's fingers flicked discreetly.

The flick carried the penetrating force of Shattered Stone Palm at Great Accomplishment. It made no sound, yet shot forth like a meteor.

"Pff."

A barely audible thud.

The pebble struck the Weizhong Acupoint behind Ghost Hand Seven's left knee.

This point was a hub of the leg's meridians. A heavy blow there would instantly numb half the leg.

Ghost Hand Seven felt his left leg buckle in midair. His thunderous pounce went awry, and he stumbled forward.

This is my chance!

Chen Ping was "frantically" scrambling up from the ground, eyes squeezed shut. Both hands flailed wildly, like a drowning man grasping at straw, throwing out a complete mess of punches.

"Stay back! Stay back!"

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

The punch looked limp and powerless, its trajectory so comical it was laughable.

Yet just as Ghost Hand Seven lost control and pitched forward, the wild punch "coincidentally" landed squarely on his temple.

"Bang!"

Though the punch looked light, it secretly carried a spiraling, drilling force.

Ghost Hand Seven didn't even grunt. His eyes rolled back, and stars danced before them.

The impact, combined with his already uncontrolled momentum, sent him flying sideways like a torn sack.

One step, two steps.

His foot missed the ground, and he fell straight off the edge of the arena.

"Thud!"

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

Ghost Hand Seven lay facedown in the dirt beneath the arena. He twitched twice, then passed out.

The referee froze with his flag raised. He stared in disbelief for a full three seconds, looking from the "cripple" onstage, clutching his knee and panting heavily, to the likely champion sprawled below, who might or might not still be alive.

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

The crowd erupted!

After a brief silence, a wave of astonished cries broke out, followed by even more furious cursing. Most of it was directed at Ghost Hand Seven, a useless fool who had let himself be tricked by a clumsy brawler who'd beaten a master with wild punches.

Onstage, Chen Ping looked as though he hadn't yet recovered from the shock. He slumped beside a pillar, panting hard, his forehead covered in cold sweat.

He had forced the sweat out with his inner strength.

"That scared me to death... scared me to death..."

He patted his chest, his eyes unfocused, pretending that his punch had truly been nothing more than a stroke of luck.

Up on the high platform, chief examiner Jin Zhenshan narrowed his eyes, fixing Chen Ping with an eagle's stare.

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

The pebble had been too well hidden, the movement too fast. Even he had caught only a fleeting shadow.

That boy's footing just now had been far too steady.

Jin Zhenshan lightly tapped the table with his fingers, deep suspicion showing in his eyes.

But Chen Ping's inner energy felt utterly ordinary, and his bedraggled appearance just now hadn't seemed false.

If he's putting on an act, his scheming runs too deep.

In the end, Jin Zhenshan did not act. He simply gave Chen Ping a long look, then turned his eyes away.

On the other side of the stands—

"Crack!"

A sharp snap rang out.

The white porcelain teacup in Jin Shijie's hand had been crushed to pieces. Scalding tea mixed with blood from the shards cutting his skin and dripped between his fingers.

He couldn't feel the pain at all. His handsome, arrogant face twisted slightly with rage.

Ghost Hand Seven was a deathsworn he had arranged himself, and he'd actually lost just like that?

Lost to a country bumpkin who knew nothing but playing dirty?

This wasn't merely losing a match. It was a public slap in the Jin Family's face!

"Useless. Every last one of them."

Jin Shijie casually tossed away the porcelain shards. He took the handkerchief a maid offered and wiped his hand, his sinister gaze piercing through the crowd and fixing on the figure onstage.

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

Onstage, Chen Ping was just about to leave when his back suddenly stiffened.

The keen instincts granted by the Longevity of Pine and Crane issued a frantic warning. A palpable killing intent locked onto him, prickling his back and catching in his throat.

He turned around instinctively.

Across half the Training Ground, his eyes met Jin Shijie's—bloodthirsty, cruel eyes that looked at him as if he were already a dead man.

Chen Ping hunched his shoulders as if frightened, quickly lowered his head, and slipped into the crowd.

But in the shadow cast by his bowed head, the corner of his supposedly panicked mouth slowly curled into a sneer.

Since you want to play, then let's play for real.