"The eighth match: Zhao Hai versus Zhao Lin!"
The bell rang again.
But the atmosphere in the square had changed.
After Zhao Wen's narrow victory, the disciples who took the stage struck harder and defended with twelvefold caution. The spirit of friendly sparring had faded, replaced by wariness, vigilance, and a hint of suppressed ferocity stirred awake.
The sounds of fists and feet colliding on the arena grew increasingly dull.
"Bang!"
A disciple was swept across the ribs and staggered to the edge. His face pale, he conceded defeat.
"The twelfth match: Zhao Feng versus Zhao Yue!"
Zhao Feng, who wielded a blade, leaped onto the arena. His opponent, Zhao Yue, carried a pair of short halberds. The moment they clashed, sparks flew, and the ringing of blade against halberd pierced the air. After thirty exchanges, Zhao Yue took a blow from the flat of Zhao Feng's blade to his left shoulder. He grunted and fell from the arena, his shoulder blade fractured.
A low gasp went through the crowd below.
On the viewing platform, the Fifth Clan Elder paused with his hand in his beard. The Third Clan Elder still wore a stern expression, though the corner of his eye twitched faintly.
The patriarch, Zhao Kunshan, resumed turning the jade gall in his hand, keeping a steady rhythm. His gaze swept over the young faces below, across the growing fire of rivalry in their eyes, their tightly pressed lips and taut expressions. His own face betrayed nothing.
As if everything had been expected.
Li Tui stood in the shadow of his seat.
The Blood Bodhi pulsed steadily in his chest, like a beast lying in wait. With each beat, it drew in the "nourishment" permeating the air.
More fresh bloodstains marked the bluestone ground below the arena.
Some had splattered there when blood spilled from the mouths and noses of those knocked off the stage; others had dripped from flesh cut open during the fights. The servants tasked with cleaning stood at a distance with buckets in hand. None dared approach.
The tension grew tighter by the moment.
Like a sturdy bow being drawn taut.
"The twenty-third match: Zhao Hao versus Zhao Feng!"
Zhao Feng had just won a match and was catching his breath below the stage. At the sound of his name, he looked across at his opponent. Zhao Hao walked out of the line at an unhurried pace.
He still wore his dark gray outfit, his cuffs fastened with meticulous care. His steps were measured, and when he mounted the stage, he even gave the referee a slight nod, every courtesy in place.
His opponent, Zhao Feng, tightened his grip on the thick-backed short saber. Blood from his previous fight still stained the blade, not yet wiped clean.
The bell rang.
Zhao Feng attacked first! He surged forward, his blade flashing with a dazzling, icy gleam. It was the fiercest move in the Pofeng Blade Technique, "Wind and Snow Sweep the Earth." His blade covered Zhao Hao's upper, middle, and lower body, moving so fast it dazzled the eyes.
Someone in the crowd held their breath.
Zhao Feng had used this same move earlier. That opponent had lasted only ten exchanges before being driven off the stage.
Zhao Hao didn't retreat.
He didn't even draw his sword.
Just before the blade reached him, his left foot suddenly slid half a step diagonally forward.
Just half a step.
The three fiercest slashes skimmed past his clothes, their shrill whistle cleaving the air. At the same time, Zhao Hao brought the fingers of his right hand together like a sword and lightly tapped the pulse point on Zhao Feng's saber-wielding wrist.
Just that one tap.
Fast, precise, light.
Zhao Feng's entire right arm went numb in an instant. His fingers sprang open, and the thick-backed short saber clanged onto the arena, rolling twice before coming to a stop.
For a moment, the crowd fell silent.
Zhao Feng's face flushed crimson. He clenched his left fist, ready to attack again, but Zhao Hao had already stepped back two paces and clasped his fists. "You let me win."
From beginning to end, it had taken no more than three breaths.
Zhao Hao hadn't even drawn his sword. He'd struck with only one finger.
The black-robed referee froze for a moment before calling out, "Zhao Hao wins!"
Zhao Hao bent to pick up the short saber and returned it hilt-first to the still-stunned Zhao Feng. Then he gave him another nod, turned, and walked off the stage. He remained entirely composed throughout, without a bead of sweat on his face.
On the viewing platform, the Fifth Clan Elder stroked his beard lightly, a trace of almost imperceptible approval passing through his eyes.
The Third Clan Elder, however, snorted. "A cheap trick."
The patriarch, Zhao Mingshan, said nothing. His gaze lingered a moment longer on Zhao Hao's retreating figure. It was deep, as if weighing him.
Li Tui watched Zhao Hao leave the arena and head for the rest area. As Zhao Hao passed him, his steps paused for the barest instant.
Then Zhao Hao walked straight on, sat cross-legged in a corner of the rest area, and closed his eyes to regulate his breathing. It was as if the swift, clean victory had nothing to do with him.
Li Tui stood where he was, his expression unchanged.
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