An Easy Victory

"Eighth match, Zhao Hai versus Zhao Lin!"

The bell rang again.

But the atmosphere in the plaza had already changed.

After the narrow, brutal victory of Zhao Wen, the disciples taking the stage struck with heavier blows and exercised twelve times more caution in their defense. The spirit of friendly sparring had faded, replaced by vigilance, wariness, and a suppressed ferocity that had been stirred to the surface.

The sound of fists and feet colliding on the stage grew increasingly dull and heavy.

"Bang!"

A disciple was struck in the ribs, staggered back to the edge, and turned pale as he conceded.

"Twelfth match, Zhao Feng versus Zhao Yue!"

Zhao Feng, who wielded a blade, leaped onto the stage, while his opponent Zhao Yue used a pair of short halberds. Sparks flew the moment they clashed, the sound of steel meeting steel piercing the air. After thirty moves, Zhao Yue was struck on the left shoulder by the back of the blade; he let out a muffled groan and tumbled off the stage, his shoulder blade fractured.

Low gasps could be heard from the crowd below.

On the viewing platform, the Fifth Elder's hand, which had been stroking his beard, paused. The Third Elder kept his face stiff, though the corner of his eye twitched slightly.

The Patriarch, Zhao Kunshan, resumed turning the jade balls in his hand with a steady rhythm. His gaze swept over the young faces below, passing over the rising fire of competition in their eyes, their tightly pressed lips, and their strained expressions, yet his own face remained devoid of emotion.

It was as if everything were already within his expectations.

Li Tui stood in the shadows of the seating area.

The Blood Bodhi pulsed steadily against his chest, like a dormant beast. With every beat, it absorbed the "nutrients" permeating the air.

The bluestone ground beneath the stage was stained with several new patches of blood.

Some had been splattered when disciples were knocked off the stage, while others had dripped from flesh torn during the fights. The cleaning servants waited in the distance with buckets, none daring to approach.

The atmosphere grew tighter.

Like a hard bow being drawn to its limit.

"Twenty-third match, Zhao Hao versus Zhao Feng!"

Zhao Feng had just won a match and was regulating his breath off-stage. Hearing his name, he looked up at his opponent. Zhao Hao walked slowly from the queue.

He was still wearing his dark gray training suit, the cuffs tied with meticulous precision. His pace was neither hurried nor slow, and as he stepped onto the stage, he even gave a slight nod to the officiating deacon, his manners impeccable.

His opponent, Zhao Feng, gripped his thick-backed short blade. The blade was still stained with the uncleaned blood from his previous fight.

The bell rang.

Zhao Feng launched the first attack! His figure lunged forward, his blade unleashing a snow-white, icy radiance—it was the most ferocious move of the Pofeng Blade Technique, "Wind and Snow Sweeping the Earth." The blade edge covered Zhao Hao's upper, middle, and lower paths, moving with blinding speed.

Someone in the crowd held their breath.

Zhao Feng had used this move just moments ago. Back then, his opponent had only lasted ten moves before being forced off the stage.

Zhao Hao did not retreat.

He did not even draw his sword.

The instant the blade light reached his body, his left foot suddenly took a half-step diagonally to the front-left.

Just that half-step.

The three most ferocious blade strikes grazed his lapels, the screech of the steel tearing through the air sounding shrill. At the same time, Zhao Hao brought his right hand together, fingers forming a sword, and tapped lightly against the pulse point on Zhao Feng's wrist.

Just that one tap.

Fast, accurate, and light.

Zhao Feng's entire right arm went suddenly numb; his five fingers loosened, and the thick-backed short blade clattered to the stage, rolling twice before coming to a stop.

The crowd fell silent for a moment.

Zhao Feng's face flushed red, and he clenched his left fist, wanting to attack again. But Zhao Hao had already stepped back, cupping his hands in a salute. "I concede the advantage."

From start to finish, it had taken no more than three breaths.

Zhao Hao hadn't even drawn his sword; he had used only one finger.

The black-robed deacon was stunned for a moment before calling out loudly, "Zhao Hao wins!"

Zhao Hao bent down to pick up the short blade, handed it hilt-first to the still-dazed Zhao Feng, nodded again, and turned to leave the stage. The entire process was calm and composed; he didn't even have a bead of sweat on his face.

On the viewing platform, the Fifth Elder stroked his beard gently, a trace of imperceptible approval flashing in his eyes.

The Third Elder, however, snorted coldly. "Tricky."

The Patriarch, Zhao Mingshan, said nothing, his gaze lingering on Zhao Hao's retreating back for a moment longer. The look was profound, as if he were weighing something.

Li Tui watched Zhao Hao walk off the stage toward the rest area. As he passed by Li Tui, Zhao Hao's footsteps paused almost imperceptibly.

Then, Zhao Hao walked straight past, sat cross-legged in the corner of the rest area, and closed his eyes to regulate his breath. It was as if that clean, decisive victory had nothing to do with him.

Li Tui stood where he was, his expression unchanged.