Fighter Ranks, a Trial Bout Imminent

Inside the doors, a roaring din mixed with the stench of sweat, blood, and frenzied shouts rushed headlong at him.

Under the dim light, crude arenas enclosed by round logs stood in the center.

On every platform, two bare-chested men fought to the death, fist striking flesh, blood spraying everywhere.

Yang Ning took a closer look and immediately saw that they were two martial artists at the Fifth Foundation Barrier, not yet at Body Tempering, locked in combat.

After Body Tempering, they must all have become people of some standing. Unlike him, whose cultivation had surged forward by leaps and bounds, yet still needed to come here to suppress it and temper his path.

He then lowered his gaze to beneath the platforms.

The area below was now packed with all sorts of people. At the front were gamblers with bloodshot eyes, vicious-looking gang members, and idle loafers who had come purely for the spectacle.

They roared and cursed, feverishly staking the silver and copper coins they had earned through bitter toil on the fighter they favored.

Hoping to return home laden with riches today.

Yet above those humble platforms stood countless lofty private rooms.

Inside, many richly dressed wealthy nobles were also watching the scene below.

Yang Ning had now completed Body Tempering, and his eyesight was exceptionally sharp. He raised his eyes and looked over.

The wealthy people's gazes were likewise cast downward, and their expressions and actions held joy and sorrow over the martial contest.

Yet it was as though they were not watching two martial artists fight, but rather two savage birds and ferocious beasts battling to the death on the platform.

Perhaps, in the eyes of those grand households, the poor and ordinary folk had long ceased to count as people. Even the martial men with strength on the platform were merely somewhat sturdier savage birds and beasts.

Yang Ning took it all in, yet his steps remained calm and resolute.

Guided by a Martial Arena worker, he arrived at a room behind the platforms.

A short, fat middle-aged man sat behind a desk, head lowered as he worked an abacus, utterly indifferent to the madness outside.

Yang Ning walked straight toward him.

"Are you Steward Liu of the Martial Arena?"

The middle-aged man raised his head, squinted at Yang Ning, and piled a professional smile onto his face.

"Oh? So young a lad!

You know me, little brother?

You look unfamiliar. New here? What should I call you?"

"Steward, just call me Yang Er."

"All right, Brother Yang. Here to fight?"

"That is correct."

Steward Liu pulled a yellowed sheet of paper from beneath the desk.

"Since you've already entered, there's no need for further words.

By the rules, sign the life-and-death waiver first.

Then tell me: which Foundation Establishment Barrier have you reached?

What technique do you practice? Do you have a master?"

Yang Ning took the brush, casually glanced over the document, then wrote his name on the life-and-death waiver and said blandly.

"Dragon Bone Barrier of Foundation Establishment. My Body Tempering technique is Tiger Soul Fist. No master. Self-taught."

"Tiger Soul Fist? Dragon Bone Barrier? Self-taught?"

Steward Liu's brush paused. A flicker of surprise flashed through his eyes before he quickly returned to normal.

"This fist technique is rather uncommon...

But for young Brother Yang to possess the solid cultivation of the Dragon Bone Barrier at such a young age is truly no easy feat.

Here, that already puts you at the level of a Bronze-Rank Fighter. It seems I, Liu, am fortunate indeed—another capable hand has come to the East Street Martial Arena under my charge! Hahahaha!"

"Bronze-Rank Fighter?"

After learning Yang Ning's cultivation, Steward Liu's attitude became much gentler and more relaxed, and his smile carried several degrees more sincerity.

"You may not know this, little brother, but among the many Martial Arenas in Kui Mountain County, fighters are divided into ranks such as Wood, Bronze, Silver, Gold...

The pay differs at every rank. Those above established these rules to encourage everyone.

Fighters joining a Martial Arena for the first time are uniformly Wood-Rank Fighters. If you perform well in a 'trial bout,' you can directly become a Bronze-Rank Fighter, and the income is far higher than that of a Wood-Rank Fighter.

Today's matches are already full. Come tomorrow at the Hour of the Goat, and I'll arrange a 'trial bout' for you."

"A trial bout?"

"Mm. You trade a few moves with a fellow arena fighter or an experienced hand, and let us weigh the quality of your goods.

If you win, you get paid, and afterward we'll arrange official matches for you.

If you lose..."

Steward Liu smiled without finishing, but the meaning was plain without words.

Yang Ning's expression did not change. "How much?"

"If you win the trial bout, the base payment is ten taels of silver, with any rewards counted separately.

For official matches afterward, it depends on your opponent's strength and the size of the betting pool. If you become a Bronze-Rank Fighter, then winning a match could earn you as little as ten taels, or as much as a hundred taels."

"What are the rules for the trial bout?"

"Under our trial-bout rules, there are upper, middle, and lower tiers.

The lower tier is fighting a Wood-Rank contestant who is also a newcomer.

The middle tier is fighting one of the veteran Wood-Rank Fighters in our Martial Arena.

As for the upper tier...

You fight one of our arena's Bronze-Rank Fighters."

Steward Liu sized Yang Ning up.

"Still, Brother Yang, you're young, so let me offer you a word of advice. At the start, pick some soft persimmons to squeeze. Don't be greedy.

This place drowns those who know how to swim."

"Thank you for the advice."

"So your choice is..."

"Please arrange a Bronze-Rank Fighter for me, Steward Liu."

"Oh?"

Steward Liu looked up, his face full of amusement.

Yet Yang Ning's answer did not seem to surprise him much. Instead, he nodded as though it had been entirely expected.

"Then as you wish. We shall meet tomorrow at the Hour of the Goat."

Yang Ning cupped his hands.

"I will arrive on time tomorrow at the Hour of the Goat."

With that, he turned to leave.

"Wait."

Steward Liu suddenly called out to him, pulled a wooden token from a drawer, and tossed it over.

"Your number token. Keep it safe; use this to enter from now on."

Yang Ning caught the wooden token and saw a number carved upon it: seventy-nine.

He said nothing more, silently tucked the wooden token into his clothes, and without lingering, strode out of the room saturated with frenzy and blood.

Watching Yang Ning's departing back, the smile on Steward Liu's face gradually vanished.

He then opened the ledger in his hand and carefully wrote:

Tomorrow at the Hour of the Goat, one upper-tier duel between newcomer and veteran.

The lesser party: newly entered fighter, "Wood Seventy-Nine."

Already reached Dragon Bone Pass, primarily practices Tiger Soul Fist, arrogant by nature, deep foundation, abundant qi and blood.

The house bets on lesser...

At this point, Steward Liu seemed to hesitate for an instant, then continued writing.

The house bets eighty percent on lesser, twenty percent on greater.

After finishing the entry, Steward Liu placed it into the Secret Box behind him, which was changed every day, then muttered to himself.

"Self-taught fist technique, and he broke through Dragon Bone Pass.

I hope your fists and real combat ability are as tough as your talent."

After saying that, he returned to his complicated work.

Outside the Martial Arena, the daylight remained bleak.

The poor masses of East Fourth Street still struggled in the mud, while the feasts, songs, and dances behind vermilion gates seemed as though they would never cease.

Yang Ning glanced back at the banner of the Martial Arena, its edges trimmed in blood-red, his eyes utterly without ripples.

The road had been chosen. Then he would walk it to the end.

In this man-eating world, he would seek life through his fists, seek a road through his fists.

He tightened his clothes and strode in the direction from which he had come.

His figure gradually vanished at the end of the long street, like a drop of water merging into a turbid river.