The first day of the Martial Tournament began.
Cheng Lianshan led the direct disciples of Lianshan Martial Arts Hall, along with a dozen or so outer disciples, in a grand procession to the venue.
Lianshan Martial Arts Hall had been rooted in Green Mountain City for many years, and among the many martial arts halls, it had no small measure of reputation.
As they walked, people clasped fists in greeting from time to time.
Chen Jing followed within the group and looked around.
The venue was a sea of people, with heads bobbing everywhere.
Ten arenas were arrayed in the morning light, and each one was surrounded by burly martial artists.
Voices surged like boiling water, and everyone was rubbing their fists and wiping their palms.
On the high platform of the drill ground, the county magistrate had been invited to appear and delivered a few opening remarks about "making friends through martial arts," "exchanging pointers," and "stopping at the proper point."
Below the stage, the martial artists' applause thundered as they shouted, "Well said, well said!" "When do we start?" and "We've waited until the flowers have wilted!"
The county magistrate spat under his breath, "Crude martial brutes," then turned back and took his seat.
Seated in the same row were also the spokesmen of several prominent families from the northern part of the city, each one well-dressed and dignified.
Chen Jing's gaze, however, was drawn to the person seated in the center.
It was a middle-aged man wearing a water-colored robe. His face was thin, his eyes slightly lowered, as though the clamor of ten thousand people below the platform had nothing to do with him.
He sat upright in a grand armchair, and there seemed to be a cool, otherworldly air about him that set him utterly