Blame These Bluestones for Being Too Smooth—There Wasn't Even a Crack to Crawl Into

Ma Junsheng, who had been standing solemnly with his hands at his sides, visibly stirred with barely restrained eagerness at those words.

Bu Wen Abbot fell silent for a moment, then turned to Wuxiang Monk. His tone was mild, yet carried a trace of gravity.

"Wuxiang, what do you think?"

Wuxiang Monk's gaze was calm. It lingered for an instant on his eager disciple's face before shifting toward the still figure standing in the arena. He said flatly,

"There is no need. My disciple is still far inferior to Yuan Zhen."

At those words, Ma Junsheng revealed an unwilling expression, while his hands hanging at his sides unconsciously clenched into fists.

Yet Wuxiang Monk seemed to know what he was thinking and merely asked slowly,

"Junsheng, tell me—how far have you cultivated the Ten Forms of No-Thought?"

Ma Junsheng froze slightly, then hurried forward a step. He came before Wuxiang Monk, bowed, and replied, "Master, this disciple is dull-witted... I have only reached the second level, the Realm of Focus."

Wuxiang Monk neither confirmed nor denied it. Instead, his gaze passed over him and fell upon the arena from afar.

"Yuan Zhen, answer this old monk. Which level of the Ten Forms of No-Thought have you cultivated to?" His voice was gentle, yet every person present heard it clearly.

At those words, Ma Junsheng abruptly raised his head and turned toward the figure at the center of the arena.

The monks present showed varying expressions as well, all turning their gazes toward the young Dharma Hall disciple in the arena.

Only Bu Wen Abbot remained seated as before, while the heads of the Four Courts lowered their eyes in silence, without the slightest trace of surprise on their faces. Clearly, they had already vaguely noticed something during the earlier matches. But since it concerned Wuxiang Monk, and he had not spoken, others naturally found it improper to comment.

Zhu Yingxiong stood in the arena and pressed his palms together in salute toward the stands.

"Reporting to Martial Uncle. This disciple is untalented and only fortunately reached the fourth level—the Realm of Contemplation." His clear voice carried distinctly to every person below the stage.

Ma Junsheng's pupils contracted sharply.

Expressions of surprise appeared both above and below the stands, and the place fell silent for a moment.

Wuxiang Monk nodded slightly and lowered his eyes to the disciple before him, dressed in splendid robes and handsome as carved jade. His tone was calm as water. "Even so, do you still wish to compete?"

Ma Junsheng lowered his head. He was silent for several breaths.

Then he bowed and said, "This disciple still wishes to try. I beg Master to permit me to exchange pointers with Junior Brother Yuan Zhen." His words were humble, but beneath his lowered gaze, obvious defiance and jealousy were concealed.

Wuxiang Monk looked at him. After a moment, he said blandly,

"Very well. Go down and exchange pointers with your Martial Nephew Yuan Zhen."

"Thank you, Master, for granting this!" Ma Junsheng hurriedly answered, as though afraid that if he delayed even a moment, his master would retract his order.

He then turned to Bu Wen Abbot and the assembled martial uncles, pressing his palms together and bowing.

"Forgive this junior's rudeness, Abbot and Martial Uncles."

As soon as he finished speaking, he turned. With a tap of his toes, he soared gracefully down from the stands like a great bird spreading its wings.

His robes fluttered in the wind, his brocade garments dazzling as he traced an elegant arc through the air and landed steadily at the center of the square.

The hundreds of monks below immediately erupted into commotion.

They had thought today's contest had already come to an end. Who would have expected another match?

And this new challenger was not a disciple of the Four Courts, but Wuxiang Monk's personal disciple, a young talent of Shaolin's lay disciple lineage!

That display of lightness skill had been as light as a feather, soundless upon landing. His mastery was already quite impressive.

The monks below had not expected it to continue, much less with another match to be fought. This was Wuxiang Monk's outstanding disciple, and the lightness skill he had displayed just now was already extraordinary. Seeing that another thrilling sparring match was about to begin, they naturally watched with excitement and anticipation.

For the spectators, such a development was an unexpected delight. Another clash between dragons and tigers had been added to the day—how could they not look forward to it?

Yet within the Dharma Hall's ranks, a stifling gloom hung in the air.

Pure Affinity, the little novice, held his face red with frustration and finally could not help muttering in a low voice, "Martial Uncle Yuan Zhen clearly already won, so why..."

Before he could finish, Yuan Cheng beside him lightly tugged his sleeve, signaling him to be quiet.

Meanwhile, Zhu Yingxiong in the arena felt utterly disgusted.

According to the rules, the contest was already over. He had won and taken first place.

Yet now, someone had appeared out of nowhere, claiming he wanted to exchange pointers and demanding another match.

Had anyone even asked for his opinion? Had anyone asked whether he agreed?

Across from him, Ma Junsheng, his spirits high, had already spoken. His tone was warm and proper, displaying all the refinement of a noble family's young master.

"Junior Brother Yuan Zhen has fought several fierce battles in a row. Would you like to rest for a moment and steady your breathing before we exchange pointers?"

"No need!" Zhu Yingxiong replied coldly, his voice clear and chill.

Yuan Cheng suddenly leaned closer to Pure Affinity and lowered his voice. "Heh, your Martial Uncle Yuan Zhen is angry."

"Huh?" Pure Affinity widened his eyes, utterly confused.

"This is the first time I've seen him like this." Yuan Cheng looked at the moon-white figure in the arena, his tone carrying a hint of amused anticipation. "That young master is probably in for some trouble."

Pure Affinity tightened his little face and nodded fiercely. "He deserves a harsh lesson!"

He was still young. He did not understand the undercurrents on the stands, nor did he understand Shaolin's lay disciples or Wuxiang Monk's outstanding disciple. He only knew that Martial Uncle Yuan Zhen had clearly already won and clearly already taken first place, yet was still being forced to fight this match.

What he did not know was just how harsh that lesson would be.

In the arena, Ma Junsheng's expression stiffened slightly before quickly returning to normal. He said warmly,

"Good. Then I certainly will not take advantage of Junior Brother either."

As he spoke, he removed the gold-and-silver-inlaid treasured sword from his waist and handed it, sheath and all, to the supervising monk at the edge of the arena. His movements were elegant and unhurried.

Then he turned back, slowly spread his palms, and assumed an opening stance with an imposing air.

"Please."

He did not seize the initiative to attack, instead standing still in the arena. Clearly, he was waiting for Zhu Yingxiong to make the first move.

Already impatient at heart, Zhu Yingxiong had no desire to trade empty courtesies with him.

He stomped down hard!

The bluestone bricks gave a deep, heavy thud.

His figure became like a flash of lightning, crossing a distance of two zhang in an instant!

Ma Junsheng's pupils shrank sharply.

Before his eyes remained only the blurred afterimage of where Zhu Yingxiong had just stood.

The next instant—

Bang!

Before Ma Junsheng could even make a single response, his entire body was sent flying flat along the ground. His brocade robes snapped wildly in the gale as he carved a straight path through the air.

Then he landed solidly on his backside.

Just as the saying went: ass backward, a wild goose crash-landing on the flat sand.

Below the stage, there was first a deathly silence.

Then, "Boom!"

The entire Bluestone Square exploded into uproar.

The monks below began chattering endlessly.

"Did you see what happened?"

"No... it was too fast. I couldn't see anything at all."

"Was he kicked away?"

"Could it have been the Heart-Piercing Kick?"

"No, it was too fast. I think it was the Shadow-Following Leg."

On the stands—

Several eminent monks and elders could not help widening their eyes slightly.

The corners of some mouths twitched. For a moment, they did not even know how to comment.

Worryless Chan Master lowered his head and intoned, "Amitabha."

Meanwhile, Ma Junsheng was still sitting on the ground.

A clear footprint was stamped squarely in the center of his embroidered robe, a grayish-white mark that looked especially glaring against his bright, immaculate clothing.

His face flushed crimson as he tried to brace himself up from the ground—

His legs went weak.

He sat back down again.

That force had not injured his muscles or bones, but it had forcibly scattered a surge of true qi in his chest, leaving him unable to catch his breath for the moment.

The more anxious he became, the harder it was for him to breathe. His legs seemed no longer his own, refusing to obey him at all.

He could only sit there.

Sit there beneath the gazes of hundreds.

Ma Junsheng lowered his head, hiding his flushed face in shadow.

His knuckles tightened, veins bulging faintly.

Never in his life had he hated his splendid brocade robes so much.

He hated how eye-catching they were, making that footprint impossible to hide.

And he hated this bluestone ground.

It was too smooth, too clean—not even a single crack to crawl into.