The Ninth Hammer

The mist over the back mountain had yet to fully disperse, and water seeped from the cracks between the bluestones in the dueling arena, making them slightly slippery underfoot.

By the time An Chen arrived, Wu Ming was already warming up in the middle of the arena.

He was not wearing his dark blue brocade robe today, having changed into a gray cloth martial outfit with tightly bound cuffs.

Hearing the footsteps, he stopped and turned around.

"You're here."

"I'm here."

An Chen stopped three zhang across from him and habitually activated Spirit Vision.

Wu Ming's aura was exactly the same as it had been on the back mountain that day. There was no contemptuous orange-red, nor any restless bright red.

Frankly speaking, he was the most composed peer An Chen had seen since gaining Spirit Vision.

"I won't use Soul Skills," Wu Ming said. "Just Wuhun and martial skill. What do you think?"

An Chen was slightly taken aback. Yesterday, Wu Ming had merely said he would not use his Second Soul Ring, yet today he intended to forgo Soul Skills entirely.

Well, well. So he was looking down on me.

An Chen nodded. "Fine."

Wu Ming raised his right hand and flipped his palm. A hammer appeared out of thin air.

"Hao Hammer," he said calmly. "This is the Wu Family's true Wuhun. Wu Lei did not awaken this Wuhun."

The hammer was entirely black. Its handle was about a foot long, while its head was cylindrical and slightly larger than an adult's fist, fitting perfectly in one hand.

A dim sheen covered its surface, and faint patterns coiled around its cylindrical head, appearing and disappearing in the shadows.

An Chen glanced at it. The hammer was not large, but for some reason, it felt far heavier than it looked.

His expression turned strange. Hao Hammer? Clear Sky Hammer?

Wasn't that the Wuhun of the Clear Sky School?

Before he could think further, Wu Ming had already weighed the hammer in his hand, pushed off with his toes, and charged toward him.

He was fast—faster than An Chen had expected.

An Chen immediately summoned the Iron Pot and held it before himself.

Clang—

The hammer struck the bottom of the pot with a dull boom, numbing An Chen's palm and forcing him back two steps on the spot.

His feet skidded across the slick stone slabs, leaving a streak behind.

What immense strength.

The hammer was only fist-sized, yet the force behind it was more than twice that of the Long Hammer student from the assessment.

And Wu Ming was only level twenty. He had not even used his Second Soul Ring.

Before An Chen could regain his footing, Wu Ming's hammer swept sideways toward his waist.

He ducked, and the hammer wind skimmed past his scalp, making his ears ache.

Then he rolled forward with the motion, opening a distance of two zhang.

Wu Ming withdrew his hammer and stood still, giving him a look. "Your reactions aren't bad."

"You flatter me."

An Chen rose to his feet and held the Iron Pot before his chest. The fingers gripping its rim trembled faintly.

He would definitely lose in a direct clash. That single exchange had made it perfectly clear. He needed a different approach.

Wu Ming closed in again, this time even faster. The war hammer traced an arc through the air and crashed down diagonally from above.

An Chen did not block it head-on. He stepped left, let the Iron Pot slide along the hammer's shaft, and redirected the force aside.

Clang—

The war hammer smashed into the bluestone, spraying sparks and cracking the slab.

An Chen glanced at the crack, the corner of his mouth twitching.

He took the chance to rush forward, swinging the Iron Pot horizontally at Wu Ming's chest.

Wu Ming seemed to have anticipated it. With a flick of his wrist, he held the hammer shaft across his body and blocked the blow.

Their gazes met above the hammer shaft.

Then Wu Ming pushed off the ground and retreated with the momentum, raising his war hammer once more.

Over the next dozen exchanges, the two traded blows.

Wu Ming's hammer technique was broad and forceful. Every strike carried crushing power, and every impact against the Iron Pot numbed An Chen's arms and made the flesh between his thumb and forefinger throb.

But An Chen did not clash with him directly. He sidestepped, ducked, retreated, used the Iron Pot to redirect force, block attacks, and slide away along the momentum.

His footwork was more agile than Wu Ming's, letting him evade each strike before the hammer wind reached him.

Yet he could not find a chance to counterattack.

His opponent was too steady.

After every hammer strike, Wu Ming immediately withdrew into defense, leaving him not the slightest opening.

The hammer seemed to be part of Wu Ming's hand, with not a trace of wasted movement as he advanced and retreated.

Sweat began to bead on An Chen's forehead.

This could not continue. His stamina was inferior to Wu Ming's, and his Soul Power was limited. The longer this dragged on, the worse it would be for him.

Wu Ming seemed to see that as well, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Can you still hold on?"

"I'm fine."

"Then try this."

Wu Ming took a deep breath and brought down the first hammer strike head-on.

An Chen sidestepped out of the way.

The hammer missed, but Wu Ming flipped his palm and used the rebound from the hammerhead to sweep the second strike across, faster than before.

An Chen blocked with the Iron Pot and was knocked back a step.

The third hammer came immediately after.

Wu Ming's hammer technique did not stop. Each strike used the force thrown out by the previous one to turn smoothly and stack even more power onto it.

Each hammer was faster and heavier than the last. Soon, the afterimages of the hammer melded together, while the wind howled like a wild beast roaring in the arena.

An Chen was forced back again and again. The Iron Pot could barely block the attacks, and he had no chance to counterattack at all.

He counted silently. Fourth hammer, fifth hammer, sixth hammer...

By the seventh hammer, when the Iron Pot met the blow, he felt even his bones vibrating.

The eighth hammer.

The ninth hammer.

Clang—

When the ninth hammer crashed down, An Chen took it head-on. The impact sent him staggering back five steps, numbed his hand, and nearly knocked the Iron Pot from his grip.

He gritted his teeth and tightly held the pot handle.

The hammer wind ceased. Wu Ming lowered his hammer and stood still, a thin layer of sweat beading on his forehead as well.

"My family's hammer technique only has a fragment left. I can only swing through the ninth hammer," he said, breathing more heavily than before. "The complete version should have more."

An Chen panted as he looked at the hammer in Wu Ming's hand.

Those nine strikes had layered one atop another, growing faster and heavier with every blow.

If not for his agile footwork, he would have been struck by the third hammer.

Was this the Clear Sky School's Chaotic Cloak Hammer Technique? And this was only the first nine hammers.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when Wu Ming raised his war hammer again.

An Chen gritted his teeth, pulled back, and lit up his Soul Ring.

"First Soul Skill, Black Fog!"

In an instant, dense black mist poured from the bottom of the Iron Pot, swallowing the entire dueling arena.

Within the Black Fog, An Chen's senses were greatly enhanced.

Now, he could not only "see" Wu Ming's position, but also "hear" his breathing and "feel" the flow of Soul Power within his body.

And Wu Ming?

His senses were suppressed by the Black Fog, leaving only darkness before his eyes.

Wu Ming remained where he was without panicking.

He gripped his war hammer tightly and listened intently, trying to catch An Chen's position.

Behind him to the left—footsteps.

He spun around sharply and swept out his war hammer. The hammer wind cut through the air, but hit nothing.

Ahead of him to the right—the sound of cloth brushing.

He turned again and chopped down with the war hammer. It was still empty.

Wu Ming frowned.

This Black Fog was troublesome. He simply closed his eyes, narrowed his senses to their minimum, and guarded only the space directly in front of him.

Footsteps came from all directions, sometimes near and sometimes far, impossible to distinguish as real or false.

Suddenly, wind whistled in from behind him to the left.

Wu Ming twisted his wrist and swept the war hammer toward the left rear.

Clang—

The hammerhead struck the Iron Pot.

Wu Ming opened his eyes and saw An Chen standing three zhang away, the Iron Pot held before him.

"Good footwork," Wu Ming said.

"Good hearing," An Chen replied.

The Black Fog gradually dispersed.

The two stood facing each other once more.

Wu Ming looked at the war hammer in his hand, then at An Chen's Iron Pot. The corner of his mouth moved slightly.

"Your Soul Skill is interesting."

An Chen glanced at him.

This man was calm and clever. After only one exchange, he had understood the limitations of the Black Fog. As long as he stayed in place, An Chen would have no way to get close.

The Black Fog's advantage had been mostly neutralized.

"Again." Wu Ming raised his war hammer.

An Chen nodded and held the Iron Pot before himself.

This time, both of them were more cautious.

Wu Ming no longer charged in with fierce attacks. Every step was solid, his war hammer guarding his front and denying An Chen any chance to close in.

An Chen did not dare release the Black Fog casually either. It consumed too much Soul Power.

The two circled the dueling arena twice and exchanged several probing moves, but neither gained an advantage.

More sweat gathered on An Chen's forehead.

His Soul Power was being consumed faster than Wu Ming's, and his stamina was also declining. If this continued, he would lose.

He had to take a risk.

He drew a deep breath, and his Soul Ring lit up again.

"Black Fog!"

The Black Fog poured out again, swallowing the dueling arena.

This time, Wu Ming did not close his eyes. Instead, he held the war hammer horizontally before himself and slowly walked forward.

He remembered where An Chen had appeared last time and gambled that he would not be too far away.

One step, two steps, three steps...

Suddenly, something whistled through the air from the front left!

Wu Ming instinctively raised his hammer to block.

Clang—

The Iron Pot struck the hammerhead with a crisp ring.

But the clash was only a feint. An Chen's true target was Wu Ming's lower body.

The Iron Pot slid down, its rim sweeping toward Wu Ming's calf.

Wu Ming reacted swiftly, kicking off the ground and retreating. The Iron Pot brushed past his trouser leg.

But that retreat threw him off balance for an instant.

That instant was enough.

An Chen immediately closed in, flipped the Iron Pot over, and slammed it toward Wu Ming's chest.

Wu Ming had no time to raise his hammer and block. He could only turn sideways and take the hit.

Bang—

The Iron Pot crashed into his chest, knocking him back two steps.

He steadied himself, rubbed his chest, and the corner of his mouth moved.

"Good move."

The Black Fog dispersed. An Chen straightened up, gasping heavily.

His Soul Power was nearly depleted. Releasing the Black Fog even one more time would be a struggle. If they kept fighting, he would undoubtedly lose.