Sparring

Chen Clan Martial Hall, front courtyard.

The disciples had gathered in a dense mass, their clamor rising and falling.

"What did Master call us here for?"

"I heard he's announcing the identity of the seventh core disciple?"

"The seventh core disciple? Master has been picking for months—he finally chose one."

"Who is it? Senior Brother Chu or Senior Brother Cai?"

"Shh, anyway, it's not Senior Brother Cai.

Look at his face—it's darker than the bottom of a wok."

Just as everyone had been discussing, Cai Qingwen's expression was uglier than if he had eaten shit.

He stared fixedly ahead, his teeth grinding together, one sentence looping endlessly through his mind.

Mud-legged peasant.

Why could a mud-legged peasant take the seat of the seventh core disciple while he could not?

Why?

Once nearly everyone had arrived, Chen Feiyi stepped before the crowd with Cheng Yang.

"Who's that? Why have I never seen him before?"

"Could he be the seventh core disciple?"

"I heard he just joined the hall..."

The murmurs rippled through the crowd like splashing water. Chen Feiyi raised a hand unhurriedly and pressed it down.

"Enough. Quiet."

His tone was mild, yet it seemed to carry an invisible force. The courtyard instantly fell silent as a graveyard.

"Allow me to introduce him. The one beside me is Cheng Yang. Starting today, he is officially the seventh core disciple of my Chen Clan Martial Hall."

With those words, hundreds of gazes converged upon Cheng Yang.

Yan Shuai stood amid the crowd and silently sighed.

The position of seventh core disciple had been contested within the martial hall for months without a result, yet Cheng Yang had claimed it on only his second day after joining.

Master's decision would certainly stir dissatisfaction among some disciples, but that was only because they had not seen Cheng Yang's talent.

If they truly saw it, they likely would not dare utter a single objection.

A peerless genius—Yan Shuai had witnessed it with his own eyes.

"Just how strong is his talent..." Guo Shulan stood in the crowd, her beautiful eyes resting on Cheng Yang as curiosity rose within them.

Cai Qingwen's gaze darkened. He said quietly to Qian Biao beside him, "Go up there and test Cheng Yang's strength."

"Brother Wen, now?" Qian Biao froze, looking troubled.

Going up to provoke him in a setting like this—would that not be slapping Master's face in public?

"If I tell you to go, then go. Why are you talking so much nonsense?" Cai Qingwen's tone was icy.

Qian Biao gritted his teeth and forced his way out of the crowd.

Everything he had was given to him by Cai Qingwen. He could not refuse.

He moved before Cheng Yang and Chen Feiyi, painfully squeezing several words from his throat. "Master, this disciple lacks talent... but wishes to test Junior Brother Cheng... no, Senior Brother Cheng's strength."

Chen Feiyi looked at him indifferently, his gaze devoid of the slightest warmth. "Qian Biao, are you questioning your master's decision?"

Qian Biao's back tightened, sweat beading on his forehead. "This disciple would not dare. This disciple merely—"

Before he could finish, Cheng Yang cut him off. "I am in the Skin Tempering Realm.

If you are also in the Skin Tempering Realm, I can spar with you."

He was not being overconfident.

Challenging someone above his realm was simply asking for suffering, but fighting someone at the same realm was no issue.

"Senior Brother Cheng, I am also in the Skin Tempering Realm." After speaking, Qian Biao cautiously glanced at Chen Feiyi. Seeing that he did not speak to stop them, Qian Biao felt slightly relieved.

Chen Feiyi had already run through the matter in his mind. Qian Biao had trained only one stance art, while Cheng Yang had trained two.

As long as the gap in their techniques and combat experience was not too great, Cheng Yang's odds of victory were at least ninety percent.

"Then come."

Cheng Yang's gaze fell upon Qian Biao's face, and he vaguely remembered him.

He was the pockmarked man who had accompanied Cai Qingwen yesterday. His coming today to make trouble was likely Cai Qingwen's attempt to probe Cheng Yang's depths.

Having seized the core disciple position, trouble would come one after another. Cheng Yang had expected this from the start.

On the path of a genius, there would only be more and more stones blocking the way. Yet every one of those stones would become a step for him to climb higher.

"This is a sparring match. Stop at the proper point. Do you both understand?" Chen Feiyi reminded them.

"This disciple understands." "This disciple understands."

The two answered at the same time, then stepped onto the arena.

"Senior Brother Cheng, please instruct me."

Before Qian Biao's words had faded, he shot forward like an arrow released from the bow.

His feet ground against the floor, his knees bent slightly, his spine drawn taut like a great bow. His right fist, wrapped in a fierce gust of force, shot straight for Cheng Yang's chest—first form of the Vajra Fist, Vajra Pushes the Mountain.

Qian Biao put all his strength into this punch. He intended to knock this so-called seventh core disciple down before everyone's eyes with the most tyrannical posture possible.

Faced with the incoming fist, Cheng Yang's expression remained utterly calm.

His right arm suddenly spread like a crane's wing taking flight. The back of his hand lightly touched the outside of Qian Biao's forearm. Without blocking or resisting, he followed the motion and traced an inward arc.

Qian Biao felt as though his fist had plunged into a mass of cotton. Its force was instantly diverted, and his whole body involuntarily pitched forward.

Cheng Yang took a half-step diagonally with his left foot, turning his body as the five fingers of his left hand lightly rested in the hollow of Qian Biao's shoulder, light as feathers, swift as wind.

Qian Biao's expression changed. He tried to sink his shoulder and shed the force, only to discover that the momentum of his rushing punch had already been completely drawn away by that arc. His center of gravity seemed to sink into a whirlpool, leaving him staggering unsteadily.

"Not good!" Qian Biao cried inwardly, hurriedly pulling back his right fist to steady himself.

Yet Cheng Yang's right palm had already turned at his wrist, palm facing downward, its five fingers lightly hooking like a crane's claw seizing a branch. Borrowing Qian Biao's own pulling force, he added another twist.

Qian Biao was like a fallen leaf swept up by the wind, stumbling toward the empty space beside Cheng Yang.

Someone below the arena let out a low cry.

Just as Qian Biao was about to fall, he roared, twisting his waist and back to forcibly steady himself.

But in that instant, Cheng Yang's right hand had changed from a hook into a push, the heel of his palm silently pressing toward a point three inches beneath Qian Biao's ribs.

The force remained contained and unspent. With even a finger's breadth still between the edge of his palm and Qian Biao's clothing, it stopped steadily.

Spirit Crane Fist, Feathers Sweep Snow.

The arena fell silent for a moment.

Cheng Yang withdrew his palm and stepped back, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, his expression still calm and composed. "Junior Brother Qian, you let me win."

Qian Biao stood frozen in place. He lowered his head to look at the wrinkle in his clothing by his ribs, stirred by the wind of Cheng Yang's palm, then looked up at Cheng Yang. In the end, he cupped his fists and bowed, his low voice carrying a trace of reluctance. "...Senior Brother Cheng truly deserves to be a core disciple..."