A Step Short, a Thousand Miles Lost

"Fine. Seven days it is."

Huang Silang agreed at once, afraid Hong Tianbao might change his mind.

"We'll visit again in seven days and see what you can do."

With that, he flicked his sleeve, turned, and barked, "Let's go!"

His group turned to leave, even more arrogant than when they had arrived.

"Wait!"

Hong Tianbao's voice suddenly rang out like a thunderclap.

Huang Silang stopped. "What else can I do for you, Master Hong?"

"You came all this way, yet you're leaving without a sip of tea. If word gets out, people will think I, Hong Tianbao, am some southern barbarian who knows nothing of hospitality or manners."

Hong Tianbao flicked his wrist. Somehow, a blue-and-white porcelain lidded teacup had appeared in his hand.

Steam still rose from the tea. It had clearly just been brewed.

"Catch!"

He made no show of preparing. His arm merely gave a slight swing.

Whoosh—

The teacup shot toward the back of Huang Silang's head like a flying stone, shrieking through the air.

The move was fast as lightning, its force fierce and unstoppable.

Everyone present saw only a blur. The cup was already three inches from the back of Huang Silang's head.

Huang Silang felt a vicious gust behind him, and his scalp prickled.

He whipped his head around. The cup was right before his eyes.

He dared not catch it head-on. Instead, he spun strangely like a top, swept out his sleeve, and used the Silk-Winding Force of Eight Gates Fist.

Ting!

A faint metallic ring sounded.

The teacup paused unnaturally in midair. Huang Silang's sleeve curled around it, dispersing most of its force, before it settled steadily in his palm.

Not a drop of tea spilled.

"Excellent!"

Someone in the crowd could not help cheering.

It was a beautiful catch, revealing profound mastery of soft techniques.

A trace of smugness appeared on Huang Silang's face. He was about to offer a few taunts.

But in the next instant, his expression changed drastically.

Crack.

A sharp sound rang out.

The blue-and-white porcelain cup, intact a moment ago, suddenly filled with cracks in his hand.

Then it seemed to explode from within under an invisible force, shattering into powder.

Scalding tea and sharp porcelain shards burst across his palm, ran between his fingers, and dripped onto the blue bricks below.

Blood mingled with tea, staining his hand red in an instant.

"Hiss..."

Huang Silang drew a sharp breath, his body trembling slightly.

He stared fixedly at Hong Tianbao. All the smugness had vanished from his eyes.

He had clearly used Silk-Winding Force to disperse the Martial Force in the teacup.

But another, deeply concealed Martial Force had been hidden inside it.

It was Penetrating Force.

It had shattered the cup and injured the meridians at the web of his hand.

Had the cup been an iron ball or a throwing knife, that hand of his would already have been ruined.

An expert and a master.

Transforming Force and Elixir Force.

One step off, a thousand miles lost.

"Fine skill... Master Hong, we'll meet again in seven days!"

Huang Silang gritted his teeth and endured the fierce pain in his hand. After leaving those words for appearances' sake, he led his disciples away in disgrace, none of his former composure left in his steps.

Only after the gray-clad figures had disappeared around the corner did the onlookers erupt into buzzing discussion.

"Good heavens, what kind of move was that? Hurting someone with a flying cup?"

"That had to be internal power, right? The cup was smashed to bits!"

"Looks like Shocking Heron Martial Hall has the real thing. That fat hall master's an expert!"

"So what if he is? Knife-Clasping Hand-Wrestling means risking your life. Those new students are all soft-skinned and tender-fleshed. I doubt many will dare step up."

Li Xiang stood where he was, his gaze intent.

In his eyes, the scene just now broke down into countless details.

Hong Tianbao's throw had not relied on brute strength. It had drawn on the springing force of his spine, with its power contained rather than displayed.

Huang Silang's catch, though ingenious, had ultimately fallen short.

So this is Martial Force?

Li Xiang clenched his fist.

He had already unlocked the [Boxer] profession and gained the Dragon Spine. If he took one more step and found his way in, he could master Clear Force, the most basic form of Martial Force.

"Have you all seen enough?!"

Hong Tianbao's shout cut through Li Xiang's thoughts and scattered the crowd watching the spectacle.

"If you have, get back inside and train! Stop making fools of yourselves out here!"

Hong Tianbao turned around. The smile had long vanished from his face, replaced by a grave expression.

"Qin Zhong, close the gates!"

"Yes!"

With a tremendous bang, the heavy gates slammed shut, sealing out the noise beyond.

The atmosphere in the training yard turned oppressive in an instant, like the calm before a storm.

Hong Tianbao stood on the raised platform with his hands behind his back. His hawklike gaze swept over the rookies below, none of whom had been students for even half a month.

"You heard what was said."

His voice was low, yet it carried unquestionable authority.

"In seven days, three contests will decide whether Shocking Heron Martial Hall lives or dies."

"If we lose, I, Hong Tianbao, can dust myself off and head back south. But you may never be able to hold your heads high in Linjiang County again."

Everyone fell silent as cicadas in winter.

"Qin Zhong, you'll take the second match."

Hong Tianbao turned his gaze to Qin Zhong in the front row.

"Yes, Hall Master!" Qin Zhong stepped forward, fighting spirit blazing in his eyes. "I won't let you down! I'll beat the shit out of Eight Gates Martial Hall!"

He had once been a mere cart driver in Linjiang County. Hong Tianbao had taken him in, taught him real martial arts, and now every fellow driver at the docks, regardless of age, addressed him as Seventh Master Qin.

A drop of kindness should be repaid with a gushing spring.

For a kindness that had remade his life, only loyalty unto death would suffice.

Besides, he had long wanted a chance to see what he was made of.

"Qingyao, you'll take the third match." Hong Tianbao looked at his daughter behind him.

Ye Qingyao, who had remained silent until now, spoke. "Understood, Dad."

"The first match is the real problem."

Hong Tianbao sighed and looked back at the new students.

"You've trained for less than half a month. You haven't even mastered Taizu Long Fist. This match won't test your moves. It'll test your fundamentals—and, more than that, your nerve."

"In Knife-Clasping Hand-Wrestling, a blade flashes right before your eyes. One slip could leave you disfigured, blind, or even with your throat cut."

"You'll be risking your lives, not playing house."

Hong Tianbao's voice rose sharply. "Who dares step up?"

The question struck like a boulder dropped into a lake.

The new students, still fired up by Hong Tianbao's feat with the flying cup, felt as though a bucket of icy water had been dumped over them, chilling them from head to toe.

Knife-Clasping Hand-Wrestling?

With a blade, too?

The wealthy young men went especially pale and shrank to the very back, wishing they could crawl into a crack in the ground.

Was this a joke?

We came to learn martial arts to look impressive, to push people around, to get stronger—or to court Ye Qingyao, our senior apprentice sister.

Who the hell wanted to risk their life just days after joining?

"I... I can't. Blood makes me faint."

"I haven't trained enough yet..."

For a time, the training yard was silent as a forest without a birdcall. Only heavy breathing could be heard.

Hong Tianbao had expected this. He was not surprised, though disappointment flickered in his eyes.

He continued, offering an inducement. "Whoever steps into the ring, win or lose, will learn another real martial art from me—so long as they come out alive!"

"But think carefully. This may be a controlled match, but if your hand shakes during the fight, or your opponent plays dirty, someone really could die."

Still no one answered.

Even the boys from poor families who wanted to change their fortunes hesitated.

They had only one life. If they died, what use would learning a supreme art be?

"No one?"

Hong Tianbao's expression grew darker.

"Every day, you shout about making something of yourselves and rising above others. What's wrong? Now that a blade's at your throats, you've all become turtles hiding in your shells?"

"Shocking Heron Martial Hall doesn't feed idlers. If no one dares step up, we'll concede the first match!"

Amid that suffocating silence, one hand slowly rose from the crowd.

It was long-fingered and steady, its knuckles distinct, without the slightest tremor—just as steady as it was when its owner held needle and thread to stitch a corpse.

"Hall Master."

A calm voice rang out.