A man without a blade is merely a man; with one in hand, he has courage

"Come on!"

Inside the Martial Arts Room, the air seemed to explode at her sharp cry.

Ye Qingyao moved like lightning. The sharpened Eight-Cutting Knives in her hands sliced through the air, trailing two fierce streaks of cold light straight toward Li Xiang's centerline.

There was nothing fancy about the attack. It was fast, precise, and ruthless, its point aimed squarely at his heart.

Had she used Martial Force, Li Xiang would likely have met the King of Hell on the spot.

Yet faced with this lethal strike, Li Xiang's body reacted as though it had a mind of its own.

It moved faster than he could think.

"Guarding Knife!"

He swept his left hand outward. His butterfly knife dropped like an iron gate, its spine striking her blade head-on.

Clang!

The clash of steel rang sharp in their ears, sparks scattering between them.

He had blocked it.

A tremendous jolt ran through the web of Li Xiang's hand, numbing his arm. But rather than retreat, he used the force to turn his body slightly sideways.

Surprise flashed through Ye Qingyao's eyes, but she did not stop. Her attack grew fiercer.

She, too, used the rebound. With a twist of her wrist, the knife in her right hand darted out like a snake from its hole, sliding along the inside of Li Xiang's left arm toward his ribs.

If this Plowing Knife landed cleanly, it would spill his guts.

With Martial Force behind it, it would do more than that. It would cut him in two.

That was Martial Force.

Without it, a fight was little different from a street performance.

Once it came into play, a fighter was like an immortal descended from heaven. The difference was enormous.

This was one reason Martial Cultivators held a firm place among the countless strange professions in the world, firmly occupying a place in the Upper Nine Classes.

The Upper Nine Classes: the Great Xin Dynasty had many kinds of professionals—farmers who tilled the land, cooks who prepared meals, physicians who treated the sick, prostitutes... ahem. Every trade had its champion.

But champions were not all equal.

The three foremost paths were Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism.

Beyond them, the nine most prestigious professions were called the Upper Nine Classes.

Below those came the hundred schools.

Of course, the standing of the Three Teachings and Nine Classes and the hundred schools was never fixed. Those who practiced each profession had to fight for its place.

Before the Wu Dynasty, Martial Cultivators were merely one of the hundred schools.

Then the Martial Ancestor rose and carved out new ground for the martial path. Martial Cultivators leapt from the hundred schools into the Upper Nine Classes. Their standing had held for thousands of years since, even through the dark age of the Demon Dynasty's Martial Arts Prohibition Edict.

But back to the fight.

"Plowing Knife!"

In a flash of insight, Li Xiang used the same move.

His right-hand knife slammed downward, intercepting Ye Qingyao's attack with perfect precision.

Clang, clang, clang!

In the cramped room, their figures pressed almost against each other.

Blades flashed in a dense weave, leaving no opening.

Li Xiang remained on the defensive. Even through his specially made cowhide protective gear, Ye Qingyao's knife spines struck him several times from nowhere, each blow leaving a burning sting.

He felt no fear. The longer they fought, the more naturally he moved, and the more excited he became.

The medicinal power of the Dragon-Tiger Bone-Tempering Soup had yet to fade. It had been rampaging through his meridians, but now, with every hard strike from Ye Qingyao and every tightening and release of his muscles, his body rapidly refined it.

Heat rolled like magma through his limbs and bones, then sank into every inch of muscle and seeped into every bone.

He felt like iron being forged into steel through a hundred hammer blows.

The twin knives in his hands were no longer cold iron. They seemed to have warmth, even a pulse, as though they were bones extending from his arms.

Faster. Faster still.

Li Xiang knocked aside one of Ye Qingyao's sweeping slashes. His eyes flashed, and he instinctively stepped forward, his Eight-Cutting Knife becoming a streak of light as he drove a vicious Darting Knife thrust toward her throat.

Boom!

A mighty roar sounded deep in his mind, audible to him alone.

The Book of a Hundred Trades, floating in the sea of his consciousness, stirred though there was no wind. Its pages fluttered and settled on a brand-new page.

Golden light blazed, and ancient characters appeared clearly before his eyes.

[New profession unlocked: Swordsman]

[Level: Lv1 (0/10)]

[Tier: 0]

[Profession trait: Blade Courage (Novice)]

[Blade Courage (Novice): When a Swordsman draws his blade, his heart becomes still water. Without a blade in hand, he is a man; with one, he is courage. While holding a blade, your ability to suppress fear greatly increases. You no longer panic when a sharp edge reaches you, and you perceive your enemies' openings more keenly.]

[Profession abilities: None]

[Hint: Raise the Swordsman profession to Lv5 to unlock a new profession ability.]

Li Xiang stood with his knife drawn back, its point held steady three inches from Ye Qingyao's throat.

He gulped down air, sweat dripping from his chin. As he looked at the message in his mind, a smile tugged uncontrollably at his lips.

His sixth profession: Swordsman.

So this is Blade Courage?

Li Xiang closed his eyes and felt carefully for the changes in his body.

Before this, his body had reacted to Ye Qingyao's fierce blades, but deep in his instincts, he had still feared death. That was every living thing's nature: to avoid danger.

His hands had trembled slightly. His heart had raced. His eyes had flinched from the cold gleam of her knives.

Now it was different.

The trait called Blade Courage had entered his soul like a powerful sedative.

His hands were steady as stone.

His heart pounded hard, yet with a firm rhythm, like a war drum.

When he gripped the Eight-Cutting Knives again, they felt different.

They were no longer tools for self-defense. They were fangs meant for attack.

To his senses, the world had slowed a little.

Dust hanging in the air, Ye Qingyao's quickened breathing, even the almost imperceptible tremor of her blade—he could see it all clearly.

A savage ferocity he had never known seeped from his bones.

It was the courage to swing a blade at someone stronger than himself.

That was Blade Courage.

It turned sheep into wolves, and wolves into tigers.

Li Xiang opened his eyes. Cold light flashed in them as he called to Ye Qingyao across the room, "Again!"

The shout carried a bloodthirsty edge that sent a chill through the heart.

Ye Qingyao paused.

She had trained in martial arts since childhood and shed blood out in the world. Her senses were far sharper than most people's.

To her eyes, the man before her had changed.

Moments ago, Li Xiang had been a hard, rough stone, able only to take blows and endure through sheer stubbornness.

Now he was a blade freshly sharpened.

Cold light spilled from him, his edge laid bare.

His gaze no longer searched for a way to defend himself. It searched for... a path to kill.

"Interesting." Ye Qingyao grew a little more serious. "Looks like that vat of Dragon-Tiger Bone-Tempering Soup wasn't wasted. It brought out the savagery in your bones."

"Then let's go again!"

Before her words had faded, Ye Qingyao lunged in.

This time, she was faster, and her blows carried more weight.

Clang, clang, clang!

A rapid series of impacts rang through the Martial Arts Room once more.

This time, the balance had quietly shifted.

Li Xiang was no longer merely taking blows.

With Blade Courage bolstering him, he dared wait until a blade was almost upon him before evading, using the smallest movement to create the greatest opening for a counterattack.

Before, the sight of an incoming blade would have made him instinctively retreat three steps.

Now he took only half a step back—or advanced instead, slipping in along the edge.

It was a dance on the point of a blade.

Their figures crossed, sweat flying.

Twenty moves... thirty... fifty...