Clack-clack, clackety-clack! "Hey! The martial world's a storm of rising tides, where scholars, warriors, and mystics take the stage. Fighters clash with fists and feet, scholars debate morals, sorcerers weave their magic—each showing off, none backing down…"
Clack-clack, clackety-clack! "Check this out: Hong Fist masters strike like lightning, Xingyi's brutal, Bagua's shadowy. The martial world's a mix of heroes and rogues, so watch your step. The clapper's beat carries far, singing tales of this wild world…"
At Pai fang Street's crossroads, the crowd buzzed, a street performer's clapper boards flying with rhythm.
In the martial world, every snake, dragon, or rat has its path.
A life-or-death duel wasn't just about the fighters' fates—it tangled with all sorts of schemes and stakes. But for the common folk and martial wanderers, it was a spectacle.
The people of the Divine Land loved a show, always had.
Even executions at the market drew crowds, with food vendors weaving through. A martial duel? That was bigger than a temple fair's opera.
Regular folks showed up early, finishing lunch to snag good spots before Shen hour, afraid they'd get boxed out.
For martial world drifters, it was a chance to shine.
As the saying goes, "Talk of hardship on meeting, you're one of us." The big players making waves were few—most hustled for scraps of silver.
Before dawn, a crew rolled in to "mark the turf."
Marking the turf meant street performers drawing a chalk circle on the ground—claiming their spot and setting space for their act, keeping the crowd at bay.
But this bunch wasn't here to perform.
They were from Xianyang's Changchun Society.
Temple fairs or big events always drew performers and vendors, but there were rules. Without a deal upfront, fights over space were guaranteed.
The Changchun Society handled that.
Made up of respected martial artists, they mapped out territories and kept order.
Naturally, they paid tribute to local gangs and took a cut from vendors and performers, pocketing the difference.
By noon, the crossroads was a sea of people.
Here, clapper players worked their "short tools." There, erhu players strummed their "long tools." Fengyang flower drum troupes, families in tow, added to the chaos.
Food stalls were everywhere, and Pimen hustlers joined the fray.
Some set up stands, grinding fake rhinoceros horns with iron scrapers—called "four-flat setups."
Others, shirtless, lashed themselves with iron rods to hawk injury balms—known as "border bashers." The hardcore ones sliced their arms to sell wound salves—dubbed "blue sketches."
Off in the distance, a gang of carters and porters.
Unlike Du Daya, that fringe figure from Li Family Fort, these guys were built like oxen, muscles rippling. Even in the cold, they rolled up their pants, showing off sturdy calves honed by poke-foot kung fu.
This duel had sent ripples through Xianyang's quiet martial scene.
…
"Where are they?"
"Is this fight happening or what?"
"Chill, it's not Shen hour yet…"
As the crowd swelled, restless idlers started grumbling.
Paifang Street's old crossroads was packed, but the three-zhang-high wooden platform loomed tall, visible from every angle.
The best spots were in the nearby wine shops and tea houses.
Book a second-floor private room, crack open a window, sip some tea with a few buddies—that was serious clout.
But regular folks couldn't buy their way in.
The prime spots went to Xianyang's martial world heavyweights, each crew keeping to themselves.
…
In the east wine house, Zhou Pan's Divine Fist Society crew held court, with veteran fist masters and all eight vajras in attendance.
Zhou Bai was among them.
He eyed the platform, itching to go. "Why not let me start? Can't let the crowd get bored."
Young and eager, he'd sparred plenty but never fought on a stage this big. No way he wasn't pumped.
"Bored?" snapped a middle-aged man with black hair, white sideburns, and a mustache like an eight. "This isn't a street show. Sit down, focus, and build your fighting spirit!"
That was Zhou Peide, head of the eight vajras.
Oldest of the bunch, stiff as a board, his kung fu was average, but as Zhou Pan's cousin and Zhou Bai's father, he held the top spot.
Zhou Bai shrank back, quiet but defiant in his eyes.
Yuan Qu caught it, smirking. "Easy, Zhou Bai. It's not about who goes first. That kid sent the challenge, so he climbs up first. You follow, looking like the bigger deal."
"Oh, got it."
Zhou Bai nodded, enlightened.
Zhou Peide frowned at this.
Truth be told, he couldn't stand Zheng Heibei or Yuan Qu—thugs who threw the Zhou name around for their dirty work.
But his brother Zhou Pan needed them to keep the Divine Fist Society steady and grease palms in Chang'an. Money talked, so he held his nose.
After this, he'd tell Zhou Bai to steer clear of them.
…
Across in the west wine house, Zhang Yuanshang sat with a few elders.
It was quieter here, almost somber.
Finally, someone spoke up. "Elder Zhang, you're running this show yourself, burning bridges with that old monkey. Worth it?"
Zhang Yuanshang didn't flinch, calmly packing his water pipe, lighting it, and taking a drag. "A family, a sect—the old guard's the foundation, but the young ones are the future."
"If your kids make it big, even a broke house gets respect. If the next generation's a bust, even a grand family crumbles."
"The Zhous? Zhou Bai's their only star. The rest are drunks or skirt-chasers."
"They look unstoppable now, but that old monkey's getting up there, stuck at Transforming Strength. If Zhou Bai goes down, plenty will start plotting."
The others nodded, seeing his point.
The martial world ran on hard fists, but it boiled down to profit. The Divine Fist Society, bound by the Great Xuan Dynasty's rules, couldn't rampage like bandits.
Even bandits needed virtue to match their rank, or trouble followed.
Zhou Pan had pushed too far these past ten years.
In Xianyang, plenty were ready to kick the wall down.
"Any shot at winning?"
"Two or three in ten."
Zhang Yuanshang puffed his pipe, voice calm. "I'm old. Trading this weathered face for a slim chance? No loss."
"Father, they're here!" Zhang Shitong called softly from the window.
Everyone looked out. A commotion stirred at the northwest corner. Zhang's martial hall fighters barked, and the crowd split open.
A young man strode down the street.
Dressed in plain black martial gear, legs bound, he looked like a country boy. But his tall frame, pale skin, and sharp, striking eyes made him stand out, even in rough clothes.
Behind him trailed a Daoist and a burly, bearded bald man—Sha Lifei and Wang Daoxuan.
"That's Li Hu's kid?" an elder in the tea house said, surprised. "Li Hu was built like a bear. How's his son so good-looking? He'd steal the show as an opera diva."
The others chuckled, shaking their heads.
That was Luo Shihai, Xianyang's Bagua Palm master and head of the Longsheng Opera Troupe, a total theater nut.
He wouldn't be here, mixed up in martial world drama, if a Zhou junior hadn't ruined his star disciple, driving her to suicide.
While they mused, Li Yan reached the crossroads' center, ignoring the crowd's stares, his focus locked on the platform.
One look, and his eyes narrowed.
Sha Lifei snorted beside him. "Typical Zhou family—always pulling cheap tricks."
The platform was strange.
Normal ones had climbing stakes or layered wooden frames.
This one? Smooth boards all around, no handholds, glistening with tung oil in the sunlight.
A clear power move.
With this crowd, if Li Yan couldn't even get up, he'd be laughed out before the fight started.
"No big deal," Li Yan said coolly, scanning around.
He spotted thick hemp ropes around the platform, tied to iron stakes in the ground, stretched tight to hold the central pillar.
Without a word, he walked to one.
The crowd—commoners and martial folk alike—gaped.
The rope was sturdy but slanted steeply, only reaching halfway up. Was he going to climb it?
For a trained fighter, not tough, but it'd look clumsy.
It'd sap his momentum.
But Li Yan didn't grab it. He stepped onto the rope, alternating feet, walking steady and sure, like it was solid ground.
"Nice!" the crowd roared, clapping.
"What's that supposed to be?" scoffed some Iron Blade and White Ape gang thugs. "Just a circus tightrope trick. Was this kid a street performer or what?"
"You kidding?" an elder nearby snapped. "Tightrope's soft, with fancy footwork. This kid's got rock-solid legs, walking it like a road."
"Shut up if you don't get it."
The thugs, humiliated, cursed and lunged. "You old geezer—"
But before they finished, they dropped, knocked cold.
Some young guys in the crowd had moved fast, landing hits and kicking their ribs for good measure.
Bad luck for the thugs—they'd crossed a Playful Colors Sect elder.
Amid the chaos below, Li Yan stayed calm, walking the rope to the platform's midpoint. He paused, then sprang off the rope's bounce, grabbing the edge in midair.
With a clean flip, he landed smoothly on the platform.
The crowd erupted again.
Li Yan clasped his fists to them, casually eyeing the platform's surface, checking its size and scanning for slick or uneven patches.
Whoosh!Across the way, Zhou Bai couldn't hold back. Seeing Li Yan up, he vaulted from the wine house's second-floor window.
He rolled to break his fall, reached the platform's edge, and with one grip, his fingers sank into the smooth wood. Like a gecko, he scrambled up in a flash…
*(End of Chapter)*