"Brilliant!"
The crowd below roared, their cheers shaking the heavens.
Zhou Bai's display was a visual feast, far flashier than Li Yan's.
Monkey-taming, dog-teasing, pole-climbing, rope-walking—these were tricks the townsfolk had seen from traveling performers at temple fairs. But Zhou Bai's wall-running, roof-leaping kung fu? That was a rare treat. The claw marks he left on the sturdy wooden boards sparked gasps of awe.
Still, as the saying goes: outsiders chase the spectacle, insiders spot the skill.
Only seasoned martial artists could appreciate the sheer mastery of Li Yan's earlier move, his lower body strength a testament to years of grueling training.
But these were just side notes.
All eyes soon locked onto the arena.
Watching a fight had its own art. Take an execution: a silent prisoner, head lopped off in one swing, leaves the crowd cold, the moment forgettable. But if they curse the court, rail against corrupt officials, spit venom at the emperor, then belt out a defiant ballad about returning as a hero in eighteen years? That's the stuff of legends.
An arena duel was no different. The real spice came from the pre-fight banter, like modern prizefighters squaring off, trading barbs to heat up the crowd.
So the onlookers leaned in, eyes wide, hoping for a fiery exchange—maybe even a dramatic verse or two, straight out of a play.
But the stage offered no such drama.
Li Yan and Zhou Bai stood silent, sizing each other up with cold, calculating stares.
Words were pointless now. This was a life-and-death arena.
To Zhou Bai, Li Yan was just a cocky village kid, riding his father's minor fame, daring to challenge the Zhou family for a shot at glory.
Li Yan, though, knew better. The rift with the Zhou family was a knot too tight to unravel. Beyond old grudges, his father's death tied back to Zhou Pan—whether as the killer or someone in the know.
Both men studied each other, hunting for weaknesses.
Young as they were, both were hardened martial artists, trained from childhood to read the body like an open book. A glance could reveal recent injuries—crucial in a fight where a single misstep could end a career, unless you carved out some brutal new path, like the One-Armed Blade technique.
In a death match, there was no room for courtesy.
Spot a wound, and you'd hammer it until the opponent broke.
Finding no obvious tells, Zhou Bai grew restless. With a slight clasp of his fists, he sneered, "Heard you're a Red Fist expert, huh?"
"Come on, then. Let's see how much guts you've got to challenge the Zhou family in Xianyang!"
The words hit like a spark. Zhou Peide, one of the Eight Great Vajras, slammed the table, his face darkening. "Idiot!"
Everyone saw Zhou Bai's game now.
The Zhou family's Monkey Fist was a branch of Red Fist, but Zhou Pan had blended it with Through-Back Monkey Fist, fusing the best of both to build his fearsome reputation. Red Fist, as the root style, was something they'd mastered deeply.
Yet here was Zhou Bai, brimming with youthful arrogance, tossing aside his strengths to beat Li Yan at his own game—Red Fist.
It was a reckless departure from their plan.
A flicker of anger crossed Yuan Qu's eyes, but he smothered it with a smile. "Easy, Senior Brother. Zhou Bai's no slouch with Red Fist. With his talent, he'll crush this kid without breaking a sweat."
"This is a death match! He's lost his mind chasing fame!" Zhou Peide snapped, his voice thick with fury. "When this is over, he's confined. And you—keep him out of gang business. Stay away from him!"
Zhou Peide held himself above Yuan Qu and Zheng Heibei, seeing them as mere lackeys despite their nominal status as fellow disciples. His anger let loose, he didn't hold back.
"Yes, Senior Brother's right," Yuan Qu replied, bowing low to hide the venom in his gaze.
Up on the arena, Zhou Bai struck first.
The ten-meter ring was small. With a burst of force, he twisted forward, closing the gap to Li Yan in an instant. His left palm flicked up in a feint, while his right hand shot toward Li Yan's face.
White Tiger Washes Face—a move born from Red Fist's Six Harmonies Spear.
His arm moved like a spear's flourish, a blur of motion, designed to catch the opponent off guard, aiming for the eyes and brow—lethal points.
Red Fist was battlefield-bred, every strike meant to draw blood.
Master one move, and it's worth more than a hundred polished ones.
At its peak, this technique exploded like a thunderclap, too fast for reaction. A flash in the eyes, and the fight was over.
But Li Yan was ready.
He didn't flinch. His left hand shot up, blocking Zhou Bai's arm. Twisting his body, he channeled power from his waist, his right fist hammering down like a sledge, aiming for the Baihui point atop Zhou Bai's skull.
Red Fist's opening strike: Block and Chop Hammer.
It looked crude, like a brawler's swing, but it was a seamless blend of defense and attack.
One clean hit, and Zhou Bai's skull would shatter.
Zhou Bai, drilled by masters since childhood, had sharper instincts. A slight sidestep, a twist of his shoulders, and he raised both fists in a cross-block, locking Li Yan's right wrist.
"Not bad!" Zhou Peide called from the tavern, his scowl softening.
Red Fist drew from the battlefield, where locking an opponent's arm was key. In close combat, a skilled fighter could guide an enemy's weapon, throwing them off balance for the kill.
This locking hand worked the same way.
Once secured, it opened a floodgate of follow-up strikes.
Sure enough, Zhou Bai, wrist locked, swung a vicious side kick aimed at Li Yan's groin.
Li Yan's reflexes were lightning. He countered with a side kick of his own, shoving Zhou Bai's shin back.
But the moment their legs met, he sensed the trap.
Zhou Bai's kick was limp, a deliberate feint.
Li Yan, now on one leg, was off balance.
As planned, Zhou Bai slid to the side, bent low, and hooked Li Yan's right knee, hands crossing as he yanked with force.
Sheathed Sword Leg.
A brutal move, it toppled the opponent, setting up a killing blow.
It was this technique that had once sent Zhang Shitung flying when he tried to counter it.
No surprise—Li Yan went down, crashing backward.
Zhou Bai's next move was instant: a whip-like side kick, timed to smash Li Yan's temple just as his head neared the ground.
In that split-second crisis, Li Yan's superior fundamentals shone.
Midair, he twisted his waist, dodging the kick while snapping his legs around Zhou Bai's torso in a scissor grip.
It wasn't enough to hurl Zhou Bai like he'd done at the Zhang Clan Martial Hall—this was a desperate mid-move grapple.
But Red Fist had answers for falling: the Nine Rolls, Eighteen Falls counter-techniques.
Using Zhou Bai's body for leverage, Li Yan braced his left hand on the ground and unleashed a horizontal Rabbit Kicks Eagle, slamming his foot into Zhou Bai's leg.
Zhou Bai was seasoned at dismantling attacks, but perhaps his rigid training left him inflexible. Caught off guard, he stumbled, balance gone.
Li Yan, hand still grounded, let his legs drop, knees bending for a spring-loaded burst. He launched forward, body arched.
Force Pushes Mount Tai.
Like a tiger pouncing, he seized Zhou Bai's waist, charging a few steps to slam him to the ground, then straddled him.
His fists became a blur, hammering down like cannon fire.
Worse for Zhou Bai, the small arena left him teetering on the edge, chest hanging off, waist unable to find purchase.
Under the onslaught, Zhou Bai shielded his head desperately, but several punches landed. Stars burst in his vision, blood streaming from his nose.
Li Yan showed no mercy.
One clean hit to a vital point, and Zhou Bai's neck would snap.
In moments, Zhou Bai was on the ropes, fear creeping in—but anger burned hotter.
He'd planned to dominate with Red Fist, yet this younger opponent, with moves so cunning and ruthless, was humiliating him before the crowd.
Martial artists carry a natural ferocity, and Zhou Bai's Monkey Fist training gave him a wild edge.
Fury and pain pushed him past reason. Grabbing Li Yan's clothes, he rolled, dragging them both off the arena.
The crowd gasped.
The exchange had been relentless, a storm of raw power and speed, dazzling to watch.
No one expected this.
A three-zhang drop—wouldn't that cripple them?
Martial artists in the crowd weren't fazed. Tumbling and dispersing force were basic skills. Three zhang was nothing; even five zhang, they'd roll and walk away. Some masters could leap from city walls unscathed.
Their concern was the rules: fall off, you lose. Was this fight headed for a draw?
But the outcome defied them.
As Zhou Bai fell, he curled into a monkey-like stance, claws digging into the arena's wooden side, halting his descent.
Li Yan's claw work wasn't as sharp, but he had his own trick. His left hand lashed out, punching through the wood, gripping the splintered edge to stop himself. He glanced at Zhou Bai, a cold smirk curling his lips.
"What's it gonna be? Back up to finish this?"
"Up? Like hell!"
Zhou Bai roared, body darting like an ape, pouncing straight at him…
*(Chapter End)*