Chapter Seventy-Three: Competing in the Arena

After Xiong Baili finished speaking, a clamor erupted from the audience. He Jiahui, furious at what he heard, leaped onto the stage and shouted, “You unreasonable brute, I’ll teach you a lesson for everyone!”

Xiong Baili seized the moment while He Jiahui was still finding his footing and sprang forward, launching a flying kick at him. Despite his burly stature, He Jiahui was remarkably agile; he pivoted slightly to dodge, then countered with a swift kick of his own. The two men circled each other, their fight joined, exchanging blows for over thirty rounds. Then, with a thunderous shout, He Jiahui brought his palms down like Mount Tai crushing all beneath it. Xiong Baili raised his arms to block, but could not match He Jiahui’s immense strength. His legs buckled and he fell to his knees with a resounding thud.

He Jiahui laughed heartily, “If you want to concede, just say so—why kneel?” With that, he withdrew his hand and stepped aside.

Xiong Baili rolled to his feet, red-faced, and strode to the edge of the ring where he snatched up a broadsword from the weapons rack. Brandishing it, he slashed at He Jiahui and shouted, “We’ve tested our fists—now let’s try blades!”

He Jiahui sidestepped the broadsword’s sweep. His fellow disciples tossed him his familiar iron sword, which he caught deftly, and engaged Xiong Baili once more in a fierce duel. After dozens of exchanges, He Jiahui finally knocked Xiong Baili’s broadsword aside and brought his iron sword down in a sweeping arc. Xiong Baili shrieked, dropped to a crouch, and covered his head in terror, but instead of a killing blow, the iron sword struck his back bluntly and horizontally.

Though his back burned with pain, Xiong Baili knew his life had been spared. Face flushed, he leapt off the stage and walked away without a backward glance. The crowd cheered: Xiong Baili had clearly intended to kill, and had He Jiahui failed to best him, he might have died beneath the blade. Yet He Jiahui spared his foe, showing a magnanimity far superior to Xiong Baili’s.

Ma Beifang praised, “Brother He’s compassion is rare in our world.” Nearby, a handsome young man, with an odd, mocking tone, sneered, “Defeating a brute is nothing special. Watch me knock him down and give this young lady a good laugh.” With that, he vaulted onto the stage.

This young man had been hovering around Huang Shan since their first meeting, shadowing her every step. Ma Beifang, though annoyed, was a scion of a reputable lineage and would not act hastily as the rougher men of the martial world might. He noticed the young man’s martial skill, but judged he was no match for him, so kept his vigilance concealed.

Huang Shan, too, had long sensed the man’s roving, sly gaze, but her open nature made her indifferent to it. Ma Beifang observed the young man leap onto the stage with steady footwork and strong stance, and mused, “Of all the external schools, Shaolin is famed for solid lower-body technique; among internal schools, Kunlun is unmatched. This man’s style has a flavor of Kunlun. Could he be one of their disciples? Yet Kunlun’s rules are strict, and none of their students are so uncouth. No matter, I’ll see what moves he uses.”

He Jiahui bowed and asked, “May I know your name, hero?” The young man curled his lip in disdain and replied with a cold laugh, “Clowns like you dare to make a spectacle here? Get off the stage!”

He circled his left palm and thrust his right palm from beneath his elbow, aiming straight for He Jiahui’s chest. He Jiahui quickly retreated to avoid the blow, but the young man spun, swept his arm sideways, and struck at He Jiahui’s ribs. Ma Beifang and Huang Shan exchanged glances; both recognized the thirty-six Thunderbolt Strikes of the Kunlun Sect.

Years ago, the Kunlun masters, Daoist Xuanwu and Daoist Tielin, were invited to Tianshan to observe a grand martial contest, where Tielin publicly demonstrated this very palm technique. Tielin was known in the martial world as “Kunlun Thunderbolt”—partly for his fiery temperament, and partly for his mastery of the Thunderbolt Strikes.

During that contest, Tielin was injured and spat blood after being beaten by Li Chongyuan. The two sects drifted apart, and since then, Kunlun had declined all further invitations to Tianshan, never again returning.

Yet Ma Beifang and Huang Shan had memorized those techniques. As the young man struck, his tiger’s mouth rounded, fingers half-curved, half-straight—a clear mark of Kunlun’s Iron Pipa Palm. He was undoubtedly a Kunlun disciple.

Strangely, though his martial form was correct, his energy was wholly different. Kunlun’s style was always fierce and bold, with palm winds whistling and thunder roaring. This man, however, moved with eerie softness, each strike devoid of any vigor, hauntingly ghostlike. With each move, he counted aloud. At the twelfth strike, he cried, “Twelve!” and landed a silent but mighty palm on He Jiahui’s back. He Jiahui spat blood on the spot, yet the young man pressed on, launching a kick at He Jiahui’s chest. Ma Beifang saw the heel drawn back and the toes pointing up—this was Kunlun’s King Yan Piercing Heart Kick, a fatal move.

Though He Jiahui was reckless, he was generous and spirited—Ma Beifang could not bear to see him killed. He sprang into action, landing beside the young man and targeted his vital point from behind, forcing the young man to withdraw his kick at the last moment and dodge aside. Ma Beifang landed beside He Jiahui, supporting him just as he staggered back from death’s door, his face waxen.

Ma Beifang took several Jade Lotus Pills from his pocket and gave them to He Jiahui. Soon, color returned to He Jiahui’s cheeks. He struggled to his feet and said, “Thank you, Brother Ma…” The iron sword disciples rushed up and helped He Jiahui off the stage.

The young man sneered, “You fearless fool, daring to ruin my fun—today you’ll die in his place!” With that, he lunged at Ma Beifang.

His palms whirled, the Thunderbolt Strikes surging forward, yet to Ma Beifang they seemed oddly delicate, almost graceful—unnerving. Cautious, Ma Beifang countered with his Wind and Thunder Palm. Both techniques were about strength against strength; when two fierce powers clash, the braver prevails. The young man lacked boldness and was overly supple; after a few moves, Ma Beifang gained the upper hand. The young man struggled through a dozen blows before being knocked down.

He clambered to his feet and grabbed the broadsword from the ground, swinging it wildly. It was the Kongtong sword style, but while Kongtong swordplay was meant to be bold and sweeping, this man wielded it like a dancer waving ribbons—exquisitely beautiful, but hardly suited for mortal combat.

Ma Beifang chuckled inwardly, “Such swordplay would be fine for entertaining at a banquet, but on the battlefield it’s woefully lacking!” The broadsword was heavy; after a while, the young man’s arms grew sore and his movements sluggish. Ma Beifang advanced, seized his wrist, hooked his foot under the man’s, and thrust with his left palm, sending the man shrieking off the stage.

The young man glared fiercely at Ma Beifang as he picked himself up, then turned and left. Sensing something unusual about him, Ma Beifang exchanged a glance with Huang Shan and quietly followed.

From the viewing platform, Sha Tonghai and Liu Wenhua watched, laughing heartily. Sha Tonghai was a veteran of many battles—not lacking in fighting skill, but his expertise was in combat aboard ships and underwater, not in the footwork and horsemanship of land-based martial arts.

Shipboard and underwater fighting differed vastly from land-based arts. Wooden ships rocked on the waves, decks were unstable, so kicking, jumping, or rolling was rarely used. Cabins were cramped, making long-range techniques impractical—only close-quarters grappling was effective. Such skills were often scorned by martial artists on land. Underwater, strength and speed mattered less; what counted was who could hold their breath longest. Water restricted movement, making strength and speed nearly useless; anyone who couldn’t hold their breath would certainly die.

Moreover, underwater combat rendered traditional techniques, swords, and large blades useless; instead, short weapons like Emei daggers and knives became essential. Sha Tonghai watched the brilliant land-based martial arts with delight; life and death were of no concern to him—he cared only for recruiting skilled fighters. Seeing Ma Beifang’s easy victory, he was overjoyed and called for him to be brought forward.

But Ma Beifang was nowhere to be found. The young man wound his way through the alleys of northern Laizhou, arriving at a grand mansion. Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, he tapped lightly on the vermilion door. It opened a crack and someone poked their head out, “Xiao Gao, where have you been? You’re filthy!” Xiao Gao snapped irritably, “Cut the nonsense! Let me in!” The door opened and Xiao Gao slipped inside, the door closing firmly behind him. Ma Beifang and Huang Shan watched from a rooftop opposite.

Knowing there was something unusual about the mansion, Ma Beifang told Huang Shan to return to the inn as backup, while he would investigate alone. Seeing the courtyard empty, he covered his face with a handkerchief, leaving only his eyes exposed, and used Shadowless Lightfoot to glide like a bird across the street and into the yard. He then vaulted onto the roof, crept down quietly, and overheard conversation inside.

An aged voice said, “Xiao Gao, His Highness sent you here to study martial arts, not cause trouble!”

Xiao Gao replied, “Master, I saw Sha Tonghai recruiting fighters and couldn’t resist showing off. I wanted to test my skills, but some clueless brat ruined my plans.”

“Hmph, wanted to test your skills? I suspect you actually want to infiltrate Sha Tonghai’s fleet.”

“Master, we needn’t worry about that fleet. Today, I saw a stunning beauty at the ring. I wanted to impress her and offer her to you, but that brat ruined everything!”

The old voice laughed, “I believe you. If you get the girl, you’ll… ha ha ha.” He cackled.

Xiao Gao snapped, “We all serve His Highness. Though I learn martial arts from you, we are not master and disciple. You teach me at His Highness’s command, so why humiliate me? From what I saw today, your skills may look impressive but are useless in practice!”

The master was silent, clearly suppressing his anger. After a while, he said, “It’s not that I failed to teach you well, but your talent is limited, and moreover, your body…” Before he could finish, Xiao Gao shouted, “Enough! Don’t say another word!” He stormed out in a huff.