Chapter 110: Chapter Thirteen: The Martial Competition (Part 2) — Extra Chapter for Patron sentiger

The Jinqiu Martial Competition is like a small imperial martial examination in Shenzhou.

Pei Ye has only one life, but he is not necessarily the only one. Among those competing, there are inevitably a few who have just crossed the threshold of cultivation, and besides them, a considerable number are second- or third-life cultivators.

It’s not that no one in the entire county is stronger than this—again, the Jinqiu Martial Competition, though a grand event spanning the whole province, is not meant to crown the province’s absolute strongest martial artist.

In past years, Fenghuai had mostly sent second-life competitors—not because there were no stronger candidates; the most skilled master at the martial school back then was fourth-life.

But as Master Huang said, those who go are “those who want to rise.”

Masters in their forties or fifties are already married with families, their martial path has reached its peak, and in a few years they’ll enjoy the peace of family life—who would risk injury or death for such a thing?

So the vast majority of participants are young, and how strong can young people possibly be?

There aren’t that many geniuses; at twenty or so, with a pulse tree at second or third life, one is already a fine martial prospect.

But from another perspective, observing the strength of the vast majority is meaningless.

Because the quota belongs only to the champion.

To win the champion title, one must defeat the strongest.

Though Bowang Province is remote and small, it contains ten counties and three notable sects.

Could there really be no one or two fifth- or sixth-life masters?

Young geniuses, sharp and eager to prove themselves, and seasoned veterans who have spent years grinding here, determined to succeed this year.

Who would willingly hand their chance to another?

…

Master Huang took a large gulp of wine, paused, then continued.

“To discuss these opponents from top to bottom, the foremost are naturally the sect disciples. In our Bowang Province, those are the Baizhu Pavilion, Cuiyu Sword Gate, and Qijiao Cave. In the counties, third-life masters have mostly taken official posts, married, and settled down—but within the sects, disciples devote themselves entirely to martial arts; many only descend the mountain to seek employment after completing their training, and the martial examination has always been their top priority.” Master Huang sipped his wine, gazing at the horizon. “Historically, all three sects have secured at least one spot for the capital, often the first match. Half the time, they even claim the third match as well.”

“Next come the two strong counties, Zheng Shou and Xu Gu, and several major merchant families. Zheng Shou thrives on its access to the Lu River trade routes; Xu Gu grows strong by suppressing bandits in the mountains. As there is only one quota, merchants carefully select and offer heavy rewards, hoping their chosen fighter can win several matches on stage.”

“After that come our ordinary small counties—those who go are mostly second- or third-life, just to join the spectacle, see the world, and occasionally one or two make it into the top sixteen or even top eight.”

“...Hmm.”

“Technically, your current level should make winning a match difficult. But you could fight second-life even before cultivation, occasionally defeating third-life—now that you’ve opened your meridians, it’s hard to say.” Master Huang pondered, “Let me think... this time, let’s at least win one match, and strive for three.”

“...Oh.”

“What does ‘oh’ mean?”

“...”

“I get it—you’re resentful,” Master Huang snorted. “You’ve always loved being resentful… three wins already gets you into the top sixteen! Idiot!”

“Top sixteen...” Pei Ye chewed a peanut.

“Hey! Then how many wins do you want?”

“Seven.”

“Seven...” Master Huang set down his gourd and began counting on his fingers. “Eight, four, two—you’re aiming for the championship?!”

“Mm.”

“...”

“...”

“Do you even know your own name?”

“I’m not saying I can definitely win—but when I enter the martial competition, I’ve always aimed only for first place.”

“.” Master Huang’s face turned as if he’d eaten shit.

“Honest.”

“Fine. Go ahead and act however you want—let’s test your skill first.” Master Huang swallowed his wine and peanut, stood up. “I’m roughly third-match level. If you can beat me in five moves, you’ve earned the right to compete for the top eight.”

“How?”

“You’re good with the sword, aren’t you? Bring your sword.” Master Huang walked to the weapon rack, kicked the bottom, and a steel sword leapt from its scabbard into his hand.

Pei Ye released Zhanxin Liuli and stood, drawing his own sword.

He glanced at the blade, then at the slightly hunched figure standing in the courtyard, and suddenly felt an impolite thought.

The thought was: “Do you even need five moves?”

Perhaps it was instinct. Or perhaps it was illusion.

In his youth, Master Huang was a strong third-life fighter; later, he was injured protecting a convoy, and his strength settled into a level that firmly surpassed second-life but remained slightly below third-life. Before his injury, during Pei Ye’s peak period, their matches often dragged on for a long time, and Pei Ye lost more than he won.

But now?

Using his former self as a benchmark, Pei Ye for the first time assessed his current strength.

In physical constitution, his seventeen-year-old self was taller and stronger.

In cultivation level, he had now broken the seed and generated Qi, shedding the label of “landlocked duck.”

Beyond these two fundamental martial qualities, what progress had he made in combat?

His sword technique had surged forward.

After guidance from Jing Mingqi, he had entered the state of Zhuo, making him a skilled swordsman even by the standards of the entire martial world—truly entering the hall.

He had also learned the first and second moves of the Snowy Night Flying Goose Sword Form.

He had once fought and defeated black-robed men with seventh- or eighth-life physical strength, standing at the peak of opening meridians—this experience and insight were invaluable.

He also possessed one powerful and unique gift—[Chunshou].

But.

After speaking with the black cat, [Chunshou] seemed linked to the Immortal Lord—he did not wish to use it lightly unless in mortal danger.

And the Snowy Night Flying Goose Sword Form had also received advice from Zhu Gaoyang:

“Use it as little as possible. For your current level, it’s too powerful. Even if you don’t truly activate the first two moves, merely using the surface techniques against opponents isn’t beneficial to your sword path.”

“Because the brilliance of this form will mask all your other deficiencies, letting you win duels easily—until you meet an opponent of sufficient depth.” Zhu Gaoyang said, “Your techniques will be laid bare before him, and your half-baked ‘intent’ and ‘heart’ will be like a child wielding a knife. Then you’ll realize: apart from this form, you have nothing.”

“Sink your heart. Learn the basic, shallow sword methods. Fight those of your own level with techniques of equal depth—above all, never let this sword form carry you. Don’t rely on it, or you’ll be forever imprisoned by it. You must walk steadily, solidly, to its height, then grasp it in your hand as an equal—or even from above.”

Pei Ye followed the advice without hesitation.

These were his two sharpest poison fangs—and now he would retract them both.

But even without its poison fangs, can a venomous snake not strangle a mouse?

Even without the Snowy Night Flying Goose Sword Form or [Chunshou], can he not defeat his own self from two years ago within five moves?

Pei Ye flicked his sword in a light flourish and smiled. “I’ll have to embarrass you, Master Huang!”

Master Huang said nothing, held his sword horizontally, signaling him to attack.

And suddenly, a streak of silver light flashed before his eyes.

Thank you to Snowfalled’s patronage!

(End of Chapter)