Chapter 99: Evil Qi Entwined, Pure Yang Showdown

"So, the match is just a front?" Her voice turned even colder.

"Smart." The shadow seemed to applaud, clapping its hands. "The real purpose is to see how Zhang Jun deals with this 'evil qi.' The Bloodline needs to confirm whether his Pure Yang Body is qualified... to accept that ritual."

Lin Xue's heart rang with alarm: "Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because the game has just begun." The shadow began to retreat, sinking back into darkness. "I'm very eager to see what choice you'll make when you reach the crossroads of fate."

Lin Xue wanted to give chase, but the man on the bed suddenly went into violent spasms; the blood sigil on his chest flickered erratically, and a bone‑chilling yin aura instantly filled the whole room!

She could only abandon the pursuit and quickly leave the old residence.

——

On the eve of the match, the Mo Clan.

Lin Xue told Zhang Jun and Mo Tianhe of her discovery.

"A blood‑red symbol…" Mo Tianhe's face darkened. "That patient is definitely something the Bloodline cooked up! This match is too dangerous!"

Zhang Jun clenched his fists: "Then I have to go all the more. Zhou Mu wants to test me with that patient—I'll let him see what a Pure Yang Body can really do!"

"The Bloodline people say they need to confirm whether you can accept a certain ritual." Lin Xue's worry showed through: "This surely relates to the secret on the snow mountain."

Mo Tianhe pondered for a long time: "Old man, I've heard some rumors. The Bloodline seems to have been searching for a way to open a certain 'passage,' requiring the utmost yin‑yang power as a key. You two are exactly one yin and one yang."

Zhang Jun and Lin Xue exchanged a glance, each understanding the other's meaning.

"The match is imminent—first, rest up." Mo Tianhe rose to his feet. "The Mo Clan has sent sixteen experts to follow you in secret; tomorrow, I, the old man, will personally go to the scene to back you up."

Leaving the front hall, Zhang Jun whispered to Lin Xue: "Tonight, we still need to come once more."

Lin Xue nodded and followed him to the courtyard.

The moonlight was like a silken ribbon.

The two sat opposite each other.

Lin Xue once again took off the crystal and shoved it straight into Zhang Jun's hand.

"Close your eyes."

She placed her hand on his wrist, and the Profound Yin force slowly flowed in.

Zhang Jun could clearly feel his internal Pure Yang current being gently combed and guided by that cool force, becoming unprecedentedly steady and refined.

Two forces that should be incompatible like water and fire were, between them, perfectly harmonious.

"Lin Xue." Zhang Jun suddenly spoke, his voice unusually clear in the quiet night: "Tomorrow, no matter what we encounter, remember this—our fate lies in our own hands."

Lin Xue's hand paused, then she gave a soft "mm."

What she didn't say was that the blue crystal, now in Zhang Jun's warm palm, was emitting a brilliance never seen before—so bright it was almost blinding.

At the headquarters of Hundred Herbs Hall, the ancient‑style hall deep within the courtyard was packed to the rafters, buzzing with noise.

Nearly every notable figure from Binhai City had come.

Fans of Positive Yang Technology, longtime patrons of Hundred Herbs Hall, and many martial‑arts world figures drawn by the news packed the old‑fashioned hall to standing‑room only.

In the corner stood several cameras, the live‑broadcast lights on; reporters lugged long and short guns, weaving through the crowd to capture every angle.

Zhang Jun stood by the table on the left, expressionless, wearing a washed‑white plain‑colored Zhongshan suit that clashed with the surroundings.

On the right side opposite him, Zhou Mu was different—his finely tailored Suzhou‑embroidered robe, a warm smooth jade pendant at his waist, and every gesture bore the polished bearing of a scion of a noble family.

"There are really a lot of reporters," Su Muqing said, leaning close to Zhang Jun to whisper, "Hundred Herbs Hall has gone all out this time to build momentum."

Zhang Jun snorted through his nose: "More people the better—the livelier, the more interesting."

In the center of the hall, three beds were lined up in a row; beneath the white sheets, the patients' outlines could be faintly seen.

By the beds lay an assortment of instruments, old and new side by side—a bronze figurine, a pulse cushion next to a vital‑signs monitor, making for a rather mismatched look.

Lin Xue leaned against a column, her gaze sweeping the hall. She had changed into an inconspicuous gray work uniform, with a small pouch tucked at her waist; no one knew it held two ice‑needles she had specially prepared, chilled with killing cold.

"It's starting." Mo Tianhe had somehow taken a place beside her. The old man wore a dark‑blue long robe and leaned on a black‑sandalwood cane; though he looked ordinary, Lin Xue knew the cane concealed a weapon.

The host took the stage and announced the rules: best of three, each doctor would diagnose and treat, with seven senior medical figures on site serving as judges.

"First patient, please."

The first bed's sheet was pulled back, revealing a death‑pale old man.

He was skin and bone, yet his chest and belly were grotesquely distended; his breathing sounded like a broken bellows, a hoarse rattling in his throat.

Zhou Mu went up first, taking a rather delicate pulse‑diagnosis device and fastening it to the old man's wrist.

The screen immediately filled with a tangle of winding waveforms.

Zhou Mu frowned, then produced a silver needle and lightly pricked several spots on the old man's chest and abdomen; the little flag tied to the needle's end fluttered with each breath.

"When he was young, the old man practiced hard qigong," Zhou Mu said quietly but loud enough for those nearby to hear, "He went off the rails, his qi and blood ran backward, damaging three meridians. I'd say this condition has been around for at least twenty‑three years; if left untreated…"

"Twenty‑seven years." Zhang Jun's voice wasn't loud, but it rose clearly above Zhou Mu's: "It's not twenty‑three."

The composure on Zhou Mu's face slipped: "Doctor Zhang, what do you mean by that?"

Zhang Jun stepped to the bedside, touching nothing, and lightly pressed a few spots on the old man's chest and abdomen: "Old sir, you practiced Iron Cloth Shirt, but your qi‑circulation method is wrong. The injury isn't limited to the Triple Burner; the root lies where the Ren and Du meridians meet."

His finger pressed a few inconspicuous knots and old calluses on the old man's body: "See how these bones are twisted? And this callus? It's the aftermath of standing stance in Seven Star Luohan Fist. This style was popular in the Northeast twenty‑seven years ago, but too many people deviated in practice, so eventually nobody trained it."

The old man on the bed shot his eyes wide open: "You… how do you know?"

Zhang Jun tugged at the corner of his mouth: "Besides, that scar on the old man's right tiger's mouth comes from Iron Sand Palm. To have mastered both Iron Cloth Shirt and Iron Sand Palm to your level—I'd guess there are no more than three people alive who can do that."

On the judges' bench, a few old men exchanged glances, their faces showing a hint of approval.

Zhou Mu's complexion darkened: "Just some old history—treating the patient is what matters!"