Chapter 91: A Boring Duel (Bonus Chapter for Chongchong

To be honest, Liu Xiaolou didn’t want to fight—he hadn’t prepared at all, didn’t know Dong Wei’s cultivation level or techniques, nor did he excel at open, face-to-face combat like the Wulong Mountain cultivators, and he had no strong desire to win; just getting a return gift would suffice.

Even if he won, would the Su family truly choose the victor as their son-in-law? Unlikely. But if he lost, he’d only invite humiliation for nothing? Besides, his array techniques were truly unfit for public display; exposing them so easily wasn’t the way of a Wulong Mountain hero.

To step forward and expose your weaknesses with no benefit—isn’t that stupid?

He bowed and said: “Brother Dong, you’re brilliant; I’m no match. I yield, I yield!”

Dong Wei sneered: “Coward!”

Liu Xiaolou sighed: “Brother Dong, why speak so harshly? I’ve admitted my fault. Why not we take our leave of our host and return to Wulong Mountain?”

Laughter erupted again at the table; everyone burst into mirth. Someone jeered: “Brother Dong, Brother Liu, why bother fighting us for a position? Isn’t it better to go back home and live your quiet lives?”

“Exactly! You two have your squabbles—why come here? What do you think of Master Su?”

“Master Su, these two aren’t sincerely seeking marriage. Please dismiss them!”

Dong Wei was furious and anxious, thinking: Wasn’t the plan to drive away the Liu guy first? Liu was introduced by Bai Yun the Swordmaster, the biggest threat—why weren’t we teaming up against him instead of dragging me into this?

He pointed at the loudest heckler: “Brother Qian, if you have any grievance against me, step down and show me your skills—let me learn your prowess. Sitting there spouting empty words—what’s that?”

Liu Xiaolou didn’t want to fight, but plenty were eager to. The Qian cultivator rose at once, first turning to Liu Xiaolou: “Young brother, don’t worry—I’ll deal with your Brother Dong, then he can return with you.”

Liu Xiaolou gratefully said: “Please show mercy—don’t hurt him.”

The Qian man laughed loudly: “Don’t worry!”

Dong Wei, enraged, gritted his teeth: “Liu! You Wulong Mountain coward, spouting nonsense—I swear I won’t let this go! Qian, if you’ve got guts, strike! I’ll let you have three moves—see how you’ll send me packing!”

The Qian man showed no humility whatsoever—he accepted outright: “Then thank you, Brother Dong. First move!” A square copper coin, as large as a porcelain plate, shot forward instantly.

At this move, Liu Xiaolou instantly respected him—not for his magical skill, but for his audacity and decisiveness; he thought: Such a man, even among Wulong Mountain’s heroes, would stand out.

When cultivation levels are close, combat hinges on seizing the initiative. Dong Wei, furious, had made a boast and trapped himself in his own words—now he was bound hand and foot. After three moves, he was flustered; by the time he pulled out his chessboard to fight, defeat was inevitable. In moments, the copper coin struck his waist, sending him flying.

The Qian man was no mercy-giver—this blow made Dong Wei spit blood on the spot.

For a cultivator like Dong Wei, from a humble background, accustomed to self-importance and lacking real-life trials, who’d spent years on chess and been flattered as a “Chess Immortal,” if he’d met the Qian man in the wild, he’d be dead beyond recovery. Liu Xiaolou shook his head in disgust.

The Qian man exclaimed: “Oh! My apologies, Brother Liu—my cultivation’s too weak to control force properly. I’ve injured your brother—please forgive me.”

Liu Xiaolou snapped to attention, rushed over, lifted Dong Wei up, sealed several key meridians, and said with concern: “Brother Dong, don’t move—I’ll heal your wounds and stop the bleeding.”

He helped him back to his seat, patted his body all over, found a satchel in his robes—inside was a spirit stone. He happily slipped it into his pocket. There was also a small bamboo tube; he pulled the stopper, smelled a pungent medicinal odor, didn’t care what it was, and poured it all into Dong Wei’s mouth.

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Dong Wei struggled but couldn’t move a muscle, glaring at Liu Xiaolou, only able to groan in his throat—until Liu Xiaolou lightly tapped him on the back of the head, knocking him unconscious.

The whole sequence flowed smoothly; no one noticed a flaw. Su Zhi on the main seat had his brows knotted so tightly they seemed ready to drip, and impatiently signaled servants to carry Dong Wei out and put him in a guest room.

Though brief, this match ignited the young “junyan”s’ enthusiasm for combat, and several others soon stepped down.

Bai Yun the Swordmaster had already taken his leave; with Dong Wei, who’d targeted him, now out of the picture, Liu Xiaolou had no worries and watched the matches with calm ease.

As he watched, he weighed and wrestled internally: Twelve spirit stones a year were indeed tempting—but nothing was under his control, not even leaving the mountain without his future wife’s permission, which made him hesitate.

If those twelve spirit stones were guaranteed, and he could freely roam outside the mountain—how wonderful that would be.

If he could make some small decisions himself, without always obeying his future wife—that would be even better.

If this marriage could have a time limit—wouldn’t that be perfect?

Thinking this, he shook his head again: First, such a thing doesn’t exist in this world; even if it did, his performance today made him impossible for the Su family to accept.

Had he gone too far with that act to drag Dong Wei into it?

While he was lost in thought, several matches had already passed; after winning three straight, the Qian man’s true qi gave out and was defeated by Jia Po, who now strutted on stage.

All these matches were between Qi Refining levels three to five—low-level, lacking intensity or life-or-death stakes. Not only did Liu Xiaolou find them boring, but even Master Su kept shaking his head.

Su Zhi had completely lost interest and wanted to dismiss all these young “junyan”s—but remembering how the Mao Gong Altar and Xunxi families were closely watching Wu Niang, he felt a wave of despair.

If either family persuaded a senior elder of Danxia Sect to propose, could the Su family, given its current standing in the sect, resist? Probably not. Then Wu Niang would marry far away, become another family’s daughter-in-law, and the Su family would lose its next-generation pillar.

He sighed and turned to his steward: “Master Song, send someone to ask Wu Niang—has she found anyone she likes?”

Master Song shook his head: “Like? Difficult…”

Su Zhi changed his question: “Then ask her—has she found anyone she can accept?”

Master Song nodded: “I’ll go now.”

A while later, Master Song returned to Gualu Hall—two more matches had been fought. Su Zhi’s eyelids were drooping, nearly asleep. Seeing Master Song’s strange expression, he asked: “What did she say?”

Master Song whispered in his ear. Su Zhi froze, then slammed his fist on the table and leapt up: “No! Nonsense! I’ll speak to her myself!”

Su Zhi rose from his seat. The matches came to a halt. The young “junyan”s stared at each other, bewildered, each heart pounding with unease.

Liu Xiaolou was enjoying the spectacle when suddenly someone rose, cup in hand, walked to his side, and whispered: “Young Brother Liu, after tonight’s feast, shall we walk together?”

As Liu Xiaolou was startled, the man casually brushed his hand—goosebumps erupted instantly. He slapped it away and roared: “Get lost!”

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