Chapter 22

In the Yitian world, atop Mount Wudang.

Before the Wudang Sect, on a vast square, the third-generation disciples, led by Zhang Jie and Song Qingshu, stood in neat formation.

Before them stood four of the Seven Heroes of Wudang, clad in green Daoist robes, wearing Daoist caps,

and stepping in cloth boots, led by Song Yuanqiao.

It had been only half a month since Zhang Jie of Yitian had shared his space and complained to Zhang Jie of Water Margin about the pre-made content.

Today was Wudang Sect’s biannual martial competition.

Of course, unlike certain black society cultivation sects where the rewards were enormous,

and the competitions were fought to the death with deceit and treachery,

Wudang’s martial competition was merely a formal sparring session,

primarily meant to assess each disciple’s progress over the past half-year.

Wudang placed great importance on this biannual martial competition.

Of the Seven Heroes of Wudang, apart from the deceased Fifth Hero Zhang Cuishan,

and the Third Hero Yu Danyan, who had been rendered feeble after his bones were shattered,

and the Sixth Hero Yin Liting, who was still away on mission,

the other four heroes—Grand Hero Song Yuanqiao, Second Hero Yu Lianzhou, Fourth Hero Zhang Songxi, and Seventh Hero Mo Shenggu—were all present.

Zhang Sanfeng, however, had been in seclusion lately and did not attend.

Looking at the third-generation disciples before him, their posture disciplined and their spirit vibrant,

Song Yuanqiao, temporarily serving as Wudang’s sect leader, nodded in satisfaction.

In a steady voice, he said: “Since our master, your Grandmaster Sanfeng Zhenren, founded this sect over thirty years ago,

our Wudang has grown in prestige across the Jianghu.

This is entirely due to our master’s lofty virtue and revered status.

Yet, Wudang’s future ultimately rests upon you.

You must diligently study the Daoist scriptures and martial arts, and never tarnish Wudang’s reputation!”

Song Yuanqiao’s voice was gentle and broad, not loud,

yet it seemed to resonate clearly and powerfully in the ears of every third-generation disciple.

Clearly, the leader of the Seven Heroes of Wudang possessed extraordinary internal energy.

“Yes! We humbly heed our Senior Brother’s teachings!”

The third-generation disciples, including Zhang Jie, responded in unison.

Including Zhang Jie, the second-generation disciples responded with a thunderous yes.

Hearing the synchronized voices and sensing the sincerity within,

the stern Song Yuanqiao nodded again, deeply satisfied with the third-generation disciples.

For him, who regarded Wudang as his home, nothing brought greater joy than seeing this home grow and flourish.

“Fourth Brother, begin the competition.”

Song Yuanqiao turned to his fourth brother, Zhang Songxi.

Though he managed Wudang like a steward, he could not oversee every minor detail.

He focused on the broad direction; the specifics were entrusted to his brothers.

Though Zhang Songxi’s martial skill was not as high as that of the Second Brother Yu Lianzhou,

unlike the quiet and reserved Yu Lianzhou, Zhang Songxi was sharp, clever, and skilled in strategy,

renowned within the sect for his intellect—perfectly suited to oversee the martial competition.

“Yes, Senior Brother,” Zhang Songxi replied.

He stepped forward two paces and announced loudly:

“I declare the martial competition officially begun. First match: Li Chenzhou versus Chen Xiaolou.”

“Disciples accept the order.”

Two voices, differing in tone, emerged as two disciples stepped out of the formation.

Li Chenzhou was tall and slender; Chen Xiaolou was not short, but somewhat chubby.

Both arrived at the practice platform, twenty meters long and wide, marked out with lime.

“Younger brother, after you,” Li Chenzhou, the more senior disciple, bowed and invited.

“Then I shall be impolite,” Chen Xiaolou replied, drawing his long sword from his left hand.

He lightly tapped the ground and floated toward Li Chenzhou like a willow fluff in the wind,

his sword tip glinting with sharp points aimed at Li Chenzhou’s vital spots.

Chen Xiaolou returned the bow, then drew out the long sword clutched in his left hand.

Li Chenzhou cried out in approval, drawing his own sword—but did not move.

He stood his ground and met Chen Xiaolou’s strike head-on.

Failing to land a hit, Chen Xiaolou immediately retreated, his steps alternating between fast and slow,

circling Li Chenzhou, seeking an opening.

Unexpectedly, Chen Xiaolou, whose figure seemed clumsy, moved with lightness and agility,

while Li Chenzhou, tall and slender, clearly gifted in agility, stood as immovable as a mountain.

“Clang! Clang! Clang!”

Chen Xiaolou launched several successive attacks, all of which Li Chenzhou deflected with unwavering stillness.

Yet Li Chenzhou, tall and slender, clearly possessing great advantage in lightness skills, remained as immovable as a mountain.

Song Yuanqiao and the others watching nodded repeatedly.

Though Li Chenzhou and Chen Xiaolou were evenly matched,

either of them would be considered a third-rank expert in the Jianghu, capable of dominating an entire county.

With proper training, they might one day become second-rank experts with minor renown across several provinces.

As for first-rank experts like the leaders of major sects such as Emei or Kongtong, that would depend on their individual fortunes.

But either one of them, placed in the Jianghu, would still be considered a third-rate expert, capable of roving freely across an entire county.

Finally, Li Chenzhou, waiting patiently for an opening, seized his chance—

using the Divine Gate Thirteen Swords technique: “Zi Ya Fishing,” he struck Chen Xiaolou’s Shenmen point on the right wrist.

With no way to evade, Chen Xiaolou was forced to drop his sword.

The Divine Gate Thirteen Swords were uniquely created by Wudang’s founding master, Zhang Sanfeng.

This sword technique consists of thirteen exquisite moves,

each targeting the opponent’s Shenmen point as its core objective—

striking it renders the hand instantly unable to hold any weapon.

Wudang’s Sixth Hero Yin Liting once used this technique to force over a dozen men from the Three Rivers Gang to drop their swords in battle.

“I yield,” Chen Xiaolou, panting heavily, bowed.

“Younger brother, thank you for the match,” Li Chenzhou replied with humility.

Neither the disciples nor the four Wudang heroes were surprised by the outcome.

When talent, effort, and teacher’s lineage show no clear difference,

the one who has trained longer usually defeats the one who has trained less.

Next, under Zhang Songxi’s orderly arrangement, the other disciples completed their matches.

Soon, it came time for Zhang Jie and Song Qingshu—the top-ranked third-generation disciples.

Ah, this competition was meant to assess learning, so each disciple faced an opponent of equal standing.

After all, pitting disciples with vastly different skill levels against each other would damage the weaker disciple’s confidence

and offer no real benefit to the stronger one—only possibly fueling arrogance.

On the practice ground, Song Qingshu narrowed his eyes at Zhang Jie, standing five or six meters away.

He had long been wary of Zhang Jie and, if possible, did not wish to let Zhang Jie take the initiative.

Yet, before this vast audience—his father, his teachers,

and all his fellow disciples—he must display the bearing of a senior brother.

Song Qingshu, known as the “Jade-Faced Mengchang,” bowed and said:

“Younger brother, after you.”

“Senior brother, after you.”

Zhang Jie returned the bow—but did not draw his sword. Instead, he stomped the ground with his toe,

and charged toward Song Qingshu like a wild ox.

The floor beneath his feet cracked in fragments, as if crushed by the weight of a multi-ton elephant!

Song Qingshu, watching Zhang Jie’s action, flickered a hint of contempt in his eyes.

“Senior brother, please.”

Zhang Jie returned the bow, but did not draw his sword; instead, he tapped his toe against the floor.

His entire body charged at Song Qingshu like a wild ox.

The floor beneath his feet cracked in fragments, as if crushed by an elephant weighing many tons!

Song Qingshu watched Zhang Jie’s actions, a flicker of contempt passing through his eyes.

In his eyes, a martial artist should be as light as willow fluff, robes fluttering, sword in hand, wandering the world.

How is Zhang Jie any different from a brute?

Zhang Jie: Don’t I wish I could be like that?

It’s just that my body’s natural talent won’t allow it!

Zhang Jie, like some brute titan, dreams of becoming a white-robed sword immortal,

yet has somehow ended up on the path of the Thunder Blade Mad Monk, the Bare-Chested Dao Master.

Yet below, Song Yuanqiao recognized true worth.

Having seen Great Yuan generals clad in hundred-pound armor, wielding hammers, axes, and long spears weighing dozens of pounds,

riding steeds into battle, he saw

that Zhang Jie, save for lacking the general’s slaughterous aura—cutting down men like grass—was nearly identical to such a general.

In strength alone, Zhang Jie surpassed the general he had seen by more than a notch.

In other words, if Zhang Jie were placed in an army,

he would be the peerless warrior capable of riding through ten thousand enemies to sever an enemy commander’s head!

“Young brother, you’ve taken on an excellent disciple!”

Song Yuanqiao sighed to Yu Lianzhou beside him.

In this chaotic Great Yuan era, the value of a peerless warrior was plain to see.

Never mind anything else—if the Great Yuan court learned of Zhang Jie’s existence,

they would surely not hesitate to grant him the title of Marquis of Ten Thousand Households!

“Brother overpraises me.”

Yu Lianzhou spoke with humble tone.

Yet a faint smile flickered across his perpetually stern face.

To him, Zhang Jie, raised since infancy, was no different from his own son.

Now that his son had grown strong and earned praise, how could a father not feel joy and pride?

Come to think of it, had Zhang Jie’s name not been found upon him in swaddling clothes,

Zhang Jie should now bear the surname Yu, like Yu Lianzhou!

Return now to the training ground.

“Boom, boom, boom!”

The floor tiles of the training ground shattered beneath Zhang Jie as he stretched his body fully,

using the recoil to launch himself like a cannonball toward Song Qingshu.

“Useless, young brother.”

Song Qingshu stepped upon the Cloud Ascending Ladder, agile and twisting, changing direction endlessly,

evading every one of Zhang Jie’s attacks—fast though they were, they were straight and predictable.

The scene resembled a nimble monkey teasing a black bear.

No matter how furious the bear roared, it could not touch the monkey that climbed trees.

“Zhang Senior Brother may lose.”

Some Wudang disciples close to Zhang Jie silently lamented for him.

In past sparring matches, Song Qingshu—whose footwork was more agile and whose internal energy was no weaker—always won.

Though Zhang Jie’s speed was not slow, to Song Qingshu, who was eight or nine years his senior, it was still too slow.

“Young brother, all martial arts under heaven are invincible only through speed.”

Song Qingshu spoke calmly, as if under no pressure whatsoever.

Yet inwardly he cursed:

“Damn it, this brute’s raw strength has grown even more terrifying!”

The other disciples thought him relaxed; only he knew the danger:

Each gust of wind Zhang Jie generated had stung his face painfully.

He knew that if he were struck even once today, he would lose without question.

If struck in a vital spot, he felt he wouldn’t just be bruised blue and purple—he’d be shattered into pieces!