Chapter 39: Zhang

Do you understand the rules?

The man with dead fish eyes spoke in a vague, ambiguous tone; not only did Li Yan and Sha Lifei frown, but even Wang Daoxuan’s gaze grew slightly cold.

Rules… of course I understand them!

Sha Lifei chuckled, stood up, and patted his bald head. “As for the rules of the fighting ring, we’ll set those aside for now—but when speaking to someone, you must introduce yourself. That’s the way of the Jianghu.”

It’s the rule of being a human being!

If you don’t even know how to behave as a person, what are you doing spouting nonsense here?

Sha Lifei was mediocre in martial skill but relied entirely on his tongue in the Jianghu—he’d never lost a verbal fight and wouldn’t tolerate being insulted without a reply.

Yet the dead fish eyes man, upon hearing this, showed no anger. He simply turned his attention to Sha Lifei and said coolly, “I understand the rules of being a human being too—I always leave room for three parts.”

Leave three parts for a smile, three parts for reason, three parts for wine. Before you’ve even done anything, you’re overturning tables and demanding a life-or-death match? Do you really think your fists are that strong?

Whether they’re strong or not—you’ll only know if you test them!

I fear you’ll go soft before you even test them!

The two traded barbs back and forth, evenly matched.

And the atmosphere had grown strangely tense.

Sha Lifei widened his eyes.

The dead fish eyes man’s expression turned grim.

They sized each other up, like two generals facing off on the battlefield.

Li Yan rubbed his brow and spoke: “What exactly do you intend to do?”

He had a sudden feeling that if he let these two keep arguing, he’d accomplish nothing the entire morning.

Interrupted mid-argument, the dead fish eyes man seemed slightly disappointed, but he began his introduction, offering a casual bow: “Zhang’s Martial Hall, Zhang Shitong, also a patrol guest of the Xianyang Divine Fist Association.”

Li Yan’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sent by Zhou Pan?”

He understood the rules of a life-or-death match perfectly.

First, you must deliver a formal challenge. Since he issued the challenge, he must deliver the notice himself.

Second, you must have witnesses—whether from the yamen or senior Jianghu figures—to be present, sign the life-or-death contract, and absolve the victor of legal liability if someone dies.

Third, the rules of the ring itself.

If he delivers the notice and the other side refuses, they admit defeat.

But if they accept, they set the terms: whether the match takes place on a circular platform, plum-blossom stakes, or with fists, blades, or weapons—it’s not his choice.

If he dares not accept, he must leave Xianyang in shame.

That’s how it works: one move, one countermove; give and take.

As for patrol guest, it’s a position within the Divine Fist Association.

Most local Divine Fist Associations are formed by regional martial halls; they’re considered part of the “hanging branch” of the Jianghu—some hired by officials and gentry as bodyguards, others running escort agencies, thus closely tied to the court.

They sometimes assist the court in resolving Jianghu disputes and suppressing bandits, so they also maintain ties with local militia units and often send instructors to teach weapons and combat.

A patrol guest is someone assigned to travel between regions, gathering intelligence.

The original plan was to deliver the challenge today—why had the other side sent someone ahead?

“Heh.”

The dead fish eyes man sneered coldly. “The Divine Fist Association isn’t ruled by Zhou Pan alone. My father is vice-chairman. Zhou Pan has no authority over us.”

Li Yan frowned. “Then what does this have to do with you?”

“Originally, nothing,” Zhang Shitong’s gaze grew serious. “Zhou Pan’s two disciples have been causing chaos in Xianyang, bringing shame upon the entire Divine Fist Association. We couldn’t stand it—but we were powerless to stop them.”

“If you’d simply killed them outright, we’d have secretly admired you as a true hero.”

“But you’re using Li Hu’s son’s name to issue the challenge—that makes this matter our concern.”

“My father… wishes you to come to our hall and test your skills!”

…………

Zhang’s Martial Hall stood in the northeastern quarter near the Yaowang Temple.

This was Xianyang’s old district; unlike his past life, it remained relatively intact, even preserving a stretch of crumbling Qin capital wall, reinforced to divide two alleys.

The hall was sizable and ancient, its walls built from old Qin bricks, and the faded plaque above the gate lent it an air of deep, weathered gravitas.

More striking still were the pair of stone lions at the entrance.

Before Li Yan even drew near, his eyes sharpened.

Stone lions as talismans originated in the Han dynasty.

At the time, envoys from the Western Regions—Anxi and Da Yuezhi—presented lions as tribute; later, as Buddhism and Daoism spread, these creatures were imbued with divine power, and the tradition of stone lions guarding homes took root.

This pair of lions bore an archaic form, many surfaces worn smooth by time, yet their fierce, dominating aura still surged forth—clearly Han-era craftsmanship, far from ordinary.

Indeed, when he activated his sense of smell, Li Yan immediately detected a scent: incense infused with solemn authority—evidence of gangqi condensed into a small arrangement.

A household talisman, vastly superior to his own family’s plaque.

With this guardian in place, no evil spirit would dare enter.

Zhang Shitong, sharp-eyed, noticed his expression and sneered: “These are ancestral treasures passed down by our family—my father himself calls them ‘Master.’”

“I hear you’ve joined the Xuanmen?”

“Let me warn you: though the Xuanmen leads the Jianghu, it has its own rules. And Zhou Pan’s family possesses even stronger talismans—don’t try any tricks.”

“Or the ones who come for you won’t be me…”

“I know that perfectly well!”

Li Yan replied calmly. The Da Xuan Dynasty was powerful; whether Xuanmen or Jianghu, all must obey its laws. Openly killing someone—whether you’re a Jianghu swordsman or a sorcerer—would earn you a warrant.

Of course, behind closed doors, things were different.

Before he even reached the hall, a synchronized chant echoed from within—disciples practicing fist techniques.

Zhang Shitong arrived at the gate, first bowed respectfully to the two stone lions, saying, “Greetings, Masters,” then led Li Yan inside.

Li Yan’s heart tightened.

So this was likely advice from an insider.

These stone lions, aged over centuries, had perhaps become sentient—acting as guardians of Zhang’s Martial Hall, much like the methods used by great mountains and sects.

Inside the gate lay two large training grounds.

One was paved with yellow earth, lined with racks of swords, spears, staffs, and sabers.

The other featured plum-blossom stakes, stone weights, and stone balls.

Autumn had arrived; after several rains, the air turned chilly, yet the disciples wore only short shirts, their muscles taut, fists swift and powerful, steam rising from their brows.

!.

Xin Yi Liu He Quan?

Li Yan recognized the style at a glance.

This fist style, based on the principle “the heart’s intent becomes the mind, the mind’s direction becomes the fist,” evolved from spear techniques, striking the Six Harmonies—hence the name Xin Yi Liu He Quan.

In Guanzhong, Hong Quan was dominant, but Xin Yi Liu He Quan was widely practiced; specialized halls teaching it were not uncommon.

The main hall was spacious; on the rear wall hung a portrait of the Zhang family’s ancestral patriarch, flanked by two grand armchairs. On either side of the hall stood rows of chairs, and the walls bore several majestic landscape paintings.

In one armchair sat an old man, short in stature, dressed in a blue cotton tunic, with prominent brow ridges, streaks of white in his hair, and—like his son—dead fish eyes.

“Greetings, Elder Zhang,” Li Yan bowed.

Though defiant, he was not without manners.

The old man was Zhang Yuanshang—vice-chairman of the Xianyang Divine Fist Association, owner of this hall, connected to several escort agencies, a respected elder of the local martial world.

The old man was smoking a water pipe. Seeing Li Yan enter, he merely lifted his eyes slightly; the disciples in the hall immediately withdrew, closing the door behind them.

With the clang of the closing door, the hall’s light dimmed.

Only the Zhangs and Li Yan remained.

Zhang Yuanshang fixed Li Yan with his dead fish eyes, a cold, glinting gaze, his voice gravelly: “Li Hu may be weak-willed where his pants are concerned, but he was a man of bold spirit and commanding presence. How did he sire a pretty boy like you?”

The old man was short, yet his aura was staggering.

His icy gaze pierced like a blade pressed to Li Yan’s third eye.

Li Yan’s expression didn’t change. He glanced at Zhang Shitong beside him and shook his head. “Elder, you’re formidable—truly, a family.”

The Zhangs were at odds with Zhou Pan; summoning him here couldn’t mean to fight.

The old man simply wanted to deliver a warning, to test his courage.

But his mouth was just as foul as his son’s.

“A coward, but with some spirit.”

Zhang Yuanshang didn’t anger. He leaned back, sighed, and said: “If you’d come to me first, none of this would’ve happened.”

“Drop the life-or-death challenge. Leave Xianyang. At least you’ll keep your life!”

Li Yan laughed. “My challenge has anything to do with you?”

Zhang Yuanshang replied: “Your life or death concerns me not—but you are Li Hu’s son. Fighting a life-or-death match in Xianyang? That concerns me.”

He looked out the window, calm. “The Jianghu—simple, yet not simple; complex, yet not complex.”

“Simple: whoever has the strongest fists holds the firmest stance.”

“Complex: everywhere are rules, everywhere are human relations.”

“Ten years ago, my old comrades and I admired your father. Knowing Zhou Pan’s nature, we didn’t want him to become chairman of the Xianyang Divine Fist Association. We schemed, we maneuvered, we spent great effort.”

“Just as success seemed within reach, your father died in Chang’an—in a brothel. Zhou Pan took power effortlessly, and we were mocked for it.”

“The other old comrades gave in. I refused. But if you, bearing your father’s name, are killed here in Xianyang, that old monkey’s voice will grow loud—and I’ll never show my face again.”

“Do you understand this logic?”

"Understood!"

Li Yan nodded calmly: "It’s just that you’re afraid I’ll get on the scale—once my weight is known, some words become hard to say."

"Good that you understand."

Zhang Yuanshang gave a slight nod, then lifted his water pipe and lit it. "No matter what you intend to do, once you declare a death match, you’re no longer tied to Meng Haicheng, that lowlife—whether you win or lose, he’s doomed."

"Zhou Pan has entered the Transformation Stage, and he’s extremely proud—he won’t even show his face, let alone fight..."

"His most famous disciples are the Eight Golden Giants, all already at the Hidden Force stage. The bosses of the Iron Knife and White Ape gangs are among them—any one of them could kill you easily..."

"But Zhou Pan won’t let them fight, either. You’re too young, they’re outsider disciples, and they’ve long been famous—winning against you wouldn’t count as a real victory."

"If I’m not mistaken, the one who’ll fight you is Zhou Bai—Zhou’s most outstanding disciple of this generation, only seventeen or eighteen, he entered the Hidden Force stage last year, and he’s a martial madman who’s constantly sparring with others, with plenty of experience."

"When there are no tigers in the mountains, monkeys rule the throne. Only when Zhou Bai kills you will the old monkey finally let out his breath."

"So… still got the guts to step onto the platform?"

Li Yan raised an eyebrow and said coolly: "I think that old monkey’s breath is going to stay stuck in his throat!"

"Good—at least your mouth is tough!"

Zhang Yuanshang clapped his hands and nodded:

"Shi Tong, test his weight."

"If he’s only all talk, break his legs and throw him out of Xianyang!"

(End of Chapter)