Chapter 200: Who Else? (Requesting Moon Tickets)

Zhang Jian could sense Xie Jinhuan’s form was too stable, relying on defense and counterattacks to exploit openings—pointless. He chose to seize the initiative, and in that moment of stillness, he lunged like a tiger pouncing or a leopard leaping, thrusting both hands on the spear in a sudden, direct strike.

Boom—

This burst of power was astonishing; within three zhang, he pushed his peak cultivation to its limit, not relying on technique but overwhelming Xie Jinhuan’s lower cultivation base, crushing him with raw power alone!

Xie Jinhuan indeed feared the Daoist truth that “raw power overrides skill,” but Zhang Jian’s foundation wasn’t strong enough to catch him off guard. Facing the straight thrust, he didn’t parry or counter-thrust; instead, he bent his right leg, leaned back to evade the point, then raised his spear to strike the throat—like a rabbit kicking an eagle.

Zhang Jian’s spear missed. Facing the sharp angle of the counter-strike, he yanked his spear back to deflect it, then spun it like thunder, delivering a sweeping, mountain-uprooting spear slam!

Boom—

Gripping the spear’s tail, he dropped his body and slammed the entire weapon into the ground, instantly splitting the earth into two roaring waves of dirt, as if a meteor had struck the earth, the explosion deafening.

But Xie Jinhuan, positioned directly in the path of the strike, had already kicked off with both legs, pulling back hard enough to swing the spear behind his back, then tensed every muscle in his body like a drawn bowstring ready to snap.

As Zhang Jian swung his spear down, he realized something was wrong—this move was too wide. If it missed, his fastest follow-up was to raise the spear into defense, unable to continue pushing the force into the ground.

And Xie Jinhuan, pulling back and lifting his spear with exaggerated motion, clearly intended a spear slam of his own—his centerline left utterly exposed—but Zhang Jian had no choice but to take it.

Instantly recognizing his opponent’s intent, Zhang Jian yanked his spear sideways into a Bawangjuding stance—and at the exact same moment:

“Hah—!”

The bellow pierced the clouds, followed immediately by the earth-shattering crash of a mighty dragon falling from the sky!

Xie Jinhuan seized the split-second gap after his spear-slam recoil, gripping the spear with one hand like whipping a long whip. In that instant, the nine-chi spear, under violent tension, bent into a crescent arc, the unleashed qi deflecting the dust and sand Zhang Jian had thrown up, riding behind the spearhead—then:

Clang—

The terrifying strike slammed onto Zhang Jian’s raised spear shaft. The black spear bent instantly between Zhang Jian’s arms, its half-chi tip driving straight for his skull, the accompanying qi shredding his brocade robe into a thousand rags.

Zhang Jian, like a man holding back a python, stood firm as an unyielding mountain—but the ground beneath him could no longer bear the force. As the tip struck his crown, he had no choice but to bow before the dragon’s might.

In the instant his posture wobbled and his lower body lost balance, he became a stone flung outward, carving a trench through the yellow earth, nearly buried beneath it.

The residual qi still raged, hurling dust and debris to the arena’s edge, forcing several minor sect masters and countless disciples to hastily raise weapons to shield themselves from flying stones in the dust storm.

But Xie Jinhuan’s spear slam, fueled by its exaggerated upward draw, had not exhausted its momentum. The strike had already exploded like thunder; his left hand seized the shaft, both hands gripping it as he chased the wave’s crest, the half-chi silver tip driving toward Zhang Jian, who had torn open the earth.

Zhang Jian, struck down, had broken through the earth with his back, leaving a long gouge in the ground—no chance to rise and reestablish his stance. Seeing Xie Jinhuan’s spear follow like a shadow, he gritted his teeth and used a ground-sweeping spear technique, kicking hard against the earth to create distance, thrusting his nine-chi spear repeatedly to deflect the blow.

Xie Jinhuan charged forward, then shifted to steady, measured strikes, dragging the spear with his left hand while his right hand, like a green dragon exhaling, stabbed twice at Zhang Jian’s legs.

Zhang Jian knew that forcing himself up would surely cripple one leg—he could no longer win. If he stayed down, he could only block and retreat, searching for an opening.

Clang-clang-clang—

The spears clashed nonstop, their sound dense as a string of firecrackers, dust and sparks obscuring vision. Spectators could only see Xie Jinhuan plowing like an iron ox, pinning Zhang Jian to the ground, driving him relentlessly to the arena’s edge.

Even if you weren’t a man, even Nangong Ye’s glasses-wearing lady couldn’t endure this…

Though Zhang Jian hadn’t been injured or defeated yet, to turn the tide now, he could only endure until Xie Jinhuan slipped.

But neither man was ordinary; before this moment, Xie Jinhuan had smashed through crowds to force Zhang Jian off the riverbank.

Sitting among the crowd, Zhang Jiwu, Sect Master of Liuhex Tang, knew his son still had a sliver of hope—but betting on his opponent’s mistake was no different from betting on nothing. If he got shoved out several li and finally thrown off the riverbank, the humiliation would be unbearable. So before reaching the arena’s edge, he raised his hand:

“Enough!”

Whoosh—

Xie Jinhuan’s palm, where the dragon-like rapid thrusts had flowed, halted instantly. Since the rapid jabs lacked force, the disturbance was minor.

Zhang Jian, pinned and unable to rise, froze his parry upon hearing the command. Once he confirmed Xie Jinhuan had stopped, he exhaled in relief, flipped up from the ground, his brocade robe now shredded like a horse had dragged it—vertical blood streaks visible on his back, but no spear had pierced him; all were superficial wounds.

“Brother Xie’s spear technique may have equals here, but your ability to seize openings—no one here can match you. One misstep and you crush them outright. I am truly humbled.”

When Xie Jinhuan fought, he relied entirely on his bone-deep killing instinct and lightning-fast, adaptive reactions.

Though he’d forgotten what happened after falling into the sea, he didn’t know how he’d trained himself to this.

But on his first day in Danyang, he realized he was like someone who’d “awakened”—able to read his opponent’s intent through the tiniest traces, striking first and dismantling their moves before they began.

But the mad Daoists and Jianghuzayu rarely forced him to fight seriously; the Three Linked Dragon Thrusts would knock them down instantly. If they didn’t fall, he’d just do it again.

Seeing Zhang Jian yield, Xie Jinhuan’s demeanor turned courteous; he bowed respectfully:

“You’re the first to walk away unharmed after fighting me, Brother Zhang. I yield to you.”

Zhang Jian, dressed in tattered rags like a refugee, didn’t feel unharmed—but still bowed, then picked up his spear and left the arena, head hung low.

“Huh…”

The wandering martial artists watching now realized: the national-level martial arts tournament’s quality was truly celestial—everyone who stepped onto the stage was a god.

Nangong Ye, seeing Xie Jinhuan win, had been on edge—martial artists didn’t fight like Daoist or witch sects, standing far off to summon treasures and cast grand spells. Close-quarters weapon combat was deadly; life and death were decided in sparks, leaving no room for error. Even watching made one feel suffocated.

But this fight wasn’t over yet.

Xie Jinhuan remained unharmed, his dantian having consumed less than three-tenths of its energy. Now, spear slanted, standing against the wind, he scanned the assembled heroes once more:

“Who else?”

Earlier, many contestants had been furious at Xie Jinhuan’s mockery—but now that Zhang Jian was out, they’d calmed down.

After all, even if they fought to the death, the Gaoshou here seeking only herbs, not fame, could still secure a top-three spot by sheer number of matches.

Knowing Xie Jinhuan was a hard bone, and that he’d just warmed up and was riding a surge of momentum, charging him head-on was like challenging a tiger-bone vine.

Fortunately, the disciples of major sects still had pride—they all came from powerful lineages. If they didn’t get the tiger-bone vine now, they’d have other chances later.

But to be mocked as not a real man, and to cower while avoiding his Fengmang —how could they swallow that insult?

So after his words ended, from the direction of Jilong Terrace, Yang Zhen, younger brother of Yang Qing from Jingzhou Sect, stepped down:

“I, Yang Zhen, shall test my skill against Brother Xie.”

Yang Qing of Jingzhou Sect was a rising star, forty-something, ranked sixth among the Seven Martial Heroes—the youngest of the seven—with the nickname “Mountain-Climbing Tiger,” climbing the peak of martial arts itself.

His younger brother Yang Zhen, in his thirties, had been well-supported by Jingzhou Sect and possessed solid foundations, though he wasn’t a top contender for victory.

Xie Jinhuan turned to look and saw Yang Zhen wielded a sword. He planted his Minglong Spear in the ground and beckoned to Wei Lu with a finger.

Wei Lu didn’t know how she’d become a sword-bearer—but she was happy to oblige. She fetched her sister’s sword and tossed it onto the arena.

Yang Zhen, seeing this, looked slightly surprised:

“Brother Xie has fought two matches already—you may continue using your spear.”

Xie Jinhuan caught the three-chi sword, still carrying a woman’s fragrance, his gaze calm:

“Using a long weapon against a short one, winning is expected. Losing would be humiliating. But if I lose to Brother Yang with a sword, at least I retain some dignity.”

“….”

The martial artists watching had nearly grown used to it. Xie Jinhuan wasn’t seeking dignity—he was matching his weapon to his opponent’s, leaving them no excuse for defeat, striking not just the body but the soul!

Some sharp-eyed martial artists murmured:

“Why doesn’t Young Master Xie use his own sword? Is his divine weapon too precious to display?”

The three weapons Xie Jinhuan had planted were all divine treasures—but Zhenglun Sword couldn’t be shown. He simply raised his left hand:

“I am a disciple of the Hidden Immortal Sect. I understand a bit of Daoist arts—I carry a magical sword, unsuitable for martial combat.”

Sssss—

As he spoke, a blinding flash of light erupted from his palm, like a white lightning ball.

The martial artists in attendance suddenly understood.

The Seven Martial Heroes, however, paused slightly—they’d watched for so long and hadn’t sensed any Daoist foundation in Xie Jinhuan. The palm-thunder’s power was weak, but its presence changed everything. They couldn’t help but think:

This youth’s foundation is truly bottomless…

…

Tap… tap…

Yang Zhen stepped forward with his sword. He wanted to say something to bolster his aura—but his opponent had fought twice already and was ready to teach him a lesson. Unless he fought barehanded against a blade, his aura couldn’t hold.

And judging by Xie Jinhuan’s demeanor, if he went barehanded, Xie Jinhuan would too—he couldn’t possibly cut off his own arm to gain advantage.

So Yang Zhen said nothing ceremonial—only raised his sword and bowed:

“Jingzhou Yang Zhen. Pleased to meet you.”

Xie Jinhuan returned the bow, then drew his three-chi sword, pointing it diagonally to the ground, his stance steady as an ancient pine, his white robe drifting slowly in the autumn wind—his entire aura transformed.

On the martial path, swordsmen weren’t the strongest—but they were the most elegant. With this aura, every lady and martial beauty in the crowd felt their hearts pound.

Yang Zhen carried himself with grace, but he was older and plain-looking, almost background scenery. After a slight flourish with his sword, he strode forward, speed increasing—until, at ten zhang apart, he planted his right foot and exploded forward:

Whoosh—

The sword sang like startled birds. His body turned spectral, visible only as a silver thread—a serpent-like flicker, its path unpredictable yet swift as thunder.

Ding~

Xie Jinhuan’s gaze was fixed—not on the three-chi blade, but on Yang Zhen’s eyes. His sword remained utterly still. When Yang Zhen closed to three zhang, Xie Jinhuan’s right foot shifted slightly, his body tilting minutely left.

Whoosh—

At that exact moment, Yang Zhen struck like a venomous snake’s tongue, twisting his body, guarding his right flank while thrusting his single blade straight into Xie Jinhuan’s chest and abdomen!

But the white-robed swordsman, who should have sidestepped, instead surged forward without warning, his sword reversing upward to strike the incoming blade, blocking it with the flat of his blade, then dragging it toward Yang Zhen’s ribs.

Ding~

Yang Zhen’s eyes widened in terror—but his opening move had misjudged, leaving his blade on the right, now blocked. In his haste to press down, he couldn’t defend against the opponent slipping past his left shoulder—he could only block with his scabbard.

Ssshh—

Light swords favored speed. Both struck with astonishing swiftness, passing each other in a blink. Aside from the single “ding~,” there was no earth-shaking sound.

But beneath the autumn sun, a few drops of blood sprayed into the air.

Xie Jinhuan slid sideways, stopping with his sword pointed diagonally to the sky, scabbard held defensively across his centerline, white robe fluttering in the wind, eyes cold as frozen springs. His open, elegant stance made Nangong Ye’s heart jolt.

Yang Zhen stumbled forward a few steps, halting with his sword raised—his left forearm, gripping the scabbard, bore a two-inch gash. Blood welled, soaking his sleeve, then dripped steadily from the scabbard.

Dida … Dida …

After a moment of stillness, Xie Jinhuan spun a sword flourish:

Sssss~

Clang—

The three-foot sword returned to its scabbard.

Xie Jinhuan straightened his posture and turned his head; he had wanted to make a snide remark, but out of politeness, he finally said:

“Fine swordplay. I yield.”

Yang Qing of the Jingzhou Guild, young yet ranked among the Seven Heroes, with great fame in the martial world and never having lost a challenge, saw his foolish younger brother knocked down by a mere subtle motion—his two eyebrows knotted into one.

Xu Guan of the Jiangzhou Guild, his rival, sneered:

“If you can’t pick him up, don’t force it. Even if you waste heavenly treasures on your disciple, he shouldn’t be unable to block a single strike.”

“Why don’t you send your own disciple up to try?”

“Heh…”

…

Yang Zhen’s left hand bled profusely; though it looked like a superficial wound, his sword scabbard had blocked the blade, and the cut to his left arm meant that even the toughest martial artist would lose a hand if Xie Jinhuan hadn’t held back—his eyes now brimmed with shock as he silently thought:

So fast…

Even when I saw Zhang Jian fight this man, he wasn’t this terrifying…

Zhang Jian, standing among the seats changing his clothes, quietly shook his head upon seeing this.

After all, the first time he’d broken into a cold sweat during combat was from being frightened by Xie Jinhuan—if he hadn’t reacted quickly, misread the intent, and decisively pulled back his strike, he too would’ve been in deep trouble.

Yang Zhen knew he faced a formidable opponent, yet still came up with a stupid idea: “He dodges right, so I attack left”—wasn’t that asking to be cut down?

Among the martial guests watching, seeing Yang Zhen fall with a single sword strike—worse than Bao Xiaolin—left them utterly stunned, and a clamor erupted:

“I was mistaken earlier; Master Bao is indeed still formidable—he nearly knocked Xie Jinhuan out of the arena…”

“Has Xie Shaoxia become invincible within his realm?”

“In martial arts, few can match him at the same level, but there are still some formidable figures here—Huo Zhonghu hasn’t even stepped down, and there seem to be a few elderly men hiding their faces…”

“Xie Shaoxia’s technique is sufficient, but he’s lacking in cultivation depth—his power isn’t strong enough. If he could just push half a rank higher, he’d be the undisputed strongest martial artist below the supreme tier, sweeping all before him…”

…

After his opponent stepped down, Xie Jinhuan stood in the arena, sword in hand, scanning the assembled heroes.

“Who else wants to try?”

The watching martial guests immediately wore eager expressions, awaiting the next victim.

Yet the disciples of the major sects remained silent…

—

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