Chapter 200: Who Else? (Requesting Monthly Votes)

Zhang Jian could sense Xie Jinhuan's technique was overly stable, relying on defense and counterattacks to exploit openings—pointless. He chose to seize the initiative, and in a single frozen instant, he lunged like a tiger pouncing or a leopard leaping, thrusting both hands on the spear forward in a sudden stab.

Boom—

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

Xie Jinhuan indeed feared the Daoist truth that "raw power overrides ten techniques," but Zhang Jian's foundation wasn't strong enough to render him unable to react in time; facing the direct thrust, he did not parry with a counter-thrust, but bent his right leg, leaned back with his body to evade the point, then raised his spear to strike the throat—like a rabbit kicking an eagle.

Zhang Jian's spear missed, and facing the sharp angle of the strike, he yanked his spear back to deflect the blade, then spun it like thunder, executing a full-force spear-slam!

Boom—

Gripping the spear's tail, he pressed his body down and hurled the entire spear toward the ground, instantly smashing up two diverging walls of earth like a meteor striking the earth, the explosion deafening.

But Xie Jinhuan, positioned directly before the blade, had already kicked his legs back and pulled, swinging the spear so wide it flipped behind his back, then tensed every muscle in his body like a drawn bowstring fully loaded.

As Zhang Jian swung his spear down, he instantly sensed something was wrong—this move's arc was too wide; if it missed, his fastest follow-up was to raise the spear into defense, unable to continue pushing the forceful strike into the ground.

And Xie Jinhuan's backward pull and massive upward swing clearly signaled a spear-slam stance—his centerline was completely exposed—but he had no choice but to take it!

Instantly realizing his opponent's intent, Zhang Jian yanked his spear sideways into a defensive brace like a warlord lifting a cauldron—just as:

"Hah—"

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

Xie Jinhuan seized the fleeting space after the spear-slam's recoil, gripping the spear with one hand like whipping a long whip—in that instant, the nine-chi spear bent under violent tension into a crescent arc, the raging qi deflecting the yellow dust and flying soil Zhang Jian had kicked up, riding behind the spear's tip, then:

Clang—

A terrifyingly powerful 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 holes.

Zhang Jian stood like a mountain holding back a python, but the ground beneath him could no longer bear the assault—the blade striking his crown forced him to bow before the mighty dragon.

In the instant his posture destabilized 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 storms to the arena's edge, forcing several minor sect leaders and countless disciples to hastily raise weapons to shield themselves from flying stones whipped up by the dust.

But Xie Jinhuan's spear-slam, fueled by its massive upward swing, had not exhausted the momentum—once the spear struck down, it erupted like thunder; his left hand seized the shaft, both hands gripping it as he chased the wave's crest, the half-chi silver tip stabbing toward Zhang Jian, torn open from the earth.

Zhang Jian was struck down, nearly breaking through the earth with his back, leaving a long gouge on 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-level thrust, kicking hard against the earth to create distance, thrusting his nine-chi spear repeatedly to deflect the blade.

Xie Jinhuan surged forward, shifting to maintain distance and steady pressure, dragging the spear with his left hand while his right hand struck the ground like a green dragon exhaling, stabbing twice at Zhang Jian's legs.

If Zhang Jian forced himself to rise and stabilize his stance, he would severely injure one leg and lose all chance of victory; if he stayed down, he could only block and retreat, seeking an opening.

Clang clang clang—

The spears clashed incessantly, the sound dense as a string of firecrackers, sparks and yellow dust obscuring vision; spectators could only see Xie Jinhuan plowing like an iron ox, pinning Zhang Jian to the ground and slamming him relentlessly until they reached the arena's edge.

Even a woman like Nangong Ye couldn't endure this spectacle…

Though Zhang Jian had not yet been injured or defeated, to reverse the situation now, he could only endure defense until Xie Jinhuan made a mistake.

And neither was a mere novice—before this moment, Xie Jinhuan had smashed through crowds to force Zhang Jian off the riverbank.

Sitting among the audience, Zhang Jiwu, head of the Liuhe Hall, knew his young son still had a sliver of hope—but betting on his opponent's error was as good as none; if he was shoved out for miles and finally thrown off the riverbank, the humiliation would be unbearable—so before they reached the arena's edge, he raised his hand:

"Enough!"

Sa—

Xie Jinhuan's palm-stabbing dragon-like thrust halted abruptly; since the rapid jabs lacked force, the disturbance was minor.

Zhang Jian, pinned and unable to rise, paused his parry upon hearing the voice; once he confirmed Xie Jinhuan had stopped, he exhaled in relief, flipped up from the ground, his brocade robe now torn into rags like dragged by a wild horse, vertical blood streaks visible on his back—but he hadn't been pierced by a single spear—only superficial scratches, harmless wounds.

"Brother Xie's spear technique may have equals here, but no one else can match your ability to seize openings—miss one step and you're crushed outright. I, Zhang, submit wholeheartedly."

When Xie Jinhuan fought, he relied entirely on ingrained killing instincts and swift, 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 "awakened"—able to perceive his opponent's intent through the tiniest traces, striking first and dismantling moves before they formed.

Yet the mad Daoists and Jianghu riffraff rarely forced him to fight seriously; three consecutive Yin Dragon strikes would knock them down instantly—if they didn't fall, he'd just strike 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 left the arena with his spear, head hanging low in defeat.

"Huh…"

The wandering martial artists watching now clearly realized: the national martial arts tournament's quality was truly celestial—everyone who stepped onto the stage was a deity.

Nangong Ye, seeing Xie Jinhuan win, had been on edge—martial artists fighting weren't like Daoist or Wu Sect cultivators who stood far off, summoning treasures and casting grand spells; close-quarters weapon combat was terrifyingly dangerous, life and death decided in a flash, no room for the slightest lapse—even watching made one feel suffocated.

But this fight was clearly not over.

Xie Jinhuan remained unharmed, his dantian having consumed less than three-tenths of its Qi; now, spear slanted, standing against the wind, he scanned the gathering heroes once more:

"Who else?"

Earlier, many competitors had been enraged by Xie Jinhuan's taunt, but seeing Zhang Jian eliminated, they'd calmed down.

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

Knowing Xie Jinhuan was a hard bone to crack, and that he was just warmed up, brimming with momentum, charging him head-on was like challenging Hu Gu Teng.

Fortunately, the disciples of major sects still had spirit—they all came from powerful lineages; if Hu Gu Teng wasn't won now, there'd be other chances later.

But to be mocked as not a real man, and to avoid his blade by holding back—how could one swallow that insult?

Thus, after his words ended, from the direction of the Jilong Altar, Yang Zhen, younger brother of Yang Qing of the Jingzhou Clan, stepped down:

"I, Yang, shall test my skill against Brother Xie."

Yang Qing of the Jingzhou Clan was a rising star, forty-some years old, ranked sixth among the Seven Martial Heroes—the youngest of the seven—with the nickname "Mountain-Climbing Tiger," the mountain being none other than the peak of martial arts.

His younger brother Yang Zhen, in his thirties, had been well-supported by the Jingzhou Clan and possessed solid foundations, though he wasn't a favorite for the title.

Xie Jinhuan turned to inspect him, saw Yang Zhen wield a sword, planted his Ming Long Spear in the ground, and beckoned to Wei Lu with a finger.

Wei Lu didn't know how he'd become a sword-bearer, but he was happy enough—he immediately fetched his 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-foot sword carrying the scent of a woman, his gaze calm:

"Using length against shortness, winning is only natural; losing would be shameful. To be bested by Brother Yang with a sword, I at least retain some dignity."

"…"

The many martial artists present had almost grown accustomed to it. Xie Jinhuan wasn't seeking dignity—he was matching his opponent's weapon exactly, leaving 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? Could it be that his divine weapon is too precious to display?"

The three weapons Xie Jinhuan had planted in the ground were all divine weapons, but the Zhenglun Sword couldn't be revealed—so he merely raised his left hand:

"As a disciple of the Hidden Immortal Sect, I understand a bit of Daoist magic. I carry a magical sword, unsuitable for martial combat."

Sssssss—

As he spoke, a blinding flash of light exploded from his left palm, like a white thunderball.

The martial artists present suddenly understood.

The Seven Martial Lords seated there paused slightly—they had watched for so long and truly hadn't sensed any Daoist foundation in Xie Jinhuan. The power of this palm thunder was small, but its presence or absence made all the difference; they couldn't help but sigh inwardly:

This youth's depth is truly bottomless…

…

Tap… tap…

Yang Zhen stepped forward with his sword. He wanted to say some ceremonial words to bolster his aura, but his opponent had already struck twice and was preparing to teach him a lesson. Unless he fought barehanded against a blade, his aura could never be sustained.

And judging by Xie Jinhuan's demeanor, if he went barehanded, so would his opponent—he couldn't possibly sever his own arm to start the match.

So Yang Zhen said no ceremonial words, only raised his sword in salute:

"Jingzhou Yang Zhen, honored to meet you."

Xie Jinhuan returned the salute, then drew his three-foot sword, pointing it diagonally at the ground, his posture steady as an ancient pine, his white robe drifting slowly in the autumn wind—his entire aura transformed utterly.

Among martial arts, the most formidable fighters are certainly not swordsmen, but none match their elegance—this aura alone made the ladies and heroines present feel their hearts pound.

Yang Zhen carried himself with graceful bearing, but he was older and of ordinary appearance, almost like background decor. After a slight flourish of his sword, he strode forward, speed increasing steadily; when the distance between them narrowed to ten zhang, he suddenly thrust his right foot down:

Ssshh—

The sword sang like startled birds; his entire form turned spectral, visible only as a thread of silver light, like a coiling dragon swaying left and right, its path unfathomable yet swift as lightning.

Ding~

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

Ssshh—

In that instant, Yang Zhen struck like a venomous snake spitting its tongue, twisting his body, raising his sword to guard his right flank, while thrusting the blade straight into the chest and abdomen!

But the white-robed swordsman, who should have sidestepped, suddenly surged forward without warning, his sword reversing upward to strike the incoming blade, blocking it with the blade's edge and dragging it toward the ribs.

Ding~

Yang Zhen's eyes filled with dread—he had misjudged from the start. His sword was on the right, already blocked; in his haste, he pressed down, but could not guard against the opponent gliding past his left shoulder. He could only block with his scabbard.

Crrr—

The sword was light and swift by nature; their movements were astonishingly fast. In the blink of an eye, they passed each other. Aside from the crisp "Ding~," there was no other thunderous sound.

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

Xie Jinhuan slid sideways, stopping with his right sword pointing skyward, the scabbard held backward to guard his center, his white robe fluttering in the wind, his eyes cold as a frozen spring. His open, flowing stance made Nangong Ye's heart jolt.

Yang Zhen stumbled forward a few steps, halting with his sword held firm—his left forearm, gripping the scabbard, bore a two-inch-long gash, blood gushing out, staining his sleeve, then dripping steadily from the scabbard.

Drip, drop, drip, drop...

After a brief pause, Xie Jinhuan spun a sword flourish:

Sssss~

Clang—

The three-foot sword returned to its scabbard.

Standing straight and turning back, Xie Jinhuan had wanted to make a sarcastic remark, but out of politeness, he finally said:

"Fine swordplay. I yield."

Yang Qing of Jingzhou's faction, young yet ranked among the Seven Martial Lords, with a great reputation in the martial world and never having lost a match, saw his foolish younger brother knocked out by a mere flick—his eyebrows knotted into one line.

Xu Guanfu of Jiangzhou's faction, his rival, mocked:

"If you can't lift him up, don't force it. Even if you poured priceless treasures into 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—seemingly only a superficial wound—but his scabbard had blocked the blade, and the cut to his left arm meant that even the toughest martial artist, if Xie Jinhuan hadn't held back, would have lost a hand. His eyes were filled with shock as he thought inwardly:

So fast…

When I saw Zhang Zhan fight him, he wasn't this terrifying…

Zhang Zhan, standing among the seats changing clothes, watched this scene and shook his head silently.

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

Yang Zhen knew he faced a formidable foe, yet still had the foolish idea: "He dodges right, so I attack left"—wasn't that asking to be cut?

The many martial artists present, seeing Yang Zhen fall on his first strike—worse than Bao Xiaolin—were utterly stunned, and a clamor of voices rose:

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

"Has Young Master Xie become invincible within his own realm?"

"Among martial artists of the same realm, few can match him—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…"

"Young Master Xie's technique is sufficient, but he's lacking in Dao cultivation—his power isn't strong enough. If he could just increase by half a rank, he'd be the undisputed strongest martial artist below the Supreme Tier, sweeping all before him…"

……

After witnessing his opponent's fate, Xie Jinhuan stood in the arena with his sword raised, continuing to scan the crowd of heroes around him:

"Who else wishes to try?"

The onlookers from the Jianghu immediately showed eager expressions, waiting for the next victim.

Meanwhile, the disciples of the Geda Sect remained utterly silent...

—

Requesting monthly tickets or2

(Characters added below do not count toward coin points)

Many thanks to 【Feicai】 and 【Muzi Mumu719】, the Dalaode Alliance leaders, for their appreciation!

Many thanks to 【Qiuyuhan Shanq】, 【Azuo Youdian Kun】, 【Mangmu de Chiyu Zhiren】, 【Jingjing de Deng Jingjing de Kan】, and 【Violet Yif】, the Dalaode Alliance leaders, for their ten-thousand-point appreciation!

Many thanks to all the leaders for your appreciation, monthly tickets, and recommendation votes support or2!

(End of this chapter)