Chapter 1161: Hold Awe in Your Heart

But after they entered and took their seats, they saw that those servants, matrons, and attendants of the great families had actually set up curtains, screening their masters as they ascended, so they were effectively surrounded by a circle of cloth, naturally not showing their faces in public and unseen by others.

Zhao Jin and his party naturally took their seats at the square platform that jutted into the arena; by now it had been decorated with considerable grandeur, and the chair Zhao Jin sat in was especially conspicuous — though its design was simple, without any carved flowers or openwork, its shape and size were rather imposing, and whether by intent or accident, its form looked not much different from a dragon throne.

Yet resemblance was all it was; not only were there no carved dragons on the chair, but even if someone had made one exactly like those in the imperial palace and Zhao Jin had sat in it with great swagger, what could anyone say?

The spectators inside the arena were truly numerous; apart from the area near Zhao Jin's seat, which was relatively empty, roughly seventy percent of the seats everywhere else were filled. Although they had deliberately limited the number of spectators admitted beforehand, the Qingjiangpu Chamber of Commerce and other related parties could not be kept out — after all, Zhao Jin's purpose in coming this time was to show himself, share in the joy, and calm people's hearts.

One could see that the spectators in the seats were not simply sitting and waiting, but greeting and exchanging pleasantries with one another; people were also coming and going from the private boxes scattered around. The wealthy and prominent figures from various places all had social ties and dealings with each other; gathered together this time in the arena's spectator seats, they had to at least exchange greetings and gift some tea and refreshments. Especially since several of the private boxes had been yielded by the leading figures of the local chamber of commerce, expressing thanks was all the more necessary.

This was socializing among the great and powerful clans of Jianghuai and Jiangnan, and the people officiating the martial contest could hardly spoil the mood by interrupting. Moreover, Zhao Jin, seated over there, had not urged them on, and so they simply waited. Only when they saw the comings and goings in the spectator seats begin to thin out did they send someone over to give a reminder, and then they prepared to begin.

With the experience of the two previous martial contests, everything this time followed a set procedure. First, the drums beat out a rapid tattoo, and the arena fell quiet; the spectators who had been walking or standing all sat down. The great gates beneath the seats closest to the contest ground swung open, and sixty-four martial artists, led by guides, entered the arena.

The guides led them before the square platform where Zhao Jin sat, directing the martial artists to form a rough formation, after which the guides departed, going to stand against the walls around the perimeter. The rhythm of the drums shifted from urgent to slow, and when it stopped, everyone was standing in place.

The martial artists below were all looking up at Zhao Jin on the platform, and at the people around him. Like everyone who saw Zhao Jin and his group for the first time, they had the feeling of "how can they be so young?" Among those who had come to watch this contest, few were over thirty; most were young men in their early twenties. Yet after looking, the only impression was one of stern orderliness — none of that heroic bearing, none of that overawing kingly presence, none of that intimidating gaze. Looking on like this, some of the martial artists even showed disdain on their faces. Just this group of utterly ordinary young men, yet they sat up there so brazenly, putting on such lofty airs.

While they looked at Zhao Jin, Zhao Jin was likewise observing them. The oldest of the martial artists below was at most in his mid-thirties, which was only natural — physical strength directly determined combat power, and those who could make a name for themselves and fight their way to this ranking certainly could not be in poor physical condition. Judging by the complexions and clothing of the sixty-four, even the poorest among them came from at least a comfortably well-off family; otherwise, they could not have raised martial artists like these.

The martial artists standing below all held their own favored weapons. When competing with weapons, they could only spar using wooden staves of varying lengths, and could also choose to wear protective gear, but that would seem rather dull. So before the actual contest, the competing martial artists would be arranged to perform a weapons demonstration with their own arms, showing off a few flashy routines, and only then proceed to the matches. Otherwise, these weapons would have been stopped at the entrance.

A few of them were indeed very striking. Although everyone wore the close-fitting short robes used for demonstrations and combat, the robes on these few were clearly tailor-made by a skilled cutter, crafted from fine materials with exquisite workmanship. Coupled with their tall, straight builds and not unhandsome features, they truly had an air of elegant, upstanding grace — no wonder they stirred the hearts of well-bred young ladies.

Seeing this, Zhao Jin smiled and nodded. He turned to Wang Zhaojing beside him and said, "Back when we were sparring and roughhousing at the goods yard, if someone had stood on the wall and watched, would it have looked much the same?"

Wang Zhaojing also smiled and nodded. He looked around the arena and noticed that outside more than a dozen of the private boxes, people were still moving about, maids and matrons carrying items and still offering gifts and greetings — the formalities of noble households were indeed very troublesome.

A long, drawn-out gong sounded; this was the signal that the ceremony was beginning. At this moment, the several main gates of the arena would be closed, and entry and exit could only be made through the side doors. The arena was now effectively half-sealed.

Zhao Jin rose from his seat. He should have stepped forward a few paces to speak, but instead he first turned and gestured for the large wooden chair to be moved away, and only then said with a smile and a clear voice: "A chair this big is uncomfortable to sit in; it's only better if you lie down on it."

In a venue like this, to make oneself heard by everyone, one had to raise one's voice as much as possible. However, Fu Chen had shown considerable ingenuity in his design; when Zhao Jin spoke loudly from this position, words that would have been indistinct at the same distance on flat ground were reasonably clear here. Many people heard this remark of Zhao Jin's, and they all joined in with obliging laughter.

Zhao Jin stood where the chair had been placed and did not step forward. From that spot, he spoke up as if to himself: "This grand martial contest is an opportunity for all of you to make your names, and it is also a carnival festival for the gentry and wealthy of Qingjiangpu and Yangzhou. Even the common folk get to share in the benefits. Right now, everywhere here is as lively as New Year's — it truly is a celebration shared by all. This is a scene I am glad to see, yet I do not understand how it proves that Xuzhou has not been ravaged by the floods, nor how this festive mood can calm people's hearts. To my eyes, it is more or less just numbing people's hearts."

Self-mocking, sardonic — whether those around found it funny or not, laughter rose again. Everyone knew Zhao Jin would not take offense at this; for all that Zhao Jin was strict about rules and laws, he rarely quibbled over such things. The martial artists below the square platform, however, listened in great confusion, not understanding what Zhao Jin was talking about. Many of them, ignoring the formation, pressed forward to get closer.

Zhao Jin swept his gaze over those below and spoke loudly with a smile: "When I was young, my second uncle warned me many times, saying that a person must hold power in awe, and must hold wealth in awe, because power and wealth can both decide life and death. If you ignore them, you may very well end up crushed to pieces..."

The words had just reached this point when the martial artists below the platform suddenly began to move. The few tall and burly ones at the front sprinted forward a few steps; some dropped to their knees, while others stood and bent over. Behind them, more people ran forward quickly, stepping onto the backs of those kneeling, then onto the arched backs of those in front. Using these two points to spring off, the men leaped into the air. The square platform was originally seven chi off the ground; by using this human ladder to launch themselves upward, they could vault directly onto the platform.

The martial artist who leaped up moved with agility. The moment he was airborne, his hand had already reached into his clothes, and when it came out, his fingers held four throwing knives, each three cun long. Such throwing knives were lethal within ten paces, and the dark blue gleam on them showed they were coated in poison. In that case, there was no need to even strike a vital point — a scratch might well be fatal!

He was in midair, arm poised to throw. The move was calculated with precision; Zhao Jin was within five paces. In that flash of lightning, just as the muscles in his arm tensed, Zhao Jin did not stand there stunned in the middle of the square platform. All he saw was that Zhao Jin was already gone. A sharp whistle split the air — an arrow shot straight at him, striking him square in the chest!

With the arrow shaft driven into his chest, and no leverage to be found in midair, the force of the bowshot shattered the man's balance. The leaping martial artist let out a miserable cry, his body pitching backward, and he simply plummeted down. The arrow buried in his chest, the immense pain sent all the strength draining from his body, and he crashed heavily to the ground!

A wave of startled cries rose from the arena, but the martial artists charging and leaping forward did not stop their movements. Nor could they afford to stop at this moment. None of them cared for any code of honor or rules; the instant they leaped onto the wooden platform, the first thing they did was hurl a handful of hidden weapons — yet not a single one of them managed to throw.

One man had just shown his upper body when a throwing axe half a chi long struck him full in the face, and he fell straight down. Another was impaled through the chest by a short spear; the force of that short spear was so great it sent the man flying backward off the platform. As several men fell, those coming up behind grew much more wary. Hands gripping the edge of the square platform, they used the momentum to roll across it, drawing their weapons as they rolled, gauging the position, and thrusting straight ahead the moment they rose.

These martial artists possessed formidable skills. In that brief span of time, five of them had already charged up, all of them bent at the waist, curling their bodies as tightly as possible, desperately rushing forward!

By now, Zhao Jin was no longer standing in the front row. He had long since shed his outer robe, revealing the steel armor forged especially for him beneath. Because the Artisanry Office could produce superior iron, his armor was lighter and sturdier than before. A cold sneer on his face, Zhao Jin took the long halberd handed to him by a household guard beside him. Zhou Xuezhi and several supervisors from the Cloud Mountain Trading Company were pale-faced, but their expressions remained composed, surrounded by the household guards. Wang Zhaojing had also shed his long gown, revealing light armor, his longsword already drawn.

The martial artist who had charged to the forefront, gripping a thrusting sword, had already given up on Zhao Jin. His eyes were fixed on Wang Zhaojing, who had not retreated behind the ranks. Killing a core figure of the Zhao character Battalion would also be a great merit. He had just rushed forward two steps when he saw the stocky young man standing beside Zhao Jin pick up a javelin and hurl it with tremendous force. The javelin was heavy, fast, and powerful. The square platform was spacious, but the room to maneuver was limited after all; he could only dodge. Yet in that single evasive move, Wang Zhaojing over there had already charged forward, body bent in a bow stance — his body like a bow, his sword like an arrow, seeking only speed!

The martial artist who had charged first strained every sinew to evade Wang Zhaojing's thrust, his own thrusting sword feinting a counterattack. But as Wang Zhaojing pulled his longsword back, he drew it across the man's neck in passing, slicing open the blood vessels there. Blood gushed forth in a torrent. The man's strength and movements warped mid-motion, and he collapsed face-down onto the square platform.

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