Chapter 34: Zhao Jin's First Place

The round of sixteen had one more pair: Wang Zhaojing and Shi Manqiang. The fight ended quickly. Wang Zhaojing slapped Shi Manqiang hard across the face, and while his eyes were shut, struck heavily at his ribs and thigh, knocking him straight to the ground.

Seeing this, Zhao Jin shook his head. It wasn't the disparity in strength that made him sigh, but that the stronger youths were meeting each other too early, leaving little suspense for the final rounds. Zhao Jin wondered whether he should set up a few seeded contestants tomorrow, and introduce some priority token-drawing or bye-round rules.

"Who's number three?" Chen Hong bellowed with great fanfare. Zhao Jin raised his hand, then turned his head and saw Wang Zhaojing smiling as he raised his own. Neither had expected they would meet in the quarter-finals.

Wang Zhaojing's smile was utterly sincere; he was happy from the bottom of his heart, because he believed Zhao Jin only abstained from fighting due to lack of skill, always quitting after a few easy early rounds to preserve an illusion of invincibility.

There was another point: Wang Zhaojing felt that he himself should be the center and focus here. Losing to Chen Sheng had been a fluke, and winning wouldn't be hard — he didn't take it to heart. Yet when such an outstanding figure as himself arrived, these Xuzhou country folk barely paid him any attention, treating only Zhao Jin as their core. This left him deeply resentful.

And there were reasons buried even deeper in his heart. Every time Wang Zhaojing saw Zhao Jin together with Mu Shulan, he felt a pang of discomfort. Such a pure, spirited girl paid him hardly any mind, yet stayed close to Zhao Jin, who was beneath him.

Wang Zhaojing felt that all this "injustice" would be resolved once he won their fight.

"Brother Zhao brought something along today as well. Shall we use weapons?" Wang Zhaojing had also noticed the five-foot wooden pole Zhao Jin was carrying.

Zhao Jin nodded. A youth nearby had already eagerly fetched it for him. Wang Zhaojing smiled and proposed further, "Brother Zhao, instead of the weapon sparring rule of pulling blows at the last moment, how about we follow the tournament rules — fight until one is down or concedes?"

With that pull-your-blows style, many in the goods yard couldn't even tell who won or lost. But knocking someone to the ground or forcing them to beg for mercy made the disparity in strength far clearer, and better displayed the victor's dominance.

A youth's thoughts were not hard to guess, even those of a comparatively outstanding youth. Zhao Jin knew exactly what Wang Zhaojing was thinking. He intended to fight all the way through today, and had even brought his own weapon, precisely because of this opponent's appearance.

Zhao Jin agreed readily to all of Wang Zhaojing's requests. The curve of Wang Zhaojing's mouth widened. He thought to himself that the other truly failed to grasp the subtleties here, and that he had secured the most advantageous terms for himself.

Yesterday's match between Chen Sheng and Wang Zhaojing had been a spectacular back-and-forth. Today, seeing that Zhao Jin had also brought a weapon, and that they would be fighting with weapons, the youths quickly crowded around. No one dared steal the little girl's spot, though; Mu Shulan was still allowed to stay in the very front row.

Wang Zhaojing raised his short stick with one hand, its tip pointed at Zhao Jin, his body slowly drawing open like a bowstring being pulled taut. Zhao Jin leveled his wooden pole and took a step forward, lowering his body. He could roughly judge Wang Zhaojing's next move; whether the opponent attacked or defended, there would surely be many variations.

But Zhao Jin caught himself at once. To hell with his variations. What I've learned is utterly simple — nothing more than putting all your power into one straight thrust.

"Begin!" Chen Hong shouted. Before his voice had faded, Zhao Jin strode forward in great steps, both arms swinging into a forward thrust, charging straight ahead!

The short stick in Wang Zhaojing's hand snapped outward; he meant to parry and deflect, then close in for a thrust. But the moment he made this move, Wang Zhaojing realized his mistake. The opponent was thrusting straight at him — the most time-efficient path, the greatest force, powered by both arms and the momentum of a run. He couldn't deflect it. By the time he grasped this, it was too late even to dodge.

His chest was struck hard. Unable to hold his ground, he toppled straight backward and sat down heavily on the ground.

Sitting on the ground, Wang Zhaojing's mouth hung wide open. His chest felt as if it had been shattered; he could not draw breath. Wang Zhaojing's heart pounded wildly. In that brief clash, he had suddenly felt terror. Thinking back on it carefully, in that instant, Zhao Jin had not merely been sparring — he had been killing.

Wang Zhaojing had no idea what killing looked like, or what it felt like. But in that moment, he could not help but have this strange sensation.

By the rules, Wang Zhaojing had not yet lost. But settling what came next was not difficult. Zhao Jin took his pole and jabbed at Wang Zhaojing's shoulder. Wang Zhaojing, who could finally breathe again by now, hurriedly waved his hand in surrender.

After he conceded, the spectating youths did not cheer. It was not only Wang Zhaojing who had sensed that piercing, bone-chilling killing intent. They might not have recognized it as killing intent, but they had all been frightened.

Zhao Jin looked around, and only then did everyone react, bursting into roaring applause. Zhao Jin paid the cheers no mind. In those few moves just now, he had begun to understand his uncle Zhao Zhenxing's words — what battlefield martial skill meant, and what it meant to press forward with indomitable will.

As if coincidences always came in strings, when drawing tokens for the semi-finals, Zhao Jin was matched against Chen Sheng. Chen Sheng could no longer suppress the excitement on his face; without even asking, he already had his short stick in hand.

Wang Zhaojing's face showed a trace of dejection, but a youth was still a youth. Clutching his chest, he still came over to watch the excitement.

"Fighting with weapons?" Zhao Jin asked. Chen Sheng nodded hurriedly. Zhao Jin shook his head and laughed.

Zhao Jin again held his wooden pole level, in a spear-wielding stance, while Chen Sheng gripped his own wooden stick with both hands and raised it high above his head.

The moment the two assumed their standoff, the scene fell quiet. The youths could all dimly sense the solemn, lethal tension between them.

"One using a spear, the other a saber. Xuzhou truly has a thriving martial culture," Wang Zhaojing muttered under his breath, still clutching his chest.

Only when he saw that both sides were ready did Chen Hong shout for them to begin. Zhao Jin did not attempt any reactive countering. With a furious roar, he leveled his wooden pole and charged fiercely forward.

As Zhao Jin charged, Chen Sheng merely took one step forward and brought his short stick chopping down. His target was not the man, but Zhao Jin's wooden pole. It struck the front section of the pole heavily, knocking it askew at once. Chen Sheng's short stick immediately slid along the pole, straight toward Zhao Jin's hands.

Had this been a real blade, Zhao Jin's hands would have been severed on the spot. But in that moment, Zhao Jin remembered only to press forward. His pole blocked, he simply threw it aside and lunged bare-handed. Now, Zhao Jin's fists were his pole, the "long spear" in his hands.

Chen Sheng's attention had been entirely on Zhao Jin's pole. He never expected Zhao Jin to pounce so ferociously, directly at him. In his haste, he could not pull his short stick back in time, and had no chance to react at all. Zhao Jin's fist struck him square in the chin, sending him staggering sideways a few steps. Then Zhao Jin kicked him in the thigh, knocking him straight to the ground.

"Whoa—" Everyone gasped involuntarily. No one had imagined Zhao Jin's offense could be this ferocious.

Zhao Jin stood there, panting heavily for a few breaths, then stepped forward and hauled Chen Sheng up. He himself did not notice that he now had the strength to pull up someone as heavyset as Chen Sheng.

"You're this strong, why didn't you come fight earlier? That was so satisfying... ow!" Chen Sheng had thoroughly enjoyed the fight. He got a couple of words out before the pain caught up with him, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

Zhao Jin's opponent in the final was Ji Xiang. Ji Xiang had barely managed to beat Liu Yong, and never expected to run into Zhao Jin. Ji Xiang's face first crumpled, then he scratched his head and said in self-defeat, "Can't beat you anyway, might as well give it a try."

The spectating youths all burst into laughter. The mood in the arena was good now. Zhao Jin, whom everyone regarded as the strongest, had proven his strength and had not lost to the outsider Wang Zhaojing. The youths all felt very pleased.

Seeing that both were ready, Chen Hong was about to shout for the match to begin. Just then, a commotion broke out at the southern entrance.

"A good dog doesn't block the road — get the hell out of the way!" "Scram, you little brats!"

People were coming over, cursing and swearing. These were not people from the goods yard; Zhao Jin could tell immediately. He turned to look. The youths to the south were all scrambling frantically to get out of the way on both sides. Five young men swaggered in.

These five all looked to be eighteen or nineteen years old, wearing ill-fitting, filthy cotton coats and leather robes. The one in the lead was lean and tall, with a small head, looking like a bamboo pole with a cornbread bun stuck on top. He had triangular eyes, his lips were a bluish-purple, and he had a grass stem dangling from his mouth — a thoroughly sleazy, thuggish air about him.