Chen Ping'an subtly twisted the tips of his feet against the ground, almost imperceptibly, as though still adjusting to the newfound lightness in his legs. He noticed Ma Kuxuan had picked up five pebbles—four in his left hand, one in his right. Ma's expression remained serene as he looked toward the foreign girl, whose scabbard hung empty of sword and saber. With a smile, he said, "We agreed—it's a duel between me and Chen Ping'an. Just like in the tales my grandmother told me, and as written in the old romances—when two generals face off before battle, any man who calls for help forfeits the name of hero. But if one can slay his foe on the field, he inspires the entire army and secures the victory…"
Ning Yao found Ma Kuxuan's very presence vexing. She had never seen anyone so thoroughly deserving of a beating. Even Song Jixin of Clay Bottle Alley, for all his scheming and bookish airs, still looked the part of a scholar. But this wiry, short-statured youth—whose complexion was no fairer than Chen Ping'an's, and whose eyes were disproportionately large—gave off an unnervingly odd impression. Especially when he spoke in such a clumsy, affected manner, like an old crone plastered in half a pound of rouge pretending at girlish charm—it was nothing short of grotesque.
Chen Ping'an didn't bother with harsh words, unlike his peers in Apricot Blossom Alley. He bent slightly at the waist, then sprang forward with the sudden force of a galloping steed. So fast!
In the blink of an eye, he had put over twenty paces between them. Even someone as well-traveled as Ning Yao couldn't help but marvel. It wasn't that Chen Ping'an was unmatched in speed among his peers across the land—not that such a feat would be trivial—but rather, that within this confined world, through sheer persistence and daily toil, he had honed his body to such a formidable state. That was what truly earned her respect.
She pondered, Could endurance itself be a form of talent?
The distance between the two youths halved in an instant. Chen Ping'an could now clearly see the subtle shifts in Ma Kuxuan's expression: surprise, followed by alarm, quickly replaced with calm. Without hesitation, Ma raised his arm and unleashed a powerful throw. His slender limb burst with astonishing force.
Chen Ping'an, who had been watching Ma's right hand intently, abruptly veered to the right. Ma's arm paused minutely before flicking his wrist—the stone now targeted Chen's altered trajectory. The pebble whistled through the air with fierce momentum. Though not as terrifying as the apes of Zhengyang Mountain, it was by no means trivial.
Chen Ping'an, who should have been flustered, didn't falter. He twisted his waist, upper body shifting sideways, and the pebble skimmed past his face, tugging along a breeze that stirred the strands of hair on his forehead.
Ma Kuxuan gently tossed another stone from his left hand into his right. It seemed he didn't expect to end the duel with just one strike. He began to reposition, moving to his right as he flung the second stone.
Chen Ping'an suddenly ducked low without warning, his hands nearly touching the ground. The stone barely missed him, slicing through the thin fabric of his shirt and grazing his back. Though the wound looked ghastly, it was fortunately shallow.
Once again, the gap between them shrank by half.
Ma Kuxuan realized he should've widened the distance—but Chen Ping'an's relentless dash was so swift it made Ma's retreat look clumsy, like an ox dragging a broken cart. The closer Chen's sun-darkened face approached, the more piercing his eyes became—steadfast, luminous, unshakable.
In contrast, Ma Kuxuan's expression flickered with hesitation. Should he abandon his stones and flee? Or bet everything on one last throw?
His indecision clashed starkly with Chen Ping'an's unwavering momentum. In that moment, the boy in straw sandals no longer resembled the mild, good-natured lad from Clay Bottle Alley.
Ma Kuxuan took a step back, raised his arm once more. Clearly, he trusted the stone in his hand.
This solitary, eccentric boy—who never fought, nor even argued with his peers—preferred to wander alone. He was more like a stray cat than Chen Ping'an or Gu Can. Often, he would walk and toss pebbles absentmindedly, seeming to play idly. But when no one was around, beneath the covered bridge, he would skip stones across the water—those thinner ones could ripple ten times before smashing into the stone arch on the opposite shore with explosive force. The strength and precision he commanded were evident.
He even sat atop a green ox to lob stones at swimming fish. Whether he hit them or not, the stones barely made a splash. At his ancestral home in Apricot Blossom Alley, dead birds often littered the yard and roof—bloody, broken, lifeless.
The two now stood barely ten paces apart. Chen Ping'an had evaded Ma's first two stones with movements that seemed more light than strong—like a drifting leaf. Yet, as he neared, he unveiled the full weight of his power. Three thunderous steps—each one fast, fierce, and full of explosive energy—landed like hammers, his rising foot like a mountain's root being torn from the earth.
Three steps. And he was within arm's reach.
Ma Kuxuan still hadn't managed to throw another stone. By all accounts, he had lost the upper hand.
But a tremor stirred in Chen Ping'an's heart. Still, he did not hesitate. There was no turning back now—better to leap forward and risk everything.
Ma Kuxuan's lips curled into a sly smile. He let the remaining stones fall from his left hand, his right hand already clenched into a fist. He launched it directly at Chen Ping'an.
It had all been a trap. The feigned doubt, the lure to close the distance, the reliance on stones—it was all a meticulous scheme by this seemingly foolish youth from Apricot Blossom Alley. His true aim had always been to bait Chen Ping'an into coming close.
At arm's length—within striking range.
Chen Ping'an, a subtle left-hander, met Ma Kuxuan's punch with his own. Their fists collided with a crack. Almost simultaneously, both boys lashed out with a kick.
They were sent flying in opposite directions, crashing into the mud.
Twenty steps apart once more.
Ma Kuxuan rose, kneeling on one knee, gasping for breath. He opened his right hand—still clutching the stone he never had the chance to throw. Though not mangled, his palm was crimson and raw, the sight jarring.
Grimacing, he rubbed his belly and shouted through labored breaths, eyes blazing:
"Chen Ping'an! Dare to go another round?!"
Chen Ping'an's left hand fared worse. During a previous ambush on Cài Jīnjiǎn of Cloud Rosy Mountain, his palm had been deeply cut by shattered porcelain. Though he had been applying secret herbal medicine from the Yang family's shop, bone-deep injuries need time. No matter how tough his body was, he wasn't yet a cultivator who could regrow flesh and bone.
From that exchange—one punch, one kick—he had clearly come off worse.
His bandaged left hand now trembled involuntarily. Blood seeped through the cloth, dripping steadily onto the wild grass at his feet.
Chen Ping'an drew a deep breath. A sharp pain stabbed from his abdomen—he needed to know just how much more...