The ring fell into hush as the translator—now doubling as announcer—stepped forward, his robe swishing dramatically. He cleared his throat, raised his voice so both the crowd and the bewildering fool in the ring could understand.
"First round! The stipulation—" he paused for effect, "—strikes only! No grappling, no weapons, only fists, feet, and pure force of will!"
The crowd roared approval.
The gates opposite Jin creaked open. From the shadowed corridor stepped a broad-shouldered fighter, clad in rough black cloth and leather straps. His skin was tan from years of training under the sun, his arms wrapped tight with bindings. His aura alone carried weight, a seasoned clan warrior chosen to break the prisoner in one clean round.
The announcer spread his arms, voice booming. "From the Ironclaw division—Chiáng Hǔ Zhāo!"
The crowd cheered as the man slammed a fist into his chest.
Jin tilted his head. He mouthed the name. Then again. And again. Each attempt worse than the last.
"Chee…Hang Who Chow?"
The announcer blinked. "No—Chiáng Hǔ Zhāo."
"Chop Suey Zhao?"
The audience gasped in horror.
"NO! Chiáng Hǔ Zhāo!"
"Chair Hot Soup Chow?"
At this point, the noblewoman from Tianliu covered her face in her hands. Lord Bi'an pinched the bridge of his nose. Shen had already given up, muttering something about finding a cliff to jump off.
The warrior—Chiáng Hǔ Zhāo—gritted his teeth, veins popping in his forehead. "Say. My. Name. Correctly."
Jin squinted, tapped his chin, then pointed with sudden inspiration. "Right! Got it. Big Chow Mein!"
The crowd exploded into chaos, half in shock, half in laughter they didn't dare release. Even the translator nearly fainted.
The gong struck.
The fight began.
Chiáng roared like a beast, charging forward with a blur of motion. His fist, heavy as stone, shot for Jin's jaw.
Jin leaned back casually. The fist missed by a hair's breadth, stirring the air in front of his face. He whistled.
"Whew! Nice breeze, Big Chow Mein. Do it again, free air conditioning!"
Chiáng's other fist swung, then a knee, then a spinning kick. Jin weaved through them with ridiculous ease, not like a martial artist but like a drunk man dodging rain. He ducked too early, stumbled, bent backwards until his spine looked ready to snap—but somehow, each blow cut nothing but air.
The crowd murmured. Was this comedy or skill?
"Hit him already!" one noble barked.
Jin, meanwhile, was adding sound effects. "Whoosh! Bam! Almost!—Ohhh, spicy kick!—Wait wait wait—ah, there goes the breeze again!"
Even Xiǎoyè, perched above, slapped its paw to its tiny face.
Finally, Jin let one punch graze his cheek. He spun dramatically, tumbling to the ground with a loud "Owwww!" rolling in circles as if he'd been struck by a boulder.
The crowd cheered, thinking the fight was won—until Jin popped back up with a grin, face completely fine.
"Hey, that tickled!" He wagged a finger at Chiáng. "You gotta hit harder, Chow Mein. My grandmother slaps better than that—and she's dead!"
Chiáng snarled, rushing him with a barrage of lightning punches. Jin caught one mid-swing—not with martial form, but with a casual slap of his palm.
The arena went silent.
Chiáng tried to wrench free, but Jin held him effortlessly. He raised an eyebrow, feigning deep thought. "Hmmm. Feels like you've been drinking too much goat milk. Weak bones."
And then—he let go.
Chiáng stumbled forward, off balance. Jin kicked him squarely in the backside. Hard.
The man went skidding across the ring, catching himself just before tumbling out.
The nobles gasped. The common spectators laughed until they wheezed.
Jin raised his arms, soaking in the reaction like a performer at a street carnival. "Thank you, thank you! I'll be here all week!"
The Clan Leader narrowed his eyes. That fool was playing. He wasn't even using martial arts—just brawling, mocking, and still somehow holding ground.
Chiáng returned, red-faced and furious, his strikes faster, heavier. This time Jin didn't dodge all of them—he let some land, exaggerating the impact, bouncing across the ring like a rubber ball. Each time he popped back up with another insult.
"Ow! That was good! But you missed my pretty face, you brute."
"Ahh, I see, you are stronger when you're angry—too bad your brain gets smaller!"
"Oh, almost had me! If I were blind, deaf, and asleep, you'd have nailed me for sure."
The crowd was torn between awe and disbelief. Was this man fearless, or simply insane?
Finally, Chiáng threw a straight punch with his full body weight. Jin's grin faltered. His eyes sharpened just for a heartbeat. He tilted his head slightly, and the fist grazed past his ear.
Jin's palm shot up, striking Chiáng's chin—not hard, not lethal, but just enough to lift him off his feet.
The crowd roared.
But before Jin could finish his mocking bow, the announcer called out:
"Ten strikes landed on the prisoner punishment enacted!"
Jin froze. He whipped his head toward the edge of the arena where Ruan was dragged forward by guards.
A whip lashed her shoulder.
Her body flinched, but her face didn't break.
Jin's grin vanished. His eyes darkened, jaw tightening. For just a moment, the comedy drained out of him.
He turned back to Chiáng, still dazed from the chin strike.
Jin's fists clenched.
"Alright, Chow Mein," he muttered, voice low, serious, edged with something dangerous. "No more games."
He surged forward, only for the gong to sound, ending the first exchange of the round.
The announcer lifted his arms. "Round one still in progress! Opponent standing!"
The crowd roared, baying for more blood.
Jin cracked his neck slowly, his shadow stretching long beneath him. He smiled.....but this smile was no longer playful.
This smile was sharp.
Deadly.
Before the round ended. Shen and Lord Bi'an talked about what they saw.
Lord Bi'an leaned forward in his seat, eyes narrowing at the ring. Jin had just sent Chiáng skidding with that ridiculous kick to the backside. The crowd howled with laughter.
Shen groaned and rubbed his temples. "He's turning a formal clan match into a circus. Does he even know where he is?"
Bi'an didn't answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on Jin, watching the boy's footwork—or rather, the lack of it. "Look closer, Shen. He dodges without form, without technique, yet never by accident. Each sway, each stumble… perfectly timed."
Shen frowned. "You're saying he planned to trip over his own feet?"
A faint smile tugged at Bi'an's lips. "Planned or not, he's forcing his opponent to reveal everything while giving nothing in return. The fool's mask is cleverer than it looks."
Shen snorted. "Hah. Or he truly is a fool, and Heaven just favors idiots."
"Perhaps." Bi'an's voice dropped low, his eyes glinting. "But if that is foolishness, then it is the most dangerous kind I have ever seen."