Wu Tong, ever humble at heart, had since entering the martial world sought always to befriend through arms, and to aid righteousness through skill. By chance encounters and trials of life and death, his cultivation had deepened, until it was only natural that he should become the twelfth master of the Hall of Loyalty and Righteousness.
Confucius once said: "If a man is without benevolence, what use has he for ritual? If a man is without benevolence, what use has he for music?" And also: "To love learning draws near to wisdom; to act with diligence draws near to benevolence; to know shame draws near to courage."
Thus, without ren—benevolence—even the highest martial prowess is but a butcher's knife in the hands of a brute.
Jia Yong, consumed by anger, knew that if he did not give his utmost, he would be shamed utterly. With a roar he gathered all his inner strength and hurled forth "Thunder Shakes Heaven and Earth." His palms crashed down with heaven-shaking might, true qi exploding like thunderclaps. The blast tore the air, dust and sand whirled skyward, and the very arena seemed to quake beneath his force.
Wu Tong faced the tempest with composure. His shoulders sank, elbows lowered, toes gripped the ground. With light, flowing steps he diverted the raging current. Suddenly he shifted into "East Glance, West Look"—his figure blurred like a phantom, slipping untouched through the storm.
Jia Yong struck wildly, yet each blow fell upon emptiness. Fury mounting, he surged once more, unleashing "Thunder Vaults the Clouds." His palms cracked like lightning, fiercer than before!
But Wu Tong's eyes gleamed. Anticipating the strike, he spun thrice, hands flowing like waves. "Stars Shift, Constellations Move"—a step of ghostly brilliance. His body flashed like falling stars; no matter how Jia Yong lashed, he could not even brush his opponent's sleeve. The crowd gasped aloud; such footwork was beyond ordinary comprehension.
Then, Wu Tong's form suddenly shifted. He leapt skyward, turned in mid-air, qi condensed to its peak. Down he fell, executing once more "Across the Sky." The move struck swift and fierce, palms like storm-winds, angles shifting too fast to guard against.
Jia Yong's heart lurched. He flung up his palms, sidestepping desperately, yet Wu Tong's assault pressed harder, fiercer. In that instant, Wu Tong let out a long, clear cry—half ape's call, half tiger's roar. It was the thirteenth strike of the Soaring Heavens Palms—"Tiger's Roar, Ape's Cry."
His arms lashed like apes swinging through the trees, palms whipping in chains, swift beyond sight. Every retreat was sealed.
Jia Yong panicked, retreating with "Heaven-Flying, Earth-Escaping." His body shot into the air, seeking escape. But Wu Tong had already foreseen it. His feet stamped, and his body soared like an arrow. "Flying Through the Clouds"—he met Jia Yong in mid-air!
There, suspended above the square, the two youths exchanged a dozen blistering palms. Qi roared and echoed. As they landed, another clash shook the ground, cracks spider-webbing across the stone floor.
Jia Yong roared in desperation, hurling forth his last strength—"Thunder's Wrath, Lightning's Fury." All his qi burst outward, a cataclysm of heaven's anger.
Wu Tong's eyes blazed. He no longer dodged. With calm breath he gathered his strength, and loosed the Soaring Heavens Palm's peerless strike—"Muddy Waves Sweep the Sky."
Palms crashed.
"BOOM!"
The detonation was deafening. Dust and sand erupted in a storm. Jia Yong was hurled away like a ragdoll, crashing heavily to the earth. He sat slumped, face bloodless, mouth spilling crimson. Defeated beyond doubt.
The crowd fell into stunned silence. Then awe swept the square—Wu Tong's one palm had ended it all.
Yet he only cupped his hands lightly, turned, and walked away—graceful, unboastful, every inch the true hero. The assembly bowed in respect, hearts moved.
A verse was spoken:
Praised by the world, two names as one,Twin heroes' might outshines the sun.Empty fame fades—true virtue remains;What need has the righteous for worldly acclaim?
Thus the duel of North and South was ended. Wu Tong stood alone as the foremost young knight of the realm.
Two months before, on the first of the seventh month, at the Assembly of Bianzhou, Jia Yong had risen to instant fame by defeating the Shaolin masters Yuanguang and Yuanming. Why then was he so frail today? The reason was plain. Since that triumph, he had returned to Chang'an, feasted night after night, courted wealth, wine, and women. His ambition dulled, his arts withered. The ancients said: "Skill is sharpened by diligence, but dulled by idleness; success is formed by reflection, destroyed by heedlessness." Today he was defeated before ever the battle began.
Wu Tong, by contrast, had spent those months walking through blood and fire, gaining new arts, testing himself in life-and-death trials. His composure, courage, and synthesis of myriad schools forged an edge that no indulgence could blunt. From this day forth, the saying "North Jia Yong, South Wu Tong" was no more. Only Wu Tong's name remained, acclaimed as the foremost young hero of the realm.
Murong Gui, the Black Dragon Sect's master, was no common schemer but a true overlord of the jianghu. Striding into the arena, he showed no anger, only a booming voice:
"North Jia Yong has lost to South Wu Tong. Jia Yong, since his fame at Bianzhou, has grown idle, and so today he reaps defeat. But the field is still full of heroes. Let us not waste the moment—let us test arms as friends. My sect's Right Dharma King, Shi Kai, shall step forth. Who among you will meet his challenge?"
At once Shi Kai leapt into the ring, eyes sweeping the crowd, aura fierce.
A rustle of robes followed. A young man's voice rang clear:"I, Fang Xiong of Xuzhou in Henan, son of Fang Wei the 'Invincible Divine Palm,' have come to receive instruction!"
Fang Xiong, styled "Hero Among Men," had inherited his father's famed Turning Palms. The art used circling steps and spiraling hands—piercing, inserting, chopping, rending, striking, ramming, hooking, overturning, and lifting. Its essence was continuous circular motion, body turning like a dragon, palms wheeling like an eagle in flight.
Shi Kai had expected a leader of a great sect or the Beggar Chief himself. To be challenged by a mere youth of little renown seemed beneath him. He frowned darkly.
"And what skill have you," he said, voice heavy with disdain, "to dare stand before me?"
Though angered, Fang Xiong masked it, bowing respectfully:"This gathering is for heroes to meet in friendship. Though my skills are shallow, I humbly request your instruction."
Shi Kai sneered inwardly. Yet, remembering Jia Yong's humiliation, he dared not dismiss the boy outright. With a tiger's roar he launched into his sect's ultimate art, the Thirteen Tiger Palms.
Fang Xiong spread his stance, qi flowing through his body, and with sudden precision loosed 'Restrain the Self, Guard the Heart.' His steps flowed like a dragon's coil, his palms like clouds turning.
Thus began another contest of might and spirit, tiger against dragon, youth against master, each seeking glory before the eyes of the martial world.