Li Qian was unaccustomed to striking first; yet since she had taken the initiative to challenge them, she was compelled to open with a single probing blow. Her palms met and split in a flash, arms darting out as fist followed palm—this move was called "Swifter Than Light." Fist and palm surged forward, a hard gust of palm-wind racing straight for Qin Zhonglong, the Demon of Qianzhong. She snapped, "Forgive the presumption!"
Qin Zhonglong's smile, bright a heartbeat before, froze. Sensing the speed and ferocity of her advance, he sprang back; his hands rose like twin unsheathed blades, both palms set upright to parry and, in the same breath, slashed obliquely toward Li Qian. Her strike, though gentle in touch, could be empty or full at will; she had no thought of felling him in a single move. Relying on the razor acuity of a master's feel, she knew at once the knife-keen force of his palms was already at her body—so fast she dared not take him lightly.
Masters test one another by feeling out the depths—feint for feint, masking intent without showing a seam. Qin Zhonglong threw everything into his craft: his right palm skimmed along his left rib and shot outward; his left hand snapped back to guard. One palm attacked, the other defended. Li Qian bowed her waist, drew up her legs, and speared out a hand—smack! Palm met palm, even and true. Each scored, each yielded; the exchange was a draw.
They clashed again. Qin Zhonglong vaulted high, then dropped like a hawk; twin palms fanned out, edges keen, winds shrieking as they chopped down from above. Li Qian's hands turned and she flowed into Cloud-Hand Eight Forms, the technique "Looking Left, Glancing Right." She loosed it in a blink, effortless as if Heaven itself had penned the stroke. Qin Zhonglong's palms struck nothing but air. A chill swept his chest; shocked, he swept a guarding palm across his breastbone—crack!—and took a solid hit to the abdomen. He flipped back in retreat. Li Qian did not pursue; instead she smiled and said, "I've no taste for killing. You're not the true instigator—your crime is not death."
Murmurs rippled through the ranks. This girl, appearing from nowhere, possessed a brilliance that commanded respect.
Suddenly two figures sprang in with a shout: "Take our move!" The ambush was abrupt, but Li Qian's eyes took in all quarters; she neither startled nor flinched. In the pivot of an instant she shifted steps, body turning like a reed in wind, and slipped into Cloud-Hand Eight Forms again, this time "Peering East, Watching West." Her body flashed, steps slid, mind and hand as one. Offense unraveled into nothing. Such evasion—so spare, so high—was a marvel of the rivers and lakes.
The newcomers barked, "Your dodging is no mean feat. We, the Two Fiends of Dianxi, will sample your skill!"
Li Qian gave a cold laugh. "Without rules, there is no circle nor square. Today you two will learn some manners."
Before the last word faded, she drifted forward a full zhang. Her palms crossed and lifted, shadowing the fiends step by step; a nameless gang-force rode her hands—the momentum of wind and thunder. The Two Fiends shivered despite themselves.
She moved like cloud from a mountain gorge, like a sky-horse ranging free—her footwork so strange it caught all by surprise. The two had boasted too loudly; Li Qian's nameless anger kindled and she struck with her full weight. Her palm-wind keened, swift and fierce. The fiends dared not posture; they crossed to cover, one attacking as the other guarded. Even so, they staggered back five steps. Li Qian pressed the advantage without mercy. Masters around the field traded looks—this was dominance.
Though the fiends were notorious brutes who swaggered without rival, a cold tremor seized them. Muscles jumped, they fell back again and again, dodging in panic, faces ashen, chests heaving, sweat dripping in sheets. Li Qian, daughter of the fearless Lü (Li) Qiang and the Xiangjiang heroine Luo Ping, lived up to her lineage. She suddenly cast "Shifting Form, Trading Shadow": her figure vanished and reappeared, ghost-swift, lightning-bright. Her assault exploded without break, her body springing like a bolt, palms diving like hawks—subtle, uncanny, without peer.
The Two Fiends had not imagined such speed. Li Qian's twin palms snapped out—two blades of gale hurtling in, raw and overwhelming. In the split-second of their realization, there was no time to raise a guard. Bang! Bang! Two silhouettes flew like dead leaves, skidding several zhang before crashing to earth. Blood sprayed; they lay groaning.
Li Qian turned with a twist, facing Dockside Gang chief Zhang Cheng and the rest. Her voice was cool: "Do not think numbers let you trample the rules of the jianghu."
"Intolerable arrogance!" someone roared. Huang Qi of the Huainan Fiends, the Tyrant of Chu, and Wuliang the Mad burst forward without hesitation.
Seeing this, Wu Tong had no choice but to leap into the fray. The three hemmed the pair in a tight ring—another fine drama about to unfold. Li Qian flashed Wu Tong a grin. "Your turn." And with that she vaulted lightly from the ring.
The three bore long grudges against Wu Tong; enemies meeting, their eyes burned all the hotter. Wuliang the Mad was first to sneer, "Wu Tong! The palm you dealt me that day—I'll return it with interest."The Tyrant of Chu barked, "Boy! Old debts get settled today!"Huang Qi of the Huainan Fiends ground his teeth: "For Ma Ji's death—you'll pay in blood!"
Wu Tong knew well these three were no pushovers. His gaze swept slowly across them. He gave a thin, cold smile and said, each word dropping like iron:"You crooked devils have wronged the world long enough. If you won't wake up now, I fear none of you will leave this place alive."
A ripple of dread passed through the trio. Sweat pricked their backs. They roared as one—"All together!"
Wuliang's palms whirled, body spinning as he lunged first. Wu Tong tilted, found his line, and chopped a palm. Boom! The two locked inner force. Wuliang no longer dared to underestimate him; even so, his arms went numb, his body staggered. Huang Qi's edge-hand cleaved in; Wu Tong slipped left and right. The Tyrant of Chu seized the seam, threading the needle—both palms flaring as his body spun, stabbing for Wu Tong's spine and Governing Vessel. He drove the blow with his life's cultivation, intent on killing with one strike.
But Wu Tong had eyes in his back. His foot slid, his form blurred aside. The Tyrant's killing palm struck only emptiness; a flicker grazed his vision, a draft kissed his flank—bad!—and he smashed, instead, into Wuliang's oncoming force. The two shouted, "Careful!"
They had not yet caught breath when Wu Tong was already upon them, a lightning palm lashing out. The wind of his strike was hard and cold. With nowhere to go, the two could only meet him—bang, bang!—and both reeled four or five steps.
Wu Tong did not chase. His voice was even:"I bore no grudges with the three of you. Yet you hound me so—are you so set on dying today?"
In all the martial world, few could withstand a concerted assault from Huang Qi, the Tyrant of Chu, and Wuliang the Mad. Yet now, color drained from the three demons' faces. None had imagined this youth's cultivation had climbed to the unthinkable. They understood well: in single combat, not one of them could match him—and even unspoken, they all knew it now.