Dockside Gang chief Zhang Cheng had come this time intent on giving the volunteer army a show of force. Who would have thought that in single combat they were beaten, in two-on-one they were beaten again? His pride was shredded. To see one young man and woman dominating the field was bitter indeed. His voice dropped low and cold:"Honored seniors of the martial world, it seems fists and palms gain us nothing. Why not draw weapons and fight in earnest!"
A sly laugh cut through the night. One figure stepped forward, gray robe flowing. It was none other than Wuliang the Mad."Girl," he sneered, "you have struck down three of ours. Not bad! Allow this old man to test you himself."
Though a master of the martial ways, seeing Li Qian stand barehanded roused his own arrogance. With a snort, he raised his palms. The two crossed at once—palms flashing, figures twisting, ghostly fast. Wuliang's inner strength surged, his palm-wind fierce and crushing; Li Qian's form was light and elusive, her strikes weaving hardness with softness, each palm precise and unreadable.
For a time palm-shadows whirled, fists cut the air. Dozens of moves passed with no clear victor. Li Qian's footwork was subtle; she slipped from each strike just before it landed, countering in a shimmer of sleeves. Wuliang's every palm carried such force that dust swirled from the ground—yet not once did he touch her.
Spectators watched with pounding hearts. Wuliang himself was shaken—never had he imagined this young woman could hold him even. With a roar, he thrust out both hands: "Boundless Thunderclap!" Palm-wind howled like thunder cracking sky. Li Qian, unhurried, touched her toe to the ground, body drifting like willow-catkins. In that breath she wheeled and flicked a palm, swift as lightning, straight into Wuliang's shoulder.
He staggered three steps, eyes flashing hotter. He knew then—she had spared him. If they fought to the end, the outcome was uncertain. Li Qian said coolly:"I bear no grudge with any of you. I've no wish to kill—this was but a game of hands. Yet should blades be drawn, your lives may not be spared."
Wuliang puffed with pride and retorted:"If you fear us, stand aside. Let another come forward!"
At that instant, a rustle of robes—and a youth alighted into the ring. His voice rang steady:"Junior Wang Yun begs the senior's instruction!"
All were startled. Before them stood a boy of sixteen or seventeen, slim, sword-browed, star-eyed. His brow was furrowed deep, a weight of hatred shadowing his face. Few guessed his origin—but Wu Tong and his companions knew: he was the last orphan of the slaughtered Wang clan.
Wuliang's eyes narrowed. "Wang Yun? Never heard the name. Boy, blind as a bat, daring to meddle? Leave now if you value your life!"
Wang Yun's gaze flared cold. Step by step he advanced, murder in his eyes. The air thickened with killing aura. To their astonishment, hardened fighters edged back a pace. His brows rose, his voice like steel:"Today you'll serve as my trial blade! Do not say I failed to warn you—keep your guard!"
A hiss of breath swept the crowd. Such words—from one so young! Wuliang, tyrant though he was, flushed with rage. To be chosen as this boy's "trial blade"—how could he endure such insult? His face darkened, killing intent burning. He snorted coldly:"Very well, boy. Such courage—come and try!"
A verse arose in echo:
The boy meets the demon lord,Cold gleam flashing wide.Boasts he will test his sword—And murder comes in stride.
The field fell silent, the hush before a storm. Killing will weighed on every breath. The youth stood unmoved, mountain-firm, fearless before a master. Wuliang gave a harsh laugh, then in a snap drew his sword—swift beyond sight. This stroke was deadly, beyond the common. The crowd nodded in grim respect. At last, a duel to shake the ages had begun.
Steel clashed in sparks. Blades hissed like lightning, their figures melding, splitting, melding again. Wuliang vaulted skyward, sword scattering into a thousand starlike points, plunging down in a rain of strikes—every thrust merciless.
Wang Yun's eyes narrowed. His wrist flicked, swordtip flashing like meteors, weaving light. His steps were nimble, darting in and out. In a blink he stole the initiative.
Wuliang twisted, parried, then swept into "Sword-Scatters Cold Light." Steel fountained like stars, filling the air, driving for Wang Yun's vitals. The youth did not flinch. He wheeled away, body spinning, blade turning in a deadly arc—"Place in Death's Ground!"—the sword tip leveled at Wuliang's belly, its edge biting with cold intent.
Sword-wind screamed, blades tangled, ferocity unending. Suddenly Wang Yun pivoted, ghost-quick, wrist snapping thrice. Three thrusts burst out, each faster than the last. Wuliang blocked two—but the third tore across his thigh. Blood spurted. He howled, stumbling back. Wang Yun pressed in, relentless, blade whistling—slash!—the steel scored his back, red mist spraying.
Two cold shouts cracked the air—clang, clang!—swords intercepted. Huang Qi of the Huainan Fiends and Chu's Tyrant Wang Chong had leapt to Wuliang's aid. Their blades stormed like pounding rain. Wang Yun met them without fear, sword flashing six times in a breath, each stroke a shard of winter frost. The pair felt the chill to their bones, retreating in shock, flipping backward to safety.
Just then Wu Tong's voice rang like a bell:"You dogs aid the wicked, again and again preying on the volunteer army's supplies. The battle is decided—persist and it is in vain! We have no wish to slaughter needlessly. Let this end here. Until we meet again!"
His words fell; Wu Tong signaled with his eyes. Tang Fei at once shouted:"Forward!"
The volunteer army marched on in proud array, leaving dust in their wake. Zhang Cheng of the Dockside Gang and his cohorts stood stricken, faces gray. Their champions were beaten, their leaders bloodied; Huang Qi and Wang Chong barely unscathed. They could only watch, powerless, as the army withdrew.
Wuliang the Mad, soaked in blood, glared venomously, but dared not strike again. He cast one last baleful look at Wang Yun, then spat a cold snort and slunk away.
Wang Yun sheathed his sword, eyes like ice, silent as stone. But the message was thunderous: the orphan of the Wang clan had returned—and his storm would shake the martial world.
Later, as the army reached the foot of the mountain, they halted to rest. Fires were lit, pots set for supper, gear laid down. At that moment, Wang Yun straightened his robe, face solemn, and stepped forward. He bowed deeply, then dropped to his knees before Wu Tong."Hall Master of the Loyal and Righteous Hall, forgive my intrusion. Please accept these three bows!"
Wu Tong moved to lift him, but the youth pressed his forehead to the ground, refusing until all three kowtows were done. Rising with a sigh, Wu Tong said:"A blood feud cannot go unanswered. Do not burden yourself with worry. Justice lives in men's hearts, right and wrong speak for themselves. I shall see fairness upheld—none may interfere."
Tears welled in Wang Yun's eyes."The Loyal and Righteous Hall Master's name resounds across the world. With you to champion justice, how could my clan's blood-debt go unavenged?"