On the day of the Outer Sect Trial, the martial grounds roared like a crashing tide.
Eight massive bluestone platforms crouched at the center of the plaza like dormant beasts. Colorful banners snapped wildly in the morning wind. A sea of bodies flooded the square—menials crammed along the outer edges on tiptoe, outer disciples claiming the middle ground, while inner disciples and elders sat high upon the viewing stands, gazing down like gods surveying the mortal world.
Jiang Muchen's group stood beneath the C-Rank Western Platform.
Five figures in washed-gray menial robes—jarringly out of place amid silk and brocade, like rough stones tossed onto fine satin.
Wang Duobao's palms were slick with sweat as he muttered calculations under his breath. Zheng Xiaoqi silently checked the hidden clasp at his belt—three frost-quenched Ice-Soul Needles lay there. Zhou Xiaohuan clutched a bulging cloth satchel filled with medicine, water, and rations, her lips tight as if she might burst into tears at any moment.
Only Jiang Muchen and Lu Hanshan remained still as deep water.
One stood with eyes closed, fingers unconsciously stroking the warm jade body of the flute at his chest.
The other hugged his chipped woodcutter's blade, gaze sharp as a poisoned razor sweeping across the opposite platform—
—where Lin Tianying stood with his entourage.
Lin Tianying wore a dark-gold brocade robe embroidered with cloud patterns. The Rending Gold Claws at his waist gleamed coldly under the sun. Around him clustered seven or eight outer disciples, all fourth or fifth layer—stars circling a moon. Lin Bao rested a broad-backed Windblade saber on his shoulder, spiral engravings shimmering as if a storm might erupt at any moment.
The two groups stared across the platform.
The air tightened, invisible strings pulled taut.
Lin Tianying curled his lips into a sneer and casually dragged a finger across his throat—aimed straight at Lu Hanshan.
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Lu Hanshan didn't move. Only the veins on the back of his hand bulged faintly around the hilt.
"Ignore him," Jiang Muchen said softly, eyes still closed. "He wants your mind unsettled. A restless mind makes a slow blade."
Lu Hanshan inhaled deeply. The morning chill steadied him. His eyes returned to dead-calm stillness.
At that moment, the platform attendant struck the bronze gong.
CLANG—!
"C-Rank Platform! First-round draw begins!" the attendant shouted.
"All registered disciples—step forward and draw!"
More than thirty competitors surged toward the black-lacquered wooden box, hands plunging inside to grope for numbered plaques.
Jiang Muchen opened his eyes and gave Wang Duobao a subtle glance.
Wang Duobao slipped into the crowd like an eel, squeezing up beside the box. Hidden in his sleeve was a tiny paper packet—adhesive powder, colorless and scentless, clinging to skin for half an hour before fading. Jiang Muchen hadn't tried to rig the draw—only to mark it.
The powder coated three plaques: Seven. Thirteen. Nineteen.
Anyone who drew them would collide in the first round.
And Jiang Muchen wanted Seven.
When his turn came, he reached into the box, fingers skimming swiftly over the wooden tags. One felt faintly damp—tacky.
He pinched it and withdrew.
He turned it over.
Seven.
Done.
He stepped aside and saw Lu Hanshan draw Thirteen.
Lin Bao drew Nineteen.
Under the rules, same-team members could request exemption from fighting each other in early rounds. Thus, Jiang Muchen's real opponent became Number Twenty—a fourth-layer sword cultivator loyal to Lin Tianying. Lu Hanshan would face Number Six—Lin Tianying himself. Lin Bao would clash with Number Two, a fifth-layer whip specialist with old grudges against him.
Every piece fell into place.
The attendant announced loudly:
"C-Rank Platform, Round One—Match One!
Number Seven, Jiang Muchen, versus Number Twenty, Zhou Kun!"
The crowd erupted.
Zhou Kun—one of Lin Tianying's fiercest enforcers. Fourth layer. Practitioner of Crushing Rock Fist, infamous for its brutal power.
And his opponent?
A third-layer menial.
"Jiang Muchen? The one from the Artificing Hall?"
"The guy who lured the Seven-Star Beetles?"
"So what? This is a real fight, not pest control!"
Amid the noise, Jiang Muchen stepped onto the platform.
He carried no weapon—only the jade flute at his waist. His gray robes were worn but clean, hair neatly tied back, expression as calm as a still well. He looked less like a man fighting for survival, more like someone attending a routine morning lesson.
Zhou Kun was already waiting.
Half a head taller. Thick-waisted, broad-shouldered. His arms bulged like old tree roots, fists wrapped in black cloth hardened by years of training.
"Junior Brother Jiang," Zhou Kun grinned, yellow teeth bared.
"I hear you've been riding quite the wave lately. Shame—this isn't bug-catching. Fists don't have eyes. If your bones break, don't blame me."
Jiang Muchen bowed slightly.
"Please instruct me, Senior Brother Zhou."
The gong rang again.
"Begin!"
Zhou Kun roared and stomped forward, launching like a fired arrow. Crushing Rock Fist sought to overpower finesse—the opening strike went straight for Jiang Muchen's face, the punch howling sharply through the air!
Jiang Muchen didn't block.
He tilted aside, the fist grazing past his ear. His footwork shifted—not retreating straight back, but sliding diagonally, light as a drifting leaf, spiraling toward Zhou Kun's flank.
Zhou Kun's punch missed. Instantly, he twisted his waist, left fist sweeping wide to seal Jiang Muchen's escape.
Still, Jiang Muchen didn't counter.
He twisted low, nearly brushing the ground, slipping just beyond the arc. His robe snapped in the wind of the blow.
The crowd booed.
"Fight already!"
"Coward—just dodging!"
Zhou Kun snarled and unleashed a barrage—blows hammering down like twin sledgehammers. The platform boomed beneath his feet, dust flying.
Jiang Muchen kept dodging.
His footwork was strange—not any known technique. Almost like… dancing. Every step landed in the gaps between Zhou Kun's exertions, every evasion skimming the weakest edge of the punch's force. It looked perilous—but never reckless.
Wang Duobao wiped his palms anxiously.
"Brother Jiang—what's he doing? Isn't he supposed to stall?"
Zheng Xiaoqi's eyes gleamed.
"He's listening."
"Listening to what?"
"To the punches," Zheng murmured.
"Before every strike, Zhou Kun's shoulder dips a fraction. His breath thickens. Brother Jiang is waiting for—"
The shift came suddenly.
Frustrated, Zhou Kun drove a full-powered punch, muscles cracking audibly as Crushing Rock Fist surged to its peak!
And in the instant the punch crested—
Jiang Muchen moved.
Instead of retreating, he stepped in.
Two fingers darted forward, landing lightly on Zhou Kun's right shoulder—Jianjing Point, the node where Crushing Rock Fist gathered force.
A sound softer than a mosquito's wing.
Pop.
Zhou Kun's entire arm went numb. His gathered qi burst apart like a punctured bladder. The punch died mid-flight, momentum carrying him stumbling forward.
The crowd froze.
What was that?
A pressure-point strike? But Jiang Muchen was only third layer—barely capable of external qi manipulation!
Jiang Muchen didn't pause.
He circled Zhou Kun, fingers tapping like dragonflies—seven points in rapid succession, each a critical node in Crushing Rock Fist's power chain.
With every touch, Zhou Kun stiffened.
By the seventh, he stood hunched, arms limp, fists unable to clench.
"What—what did you do to me?!" Zhou Kun shouted, panic flaring.
"Nothing permanent," Jiang Muchen said calmly, stepping back.
"I sealed your force pathways. They'll release in half an incense-stick."
He turned to the attendant.
"Can judgment be rendered?"
The attendant blinked, then struck the gong.
"Victory—Jiang Muchen!"
The crowd exploded.
That was it? No clash? No brute exchange?
Lin Tianying's face darkened like storm clouds. He hissed to a thin disciple beside him,
"Find out what technique he used."
The disciple hurried off.
Jiang Muchen stepped down from the platform. Wang Duobao was glowing with excitement.
"Brother Jiang! That was insane! How did you do that?!"
"A trick," Jiang Muchen replied, wiping sweat from his brow—seven precise strikes had drained most of his qi.
"Zhou Kun's technique is rigid. His power nodes never change. I observed thirty-seven punches and mapped the pattern."
"Thirty-seven…?" Wang Duobao went silent.
Counting strikes under that storm—and reading muscle tension beneath cloth?
What kind of eyes did that require?
"Next match," Lu Hanshan said, lifting his blade.
His opponent was Number Six.
Lin Tianying.
They faced each other at the platform's center. Sparks seemed to leap between their gazes.
The gong thundered.
The real slaughter began.
Tongue Dao Maxim
True victory of the weak over the strong is never brute force.
Find the opponent's proudest strength—
and when he stands tallest upon it,
quietly pull away the brick beneath his feet.
The harder the fall, the deeper the lesson.