Chapter 165: Lifting the Boots
A sword without a sheath reveals its sharpness.
Zhuang Huanyu’s sword rose with the wind, holding nothing back. Carrying a surging tide of true essence, it thrust toward Chen Changsheng’s body. The tip sprayed with azure light, crackling as it cut through the air.
Residual sand on the ground stirred again, dancing across the arena.
Chen Changsheng activated the Yashī Steps. His figure blurred instantly, leaving trails of afterimages as he circled Zhuang Huanyu. The short sword in his hand struck down repeatedly like a staff.
It was still a fast-paced assault.
Zhuang Huanyu showed no fear. His sword techniques were exquisite, and his attacks, though wild with anger, were perfectly balanced in defense. It was clear his mind had not wavered in the slightest.
No matter how fast Chen Changsheng’s footwork became, or how direct and forceful his short sword strikes landed, he could not find a flaw in Zhuang Huanyu’s defense, nor could he create one. On the contrary, Zhuang Huanyu’s sword intent grew calmer and calmer. Countless beams of sword light wove an invisible net, making Chen Changsheng’s steps heavier and heavier. Even if he wanted to break away, it was no longer so easy.
Chen Changsheng had anticipated his intention—Zhuang Huanyu wanted to use this sword style to erase his advantage in speed and agility, ultimately forcing a contest of pure technique and true essence. Without hesitation, Chen Changsheng made his decision. His footwork shifted abruptly, moving with unbelievable speed. He took three steps to the right, yet ended up on the opposite side of Zhuang Huanyu.
Zhuang Huanyu twisted his wrist and thrust diagonally. A marvelously subtle Dao sword strike swept aside Chen Changsheng’s short sword and then pressed toward his throat.
Chen Changsheng suddenly found himself in danger, but his expression did not change, because he had already stepped inside Zhuang Huanyu’s sword light.
Now, neither of them could avoid it anymore.
He turned sideways, letting the Lín Guāng Sword pierce his shoulder, while his short sword lashed straight toward Zhuang Huanyu’s face.
Zhuang Huanyu reversed his grip on the Lín Guāng Sword, meeting the blow with its hilt. At the same time, he sidestepped and swept the blade horizontally toward Chen Changsheng’s throat again.
In an instant, the battle took a dramatic turn.
The dense clashing of swords rang out again in the Dust-Washing Pavilion. This time, the ringing was unbroken, as if it would never cease. White air pockets formed, burst, and vanished repeatedly. Both Chen Changsheng and Zhuang Huanyu had decided to settle the match here and now.
*Crk, crk, crk*—three tearing sounds rang out.
*Thud, thud*—two heavy impacts followed.
The drizzle had stopped. Wet sand fell to the ground. Chen Changsheng and Zhuang Huanyu suddenly separated, leaping back more than ten zhang before landing.
Chen Changsheng had been stabbed three times. Adding the earlier sword wound, six gashes crisscrossed his chest, blood streaming down in a gruesome sight.
Zhuang Huanyu had been struck twice by Chen Changsheng’s short sword. His right shoulder was slightly collapsed, blood seeping out, and his face was deathly pale.
A sword blade was unmatched; a staff was a blunt instrument. Three sword strikes for two staff blows—no matter how you looked at it, this final exchange should have favored Zhuang Huanyu.
If anyone else had been Zhuang Huanyu’s opponent, those three sword strikes would have left them severely wounded and unable to continue fighting.
Chen Changsheng did not fall.
Zhuang Huanyu wanted to match technique with technique, sword with sword, true essence with true essence. Chen Changsheng’s response was even more aggressive: he traded technique for technique, sword for sword, wound for wound.
This was Liang Banhu’s method against Tang Thirty-Six, the strategy Gou Hanshi had devised.
Chen Changsheng used it in this critical battle against Zhuang Huanyu.
Chen Changsheng had always been willing to learn and skilled at it. Moreover, his willingness to use this approach showed absolute confidence in his own true essence and defensive capabilities—at least stronger than Zhuang Huanyu’s.
Zhuang Huanyu did not fall either, though his face was already extremely pale.
Both were covered in blood, standing more than ten zhang apart, staring at each other in silence.
The Dust-Washing Pavilion was utterly quiet.
By the second-floor windows, the important figures remained silent. To them, this battle was naturally nothing special, but the calm and courage Chen Changsheng and Zhuang Huanyu had displayed—far beyond their years—moved them somewhat. Their silence now might represent a form of respect.
Silence also meant tension.
Who had won?
Outside the Dust-Washing Pavilion, it was equally quiet.
The examinees outside were even more tense than those inside, even more eager to know who had emerged victorious from this duel.
From the moment Chen Changsheng and Zhuang Huanyu entered the pavilion, everyone’s eyes had been fixed on that tightly shut door.
Just like in so many previous duels, the examinees could not see what was happening inside; they could only guess from the sounds.
The soundproofing formations of the Dust-Washing Pavilion had often failed after the second round, because the participating examinees grew stronger and the battles more intense.
This duel was no exception. Not long after the door closed, the examinees heard a sharp, piercing sound of something cutting through the air. They knew it was the sound of a sword, but they couldn’t tell if it was Zhuang Huanyu’s or Chen Changsheng’s. Then they heard a dull thud, as if someone were striking a bell inside the pavilion. Someone guessed it might be the sound of a fist carrying true essence.
What followed was somewhat strange.
Because the Dust-Washing Pavilion suddenly fell silent, but outside, cicadas began to chirp. Even the temperature seemed to rise slightly, as if summer had arrived. Then, in the cloudless blue sky, a sudden rain fell. That rain did not wet a single inch of ground outside the pavilion; it only fell inside, looking like a waterfall.
Then the sword ringing resumed, never stopping, until finally, everything fell silent again.
This duel should have ended. Who had won and who had lost?
The three from the National Academy were the most tense. The atmosphere around Lin Pàn was oppressive.
Xuanyuan Po’s eyes were wide, staring at the closed door. He kept rubbing his hands together, sweat beading on his forehead.
Luò Luò had her eyes closed, her small hands clasped into fists in front of her, silently praying for Chen Changsheng.
Tang Thirty-Six paced back and forth with his hands behind his back, his lips moving as he muttered to himself. He didn’t ask what Chen Changsheng’s trump card was or where his confidence came from. He knew Chen Changsheng must have prepared for this duel, but he also knew how strong Zhuang Huanyu was—Zhuang Huanyu was his senior brother at the Heavenly Dao Academy, the one he had always wanted to surpass. Getting closer, one could hear what he was muttering under his breath: “Too optimistic… too optimistic. We trusted him too much. How could he possibly win? How could he possibly win? You bastard, you have to win, but… how could he possibly win?”
Just then, the door of the Dust-Washing Pavilion was pushed open.
All the examinees looked over at once.
Luò Luò opened her eyes, full of hope and worry.
Tang Thirty-Six stopped pacing and muttering, but he didn’t look over, because he didn’t dare.
The first person to walk out of the Dust-Washing Pavilion was Chen Changsheng.
He was covered in blood, barefoot, his clothes tattered, his body caked with sand and dust. He looked even more like a beggar than in previous rounds.
The stone square remained silent, because the victor of this duel was still uncertain.
After Guan Feibai’s equally brutal battle with Zhe Xiu, he had walked out of the Dust-Washing Pavilion first, but he was the loser.
In this tense moment, Chen Changsheng suddenly turned and walked back into the pavilion.
The duel was over. He had already come out. Why was he going back? Everyone was stunned, unable to understand what was happening.
It wasn’t long before he came out again. This time, he was holding a pair of boots.
A brand-new pair of boots.
Suddenly, a strange cry rang out from the crowd. It was Tang Thirty-Six’s shout.
Though he had pretended not to look, his peripheral vision had been fixed on that spot.
He shouted wildly and rushed toward Chen Changsheng.
Luò Luò let out a long sigh of relief. She gently patted her chest, her face a mix of lingering fear and joy.
Xuanyuan Po didn’t understand. He scratched his head and asked, “What’s going on?”
Luò Luò said, “Teacher won.”
(Note: Jiǎ Tiānqīng has to go pick up his in-laws early in the morning, so he’s trying to sleep a bit earlier. Goodnight, everyone, and sweet dreams.)