Chapter 78: The Battle Begins

This method was commonly used in the martial world; if a solution was to be found for the present impasse, perhaps this was the only way. Although on the surface Shen Wansan and Dao Tianfeng both appeared courteous, each seemingly eager to let the other assume the position of Martial Alliance Leader, anyone with discernment could see it was mere performance. Were it truly so, there’d be no need for transitional words like “however.” At this moment, Shao Changchun’s suggestion seemed the most reasonable. Of course, those lurking beneath the surface could be said to be stirring the pot, but the main attraction was that veterans like Shen Wansan and Dao Tianfeng, famous throughout the martial world, would put on a show: it promised to be a spectacle. Even those who came just to join the excitement would find their trip worthwhile.

“The Blue Lotus Demon Sect wreaked havoc sixteen years ago; only the Four Heroes joining forces quelled that disaster, granting us sixteen years of peace. Now they rise again, and their strength must not be underestimated. The situation is urgent; the Martial Alliance Leader must be chosen to lead the heroes of the world against the Demon Sect. Since Master Shao has made this suggestion, I find it agreeable. Both Master Shen and Elder Dao are renowned figures in the martial world, and even I hold them in high regard. Now that both are willing to serve, it is our fortune. But let the contest remain a contest; let no ill will arise, nor brotherhood be broken. When victory is decided, let it end there. What say you both?” Neither Shen Wansan nor Dao Tianfeng could answer Shao Changchun directly, lest they be accused of coveting fame and power. Thus, Xiao Jinghao stepped forward, his intervention most appropriate. His words made the intent clear, answering the request on behalf of Shen and Dao. Following his lead, Shen and Dao clasped their hands in salute to Xiao Jinghao, saying, “We await Your Highness’s instructions.”

The atmosphere grew heavier; though the square was broad, the surrounding walls blocked the wind. The martial artists, gazing at the platform, ceased their whispers and quieted down. In truth, those who roamed the martial world might care for little, but reputation and martial skill were their prized treasures—especially the latter. To be recognized for unparalleled martial prowess, regardless of character, earned respect and fear. Sometimes, this fear transformed into arrogance, a psychological edge. This contest was no simple matter. Shen Wansan and Dao Tianfeng were legendary figures; to witness their skills firsthand, even if unable to learn a single move, would become something to boast of for years.

The two stood, one to the left, one to the right, unmoving, but the duel had already begun. For men of their caliber, each knew the other’s strength was nearly equal. Masters often decide victory in an instant, so the contest began with probing, cautious maneuvering. No one would recklessly strike without confidence; their spiritual power surged and spread. To ordinary folk, it might appear as nothing more than two men standing still, their robes gently swaying. But to the martial artists, the sensation was quite different. Their own spiritual power, varying in strength, was stirred by the two. Though not greatly affected, they could sense the intensity; the stronger their own power, the more pronounced the feeling. Those standing near the platform’s edge felt their bodies swayed by the spiritual currents, unable to keep steady, moving unconsciously from side to side.

“If these two keep probing like this, even after two or three hours, we won’t see a result. You people of the Central Plains are always so cautious, afraid to make the first move lest you reveal a weakness. Don’t you know that when skill is matched, the one who strikes first may seize the advantage and increase their chances of victory?” Watching from the sidelines, Zhora Weiyang understood the scene well. As an outsider, his words were idle musings, a way to pass the time. Qiu Wan’er, on the other hand, stared intently at the platform. Shen Wansan was unrelated to her, so her expectations were clear; despite her many grievances against her master—how many times had she cursed him silently?—at this moment, she still hoped he would win. So, when Zhora Weiyang spoke, her gaze shifted to him. In the past, anyone who commented thus on her master would have met only her disdain, but today, she did not wish to doubt Zhora Weiyang’s words, for she knew his skills rivaled those of her master. “Old man, who do you think will win?”

“In my view, their spiritual cultivation is nearly equal, and their combat experience is much the same. As for victory, it’s impossible to tell now—it all depends on how they perform in the moment. But between the two, whichever faces my junior brother will surely lose. I find it odd: since my junior brother is here, seated upon the platform, why does he not seek the alliance leader’s position himself, instead of letting these two fight it out?” The first half was an assessment; even if Zhora Weiyang had not spoken, Qiu Wan’er knew the answer. Her master had once said that, within the martial world, only against Shen Wansan did he lack absolute confidence in victory. But the latter half confused her. Her eyes widened, as if hearing something incredible. “Your junior brother—Dao Zheng? Isn’t he that Xiao something Hao? He has some skill, but is he really as capable as you say?”

She was not alone in her disbelief; anyone present would find such words hard to accept. Xiao Jinghao’s martial prowess was not lacking, but compared to legends like Shen Wansan and Dao Tianfeng, he seemed weaker. If it were true that a prince of the imperial court was the greatest martial artist in the Central Plains, it would be a mockery of all martial clans. Her skepticism was only natural. Seeing her reaction, her doubt plain, Zhora Weiyang’s gaze followed hers, scrutinizing Xiao Jinghao’s face, as if to confirm his claim. After a brief pause, he continued, “When my junior brother entered Kunlun years ago, he already possessed rare spiritual cultivation. Later, he mastered Kunlun’s true teachings. Martial arts are a matter of spiritual power and technique; the Central Plains’ techniques are indeed more refined than those of our Western Regions, but in terms of spiritual power, I speak nothing but the truth. My junior brother, though young, is not inferior to me. Our master called him a genius unseen in a hundred years. Had he been one of us in the Western Regions, the responsibility of Kunlun’s lineage would surely have been entrusted to him. Such a pity, such a pity!”

Having finished, Zhora Weiyang’s expression was tinged with regret, his focus shifting to memories. He fell silent, evidently recalling events that brought little joy; after all, happiness seldom lingers long, while sorrow evokes deeper nostalgia.

As for Qiu Wan’er, she asked no further; the old man’s musings were just idle speculation. Who would win, who would lose—no one could tell. Yet, for reasons unknown, worry began to rise in her heart. If Zhora Weiyang’s words were true, might there be hidden schemes behind this martial gathering? Perhaps it was just a fleeting thought, destined to remain unanswered. Soon, her gaze returned to Shen Wansan and Dao Tianfeng. The stalemate had lasted long enough and could not go on. Suddenly, a sharp cry rang out—its source unclear—and the two figures charged at each other almost simultaneously.

Victory or defeat, being inevitable, was best settled quickly. In that instant, whether above or below the platform, all eyes focused on the two elders. No weapons were used; only their bare hands collided. Spiritual power surged, unleashing a fierce wind that swept outward, sending their gray hair flying and making the scene appear truly ethereal and unmatched.