Chapter 80: Within Ten Moves

“My old bones are never wrong about these things—if I say ten moves, then ten moves it will be. You can’t dodge it. If you don’t believe me, little girl, why don’t we just watch and see?” For Zhuo La Weiyang, explanations could always be found, but at this moment, he didn’t care to give one. Some things were simply too troublesome to explain, so it was easier to brush them aside. Seeing that he wouldn’t elaborate, Qiu Wan’er had no intention of pressing further. Her gaze now turned stubborn as she looked at the old man. As a disciple, she had never doubted her master’s martial prowess and silently hoped he would win. Yet Shen Wansan was no easy opponent—his reputation was not undeserved. Judging by their exchange so far, with palms meeting fists and each showing their strengths, neither seemed to have the upper hand. To speak of victory or defeat now seemed premature. “Fine, let’s watch. I don’t believe the outcome will be settled in just ten moves. You seem so confident, old man—just don’t get embarrassed if you’re proven wrong, all right?”

The provocation in her tone was unmistakable. Had it been anyone else, they might have been angered on the spot, but Zhuo La Weiyang was no ordinary man. Age had tempered his competitiveness; whatever pride remained, he could easily mask with self-control. So he offered no reply, his gaze fixed on the platform above. With such a response, Qiu Wan’er saw no point in arguing further. All she wished for now was for ten moves to pass quickly, so her words might be vindicated. Ideally, the match would be decided on the eleventh move—thus fulfilling her own little scheme.

On the raised platform, spiritual energy surged, fierce and unrestrained. Neither man seemed willing to drag things out. Upon closer inspection, Shen Wansan’s fist carried a force that surpassed Dao Tianfeng’s palms—a fact that became increasingly clear as the bout progressed, perhaps a result of Shen’s earlier provocation. His attacks pressed forward relentlessly. Qiu Wan’er’s anxiety mounted. Anyone versed in martial arts could see that Shen Wansan held the absolute advantage, attacking every round, while Dao Tianfeng was forced onto the defensive, parrying and retreating as Shen dictated the flow. Witnessing this, Qiu Wan’er couldn’t help but mutter to herself: If this continues, not only will Master fail to defeat Shen Wansan within ten moves, but he might even lose outright. In that case, my trivial bet would be won, but at what cost to my master? Could the old man have gotten it backwards after all?

With this doubt gnawing at her, Qiu Wan’er looked again to Zhuo La Weiyang. He remained calm, his eyes on the stage with a trace of amusement, as if utterly confident in his own prediction. This made Qiu Wan’er begin to question her own judgment. Her gaze returned to the platform, and she began to count softly—one, two, three, four—using each move as a way to gauge the truth of her thoughts. Ten moves pass in but a fleeting instant, and whether from nerves or excitement, she soon found herself at nine. Her eyes widened, a strange glint flickering in her pupils.

Shen Wansan’s long fist shot forward with astonishing speed, the faint sound of air being split audible to the sharp-eared. For a man to hone such a simple technique to this level, talent must surely match effort; otherwise, in the vast martial world, why had only four true heroes arisen in so many years? In terms of spiritual power alone, none could surpass Shen Wansan. Yet however simple the move, it must not be underestimated—a dried tree root, if charged with sufficient spiritual force, could pierce stone and sand; how much more so a fist the size of a sandbag? If this punch landed, it could punch a gaping hole straight through a man’s body.

Dao Tianfeng retreated rapidly, clearly unwilling to receive the blow head-on. After decades of acquaintance, he knew well the power behind Shen’s fist. His intent was to evade rather than meet force with force—a sound strategy in any contest, exploiting weaknesses rather than strengths. Anyone else in his place would likely choose the same. But a long, straight punch, despite its power, brings a fatal flaw: if it misses, the user is left overextended, wide open to counterattack—a potentially decisive error at this level of combat. Realizing this, Qiu Wan’er suddenly understood Zhuo La Weiyang’s confidence in the ten-move prediction. It was possible after all, but the crux lay in whether Dao Tianfeng could evade the punch.

Shen Wansan, for his part, knew precisely what risks he was taking—he would never use such a move without confidence in its success. The size of the platform precluded endless retreat; to step out of bounds was little different from outright defeat. Moreover, one surging forward and the other falling back—no matter how swift the retreat, it could never match the speed of an advancing foe. The half-meter gap between them shrank to less than a foot, the best evidence of this. At such a pace, the result was all but certain. In this instant, the entire crowd held its breath, every pair of eyes fixed on the stage, and silence blanketed the square.

Suddenly, Dao Tianfeng sharply contracted his abdomen. Instead of continuing his backward flight, his body curved like a drawn bow, a move that puzzled onlookers. Perhaps he hoped to increase the distance between himself and the attacking fist by pulling his midsection back, but this posture only slowed his retreat due to the shift in balance to his legs. In this brief exchange, the fist seemed about to strike him at any moment. Why would he choose such a seemingly foolish maneuver? Was it a desperate mistake? Many in the audience shared this thought. They had hoped to see how a top-tier master would escape such peril, but now it seemed he was no better than they. Disappointment welled up, especially among Master Qilian’s three disciples—Han Xia, Qiu Wan, and the others—who tensed, ready to intervene if anything went awry. Qiu Wan’er, in particular, was so frightened by the impending outcome that she could scarcely bear to watch.

“What a masterful move—feigning defeat to lure in the opponent. Little girl, your master truly has a mind as deep as a well!” Whether this was praise or criticism, Qiu Wan’er could not say. Her eyes remained tightly shut until Zhuo La Weiyang’s voice sounded in her ear. Only then did she cautiously open them, only to find the scene atop the platform utterly baffling. Dao Tianfeng, whom she thought doomed to defeat, now stood at the very edge of the stage. Though blood stained the corner of his mouth and he was breathing heavily, he was still upright. Shen Wansan, however, lay sprawled across the platform. Already pale with age, he now appeared utterly bloodless, clearly suffering from severe internal injuries. Even worse, his right arm, which had delivered the fatal blow, hung limply off the edge, the elbow grotesquely swollen—obviously broken.

All this had happened in a single, breathless instant. Even those who had witnessed the entire sequence of events could barely comprehend it, let alone Qiu Wan’er, who had closed her eyes in fear. For a moment, it felt as though she had witnessed a conjurer’s trick rather than a martial contest.

“Master, are you all right?” Han Tanyi and Xia Wuyai rushed to Dao Tianfeng’s side, one to his left, one to his right, supporting their master’s tottering form. Victory and defeat needed no further words; everyone could see the outcome, though it had not come easily. Dao Tianfeng had won, but at a steep price. He could barely remain upright, and without the support of his disciples, he would surely have collapsed. He shook his head gently, and even the words “I’m fine” that escaped his lips were so faint as to be almost inaudible to those holding him.