Between martial practitioners, close-quarter combat most surely put one's tenacious basic reactions to the test and most truly proved one's skill in striking arts.
The Sanshan cultivator had from childhood leapt the mountain ranges as if they were level ground, and slain lions and tigers—naturally he was no mean hand. Though close-quarter combat had been his desperate gamble, he yet entertained a measure of confidence.
But the Four Spirit Body-Tempering Art that Jiang Wang cultivated was a method handed down exclusively by the War School, completed and perfected upon the Dao-Platform of the Great Void Illusion. At its present stage it was a body-tempering art of the very first rank.
Though Jiang Wang's flesh and sinew could not be called stronger than steel, the difference was not great. Vast, surging blood-qi lay dormant within every strand of muscle, seldom showing its full scale on ordinary days—but on an occasion such as this it erupted with a ferocity never seen before!
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Fist for foot, knee against elbow.
The two men battered fist against fist, giving forth a sound like the rolling of war drums.
This unalloyed ferocity of bare fists and feet was also something Jiang Wang had never known before. In such a battle he felt the Four Spirit Body-Tempering Art gradually fusing into his body. Though he had worked at arduous cultivation unceasingly before, he had been born of a Dao Academy after all, and had never truly understood what body tempering meant.
In such direct collisions he felt his blood-qi grow more full, felt his flesh grow more formidable, felt his Dao essence grow more lively, and felt too... his opponent's strength gradually flag.
Boom!
At the last clash of forehead against forehead, the cultivator who had come from Sanshan City reeled backward in defeat.
It was not that he had no wish to go on, but that he truly could no longer squeeze out a single shred of strength.
How hard he had tried, how desperately he had fought—only Jiang Wang, who had faced him, could truly know.
Time and again Jiang Wang thought the battle settled, only to be met at once by the opponent's fist once more.
He felt keenly the iron will of this cultivator of Sanshan City.
That man had exhausted every ounce of himself to win.
They did not wish to be called savages!
Yet sadly, the harder they struggled, the more people said—look, that is how savages are, they do not treasure their own lives.
...
The referee raised his banner. The victory and defeat were decided.
The watching crowd fell still for a moment, and then the cheers burst forth at once.
This was, after all, Fenglin City—Jiang Wang's home ground. And that was not to mention the several great fellows Zhao Rucheng had hired to shriek their throats hoarse, venting themselves for the sake of handsome bounty. They seemed, if anything, even fonder of Jiang Wang than Jiang An'an was of her own brother.
Amid the boiling cheers, Jiang Wang reached out and caught his opponent, not letting him fall to the ground.
"May I ask your honored name?" Jiang Wang looked upon this worthy foe, and offered him his respect.
In truth, before the match had begun, the referee had read out the names of both combatants, and yet Jiang Wang had not troubled to remember.
Like so many vulgar men, though he had never shown it, having heard it recited since childhood he had indeed looked down upon these so-called "mountain savages."
The cultivator of Sanshan City stood swaying on his feet, the near whole weight of his body braced upon Jiang Wang's hand. His eyes were swollen high, squeezed shut into a mere slit.
"Yang Xingyong!" He said happily, "My name is Yang Xingyong!"
...
Beyond the field, Jiang An'an was clapping for her brother when she suddenly heard her good friend's voice: "An'an!"
Little Qingzhi bounded up amid the crowd in the distance, squeezing enthusiastically toward Jiang An'an.
At her side followed an old man, withered and lean of frame, with a severely hunched back. Yet through such a densely packed crowd, the pair walked all the way without the least obstruction, seemingly without disturbing those about them either.
Everyone was curious about Jiang An'an's friend—especially curious about that little girl who had once wanted to beat up Jiang Wang.
Huang Azhan's viewpoint had ever been out of the ordinary, and his eye fell first upon the hunched-back old man.
The old man's face... was most unsettling. Though his expression was solemn, it nevertheless gave one a natural sense of the lecherous.
Huang Azhan nudged Zhao Rucheng with his elbow. "Oi, look, that old fellow."
"What about him?" Zhao Rucheng asked.
Huang Azhan lowered his voice: "Don't you think his head... looks ever so much like... like..."
"Like what?"
Huang Azhan said nothing, only casting a glance downward toward the man's crotch.
Zhao Rucheng grew wary first: "What are you looking at!"
Then, catching on, he too peered off in that direction, stroked his chin, and said: "Oi! It does look a bit like it..."
The two chattered quietly, but against all expectation the hunched-back old man suddenly raised his head and glared at them in fury. He had plainly heard every word.
"Enough, enough, watch the match." Huang Azhan turned his head away guilt-ridden, doing all he could to seem unconcerned and fix his gaze upon the field.
"Ahem." Zhao Rucheng coughed twice, reached out, and took Jiang An'an from Ling He's shoulder, setting her upon his own. "An'an, your brother Ling He is tired. Sit on my shoulder a while."
He thought to himself—surely a man of such an age could not go beating an adult who held a child in his arms?
Jiang An'an was by now quite familiar with Zhao Rucheng, and so did not much mind whose shoulder she sat upon. Most happily she began to chat with Qingzhi.
"My brother just won, you know! He's amazing!"
...
In the end Yang Xingyong was carried down by others.
The other two battles had long since concluded. Another of the Sanshan cultivators had floored his Wangjiang City opponent with overwhelming superiority, while Lin Zhengli of Wangjiang City effortlessly conquered the other first-year student of Fenglin City.
But the eyes of the crowd had plainly been drawn to the battle of Jiang Wang and Yang Xingyong, for theirs was the fierce contest of fist meeting flesh.
"Why, just a pair of weaklings pecking at each other. Fenglin City, really—even its common folk are so lacking in discernment." Lin Zhengli sneered at the other victor, seeking perhaps some agreement.
But that victor from Sanshan City evidently did not buy it.
He said coldly: "I ask you to respect your opponent."
In his eyes, Lin Zhengli was not merely disrespecting Jiang Wang, but disrespecting Yang Xingyong, a cultivator of his own Sanshan City as well.
Lin Zhengli had offered warmth only to meet with cold shoulder, and his heart angered the more: "Hah, you savage."
The Sanshan cultivator's eyes all but spat fire at once, but he said no more.
The first round done, the three cities each had a single victor remaining—a dead-even showing. Next came the rotational battles, with the order decided by drawing lots, and in this round luck mattered greatly.
The referee from the Commandery Academy was responsible for the draw, which to the greatest degree embodied fairness.
He drew one slip from the lot tube, looked it over, and read out: "Jiang Wang!"
Below the field, both Ling He and Zhao Rucheng breathed a sigh of relief. This meant that the first match would be fought between Lin Zhengli and the Sanshan cultivator, and only afterward would Jiang Wang face the two of them in turn. It was without question the most fortunate of lots.
Jiang Wang retreated to the edge of the field, giving over the center to the two who were about to fight.
In the instant they passed each other, Lin Zhengli gave a light laugh: "How lucky you are, to sit out a match."
Which is to say that when the second rotational battle opened, he would beat Jiang Wang so badly that he could fight no more—the tone laden with contempt.
Jiang Wang smiled. "I hope your luck will be a little better too, that you may still meet me later."
By which he meant that Lin Zhengli might well not even reach the second match, being crippled in the first.
When it came to trading barbs, he was, after all, steeped in years of Zhao Rucheng's influence, and was not wholly without the wherewithal to strike back.
Only, he could not quite understand whence Lin Zhengli's hostility toward him arose. Was it simply because Zhao Rucheng's banners had been a touch too ostentatious?
The man did not seem of a blunt and outspoken disposition, either. A cultivator schooled in a proper Dao Academy, and an elite disciple sent forth to represent the Wangjiang City Dao Academy besides—could he truly be so lacking in self-possession?
Jiang Wang was in fact keenly interested in the answer behind it all.
As for the battle itself, he held not the least fear.
Compared with the frivolity and rankling fury Lin Zhengli displayed, the Sanshan cultivator remained silent throughout, only fixing his gaze upon his opponent.
Toward this battle, the attitude he displayed was unquestionably the more upright.
And it showed too that he had the stronger craving for the outcome.