Chen Ping'an shifted his feet, the tips of his toes twisting imperceptibly against the ground as he adjusted to the strange lightness of his legs.
He noted that Ma Kuxuan had gathered five pebbles—four in his left hand, one in his right.
Ma Kuxuan's expression remained composed as he looked toward the outsider girl whose scabbard and sheath were both empty. He smiled and said, "It's settled then. Now it's just me and Chen Ping'an, one-on-one. According to the stories my grandmother used to tell me, in the tales of old, when two generals meet on the battlefield for single combat, whoever calls for backup isn't a true hero. If you can slay your enemy on the field, the army's morale soars, and the battle is won..."
Ning Yao felt her irritation rise at the sight of Ma Kuxuan. She had never met someone who so desperately needed a beating. Song Jixin from Mud Vase Lane was also deep and calculating, always putting on airs like a little pedant—but at least he looked the part of a scholar's seed. This scrawny, short youth from Apricot Blossom Lane had skin no fairer than Chen Ping'an's, and his eyes were unnervingly large. The whole package was deeply unsettling, especially when paired with these awkward, pretentious words—an old crone caking half a pound of powder on that weathered bark of a face, affecting coquettishness. It was a sight truly beyond salvation.
Chen Ping'an did not bother trading barbs with his peer from Apricot Blossom Lane. He bent slightly at the waist, then erupted forward with explosive force, sprinting straight ahead like a galloping horse.
Incredible speed!
Watching Chen Ping'an's retreating back—how in the span of a blink he had closed more than two zhang of distance—even the well-traveled Ning Yao could not help but marvel. It wasn't that Chen Ping'an could outrun foxes and hares compared to every youth under heaven; that in itself was nothing extraordinary. What impressed her was that within this prison of a world, Chen Ping'an had managed to hammer his body to this level through nothing more than over a decade of relentless, grinding effort. That was what truly earned Ning Yao's respect.
She wondered: could the ability to endure suffering itself be a kind of talent?
The distance between the two youths was halved in an instant.
Chen Ping'an could now clearly see the rapid shifts in Ma Kuxuan's expression—first a flicker of surprise, then alarm, then a quick return to composure. Without hesitation, Ma Kuxuan raised his arm in a swift, powerful motion, and the slender limb erupted with startling explosive force.
Chen Ping'an, who had been watching Ma Kuxuan's right hand like a hawk, abandoned his straight charge and veered sharply to the right.
Ma Kuxuan's arm paused almost imperceptibly, then his wrist flicked—his target shifted to intercept Chen Ping'an's new trajectory.
The pebble shot forth with vicious velocity. Though not as terrifying as the mountain-moving ape of Zhengyang Mountain, it was far from negligible. Chen Ping'an, who might have been expected to panic, did not slow. Instead, he twisted at the waist, tilting his upper body sideways, and the stone hissed past his face so close that the breeze ruffled the strands of hair across his forehead.
Ma Kuxuan flicked his left hand lightly, dropping another pebble into his right palm.
The short youth from Apricot Blossom Lane did not seem to believe his second throw would settle the matter. He did not remain standing still—instead he began circling to his right while flinging a second stone.
The straw-sandaled boy ducked without warning, bending so low his hands nearly touched the ground. The pebble skimmed over his back, tearing through his thin shirt. Fortunately it was only a scrape—the wound looked ugly, skin split and bloody, but was not deep.
The gap between them shrank by half once more.
Though Ma Kuxuan recognized he should be creating distance, Chen Ping'an's headlong charge was simply too blindingly fast, making Ma Kuxuan's urgent retreat look like an old ox dragging a broken cart. As Chen Ping'an's dark, sweat-slicked face drew closer and closer, the determined brightness in the straw-sandaled boy's eyes became almost blinding. In contrast, a trace of hesitation flickered across Ma Kuxuan's face—should he abandon the pebbles and flee, or go all-in and decide it with the third stone?
Ma Kuxuan hesitated. The contrast with Chen Ping'an's unyielding forward momentum could not have been starker.
Where was the meek good-for-nothing of Mud Vase Lane now?
At this life-or-death juncture, Ma Kuxuan stepped back and swung his arm once more.
Clearly, he believed in the pebbles in his hand.
This solitary boy had never been in a fight in his life, nor even so much as argued with anyone. Growing up, he had always preferred to be alone, more like a stray kitten than even Chen Ping'an or Gu Can. He liked to grab handfuls of pebbles whenever he could, tossing them idly as he walked—always with a light touch, a seemingly careless pastime that nobody took seriously. But when Ma Kuxuan was alone beneath the gallery bridge, on the riverbank where no one could see, he would skip stones across the water by himself. The thinner ones would skip a dozen times across the surface before slamming into the inner wall of the stone arch bridge opposite, shattering with a sharp crack. His arm strength and wrist precision were self-evident.
Ma Kuxuan would also squat on the back of Qingniu Bei and hurl stones at fish in the water. Whether he hit or missed, the pebbles he tossed in barely made a splash.
So in the ancestral home of Apricot Blossom Lane—in the courtyard or on the rooftop—one would frequently find the crumpled bodies of birds, their flesh and blood mangled beyond recognition.
They were now only a dozen steps apart. The first two times Chen Ping'an had dodged his pebbles, the boy's movements had been nimble and light, betraying no hint of the powerful frame beneath. The straw-sandaled boy had drifted like a leaf on the wind. But just before the two collided, Chen Ping'an finally revealed his "heavy" side—three tremendous strides, fast and ferocious, loaded with coiled tension. His feet struck the earth like iron hammers on sword-blanks, and when he lifted them, it was as though he were tearing mountains from their roots.
Three steps. They were practically face to face.
Ma Kuxuan still had not thrown his stone. By all logic, the fight was over.
Yet Chen Ping'an felt a sudden tremor in his heart. Still, he did not retreat—the situation was too urgent for caution. Better to leap forward and gamble on a desperate strike.
Ma Kuxuan's lips twisted upward in a smile that held a dark, playful edge. His left hand opened and released the remaining pebbles. His right hand, already clenched into a fist, launched forward in a punch.
He had laid a trap for Chen Ping'an from the very beginning. The feigned indecision, the deliberate opportunity to close the distance—even the choice of pebbles as a weapon—was all part of this Apricot Blossom Lane boy's meticulous scheme. The entire purpose was to feign weakness, drawing the loach-like youth who had slipped past the old ape right to his side, delivering himself into Ma Kuxuan's reach!
One arm's length was one fist's length.
Chen Ping'an was an unobtrusively left-handed fighter. His left fist met Ma Kuxuan's right head-on.
The instant their fists collided, both youths simultaneously lashed out with a kick.
Chen Ping'an and Ma Kuxuan were blasted apart, slamming hard into the muddy ground.
They were now twenty paces apart. Ma Kuxuan pushed himself up, kneeling on one knee and gasping for breath. He raised his arm and opened his fist—the pebble inside had never been thrown, and his palm, while not quite mangled beyond recognition, was now a shocking shade of crimson.
Ma Kuxuan grinned, rubbed his stomach, and shouted at Chen Ping'an with blazing eyes: "Chen Ping'an! Dare you go another round?!"
Chen Ping'an's left hand was in far worse shape. During the ambush on Cai Jinjian of Cloud Mist Mountain in the alley, his palm had been cut deep by broken porcelain. Though he had been applying the secret herbal remedy from the Yang family shop ever since, sinew and bone took a hundred days to mend. The boy's body was tough, but he was no immortal capable of resurrecting the dead and regrowing flesh. This exchange of punches and kicks with Ma Kuxuan had cost him dearly.
The cloth wrapping around his left hand was trembling involuntably, blood seeping through the cotton in slow drops that fell onto the wild grass at his feet.
Chen Ping'an deliberately drew a deep breath, feeling the sharp pain in his abdomen. He needed to gauge exactly how much this level of injury would affect what came next.
This was habit.
Chen Ping'an had been born into poverty. Because he possessed so little, he counted every fraction with extreme care. By contrast, wealthy scions like Song Jixin or Lu Zhengchun never worried about the coins in their pockets—such people could afford to overlook small details. Chen Ping'an could not. So his impression on others was always tangled with words like cautious, restrained, and forbearing. The vigorous energy that should have come naturally to youth was largely absent in him. As for Ma Kuxuan, who had appeared from nowhere to challenge both Chen Ping'an and Ning Yao to a fight to the death, he was simply an incomprehensible freak. Ning Yao could at least be described as sharp-edged; Ma Kuxuan defied all understanding.
Chen Ping'an did not turn his head. With his back to Ning Yao, he gave a slight wave of his hand, signaling he was fine.
Ma Kuxuan rose slowly, pausing to grab a fistful of wild grass and casually wipe the blood from his palm.
Chen Ping'an stood as well.
Ma Kuxuan struck first. The ground where he had been standing cratered under the force of his launch.
The scrawny youth moved with terrifying speed. He leapt high, driving a knee toward Chen Ping'an's face.
Chen Ping'an hammered Ma Kuxuan's knee strike downward with a punch—but the airborne Ma Kuxuan, body already leaning forward, delivered a lightning-fast blow that smashed into Chen Ping'an's forehead. Ma Kuxuan's curled legs unfurled in an instant, and his feet drove hard into Chen Ping'an's chest as the boy tilted backward.
The blow landed like a sledgehammer to the skull combined with a battering ram to the chest. Chen Ping'an toppled straight back.
Ma Kuxuan's body rolled once in the air. He landed and charged forward with a savage grin, quickly closing the distance to Chen Ping'an, who had only half-knelt upright. Ma Kuxuan launched a kick.
Chen Ping'an crossed both arms before him, left arm outside, right arm inside, guarding his face and chest with desperate resolve.
The kick sent him tumbling backward, but his center of gravity was low and his vitals were protected, so no spectacular spray of blood erupted. He simply rolled across the ground.
Ma Kuxuan pressed his advantage relentlessly, continuing his charge.
When Chen Ping'an finally stopped his backward roll, his body had naturally settled into a half-kneeling posture—a runner about to launch.
Ma Kuxuan's expression froze.
In the next instant, Chen Ping'an exploded forward like an arrow loosed from a fully drawn bow, arriving before Ma Kuxuan in the blink of an eye. His speed had undergone a complete transformation—he was a different person.
Feigning weakness to the enemy.
Chen Ping'an could play that game too.
Ma Kuxuan had no time to throw a punch before Chen Ping'an drove his shoulder into his chest. Ma Kuxuan staggered backward, a spasm of agony rippling through his abdomen. Instinctively he doubled over—and Chen Ping'an's arm swept across in a devastating blow to his left temple. With ferocious force, the Apricot Blossom Lane youth, who moments before had held every advantage, was sent spinning sideways through the air in a bizarre arc.
Chen Ping'an seized Ma Kuxuan by both ankles, whirled him once around with a furious shout, and hurled the diminutive youth—barely over ninety jin—violently toward the distance.
He was heading straight for a shattered stone deity statue, seated and roughly a zhang and a half tall. Barring any miracles, Ma Kuxuan was about to meet a truly wretched end.
But Ma Kuxuan, refusing to rely on any external aid, created his own "miracle."
His feet struck the statue's head in succession—bending and snapping straight in an instant, he used the tremendous recoil force to launch himself back toward his opponent, an echo of Chen Ping'an's own earlier ambush.
But then Ma Kuxuan's eyes went wide with horror.
Chen Ping'an stood waiting in place, one arm raised high. At some unknowable moment, a short blade had materialized in his grip, its point aimed directly at the hurtling Ma Kuxuan.
The phrase "seeking one's own death" was surely invented for exactly this kind of situation.
Even if Chen Ping'an's hand was shaking violently, it was more than enough to pierce Ma Kuxuan's body. The only question was whether the blade would enter through the arm, the head, or the chest.
Even in this desperate corner, Ma Kuxuan showed no sign of surrender. Despite his terror, he twisted his body with all his might—even a fraction of a degree could shift a vital organ away from that blade tip.
Just then, a tall, slender figure appeared between the two youths.
It was a middle-aged man, bearing a longsword on his back, a tiger-tally hanging at his waist.
Without any visible movement, Ma Kuxuan was flipped right-side-up—not only landing on his feet but standing straight beside the man as though nothing had happened.
The swordsman turned to look at the knife-wielding boy, who had stepped back a pace. Approval and admiration shone openly in his gaze as he spoke softly: "This exchange between the two of you—well fought, both of you."
Blood seeped from the corner of Chen Ping'an's mouth. He took another step back.
The man smiled and let it pass. He proposed: "I intervened to save Ma Kuxuan's life, so I owe you a favor. In return, after I leave, I will persuade the mountain-moving ape of Zhengyang Mountain to abandon his pursuit of you both. How does that sound?"
Ning Yao came to Chen Ping'an's side.
The soldier-cultivator of Zhenwu Mountain regarded the girl with a long, deep look, then said to Chen Ping'an: "You have no standing to negotiate. Nod if you agree; remain silent if you do not. If you feel this is unfair, if you cannot accept it—and if you somehow survive the old ape's hunt—then after you leave this town, you may come to Zhenwu Mountain and find me to demand whatever justice you believe is owed."
Chen Ping'an put away the dress-cutting knife Ning Yao had lent him, tucking it into his right sleeve. He nodded at the man from Zhenwu Mountain: "If there's a chance, I will."
Ma Kuxuan was about to speak when the man said coldly: "A dead man has even less right to speak harsh words to the living."
Ma Kuxuan pressed his lips together hard and, true to form, lowered his head in silence.
The pair—a master and his young disciple from Zhenwu Mountain—gradually receded into the distance.
Chen Ping'an collapsed to the ground.
Ning Yao quickly crouched beside him, her face tight with worry: "How is it? Where does it hurt worst? Do you need Doctor Lu's prescription too?"
The bruised and battered boy wore a bitter expression: "It's all right. I can still tell where it hurts, which means the injuries aren't that serious. Oh—if the old ape shows up right now..."
"Then let him come!"
The girl sat down on the ground beside him, her eyes bright and fearless: "Just now you were here. In a moment, I'll be here. What is there to fear?"
The second half of Chen Ping'an's unfinished sentence was silently swallowed.
Ning Yao suddenly broke into a radiant smile. She held up both hands and gave the straw-sandaled boy two enthusiastic thumbs up: "Handsome!"
For the first time in his life, the boy from the wretched lane who had never once thought himself remarkable fought to suppress the smile tugging at his lips, trying his best to appear casual and composed.
But everyone could see his delight.
The spring-breeze youth was very proud indeed.