The chases and killings, the traps and the madness — none of it touched the Drill Ground.
Here, the trial simply continued.
The three fifth-year finalists were Zhang Yuan, Lin Zhengren, and Fu Baosong of Riverview City. A tall, gaunt man with a clean-cut face, Fu Baosong had clawed past a Maple City fifth-year to take the last slot.
Riverview had both of its fifth-years in the finals. The shape of things was clear.
Fifth-year bouts mattered most — only the fifth-year champion earned a direct place in the State Dao Academy. Other trials carried similar prizes; the North Wind Trials gave out two, five cities fighting for them, odds better than the Three-City Trial's.
Those slots were a currency of power, and they flowed to whatever academies bred the strongest cultivators. One strong graduate lifted his home academy. More State Academy places, faster growth — a virtuous circle.
Three Mountain City knew the other circle. Elite gaps, lost trials, shrinking resources, harder training — a spiral down.
Understand Zhuang's academy system, and you understood why Three Mountain cultivators fought like they did.
The first fifth-year bout was an all-Riverview affair. Lin Zhengren versus Fu Baosong.
Nobody expected a contest. The real show was whether Zhang Yuan could beat both Riverview men back-to-back. Lately, that looked unlikely.
Lin Zhengren thought so too. He walked up to Fu Baosong and said, offhand: "Forfeit. I'll hurt Zhang Yuan a little, you beat him after, take second."
He had the placings arranged in advance.
"Hey!" Zhang Yuan waved a handkerchief at his nose, face twisted in distaste. "I'm right here, you know."
Lin Zhengren glanced at him. "Drop out now, save yourself the beating."
Since revealing sixth-rank power, he had loosened up. Surface courtesies no longer cost him anything.
Then —
"No."
He heard the voice. Lin Zhengren's head snapped around.
The tall, silent man who had said nothing all day finally spoke. His first words of the trial.
"No? No what?" Lin Zhengren could not believe it.
From the sideline, Lin Zhengli was already cursing: "Fu Baosong, are you out of your mind? Do you know who you are?"
Fu Baosong did not hear him. He looked at Lin Zhengren, and his gaze was calm. Equal. The same look he gave everyone.
"I will fight at full strength, whoever stands across from me. That is what a trial is for."
Lin Zhengren laughed, then — the cold laugh of real anger. "Fine. Try."
The crowd stirred. Two Riverview men at each other's throats — did that mean Zhang Yuan had a chance after all? If Fu Baosong could wound Lin Zhengren before he fell...
"Good man, Fu Baosong!"
"Stand up to him! Pin his ears back!"
"Who says you have to forfeit? He doesn't have two heads! Take him down, take the crown!"
Voices rose from the stands, loving Fu Baosong with the passion of a crowd that loved anyone who fought.
Jiang Chen thought the last voice sounded familiar. He followed it and found Huang Azhan weaving through the crowd, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
Jiang Chen turned away, face blank.
He still could not figure out what "skill" the man Du Hu had dragged into their circle possessed. Flattery, wine, women — and now crowd manipulation.
And yet, strange as it was, the man was impossible to hate.
...
On the field, Lin Zhengren opened in earnest anger. Emerald Python Crush.
A jade-green serpent tore up through the ground, coiling into a knot.
Bang!
The python hit a wall of vines.
Interwoven serpent-vines rolled into a sphere, guarding Fu Baosong at its heart. Vine Serpent Wall — the very art Lin Zhengren had used earlier.
But a mid-grade Yi-rank wall could not hold a low-grade Jia-rank crush.
In three breaths, the vine wall shattered.
The green python flexed, ready to squeeze — and suddenly went limp.
A withered, ashen hand pressed against its flank. Rotten grey fought jade-green across the serpent's vast body.
Rotting Wood Art. A high-grade Yi-rank art.
Not quite Dean Dong's power — it could not dissolve the python whole. But it sapped the serpent, and in that gap Fu Baosong leaped clear.
Lin Zhengren would not give him a breath. A hand swept forward, and the Water Dragon Wave he had prepared roared out.
Behind the dragon's translucent body, his handsome face had gone dark.
Some arts demanded talent. Some demanded affinity. Rank alone did not unlock them. Rotting Wood Art was only high-grade Yi-rank — but it was the exclusive secret of Riverview's academy head. Even Lin Zhengren had never been taught it. The reason given: insufficient affinity.
And this penniless weed, this stinking stone in a latrine, was "affinity" enough?
Lin Zhengren had swallowed enough noble excuses. Insufficient affinity. The meaning of a trial. He was done with them all.
The Water Dragon Wave came down like a patient hunter. Fu Baosong raised a wave under his feet to slip aside — born in Riverview, he knew Three-Fold Rising Tide well.
Lin Zhengren pressed one hand down. Surging water met surging water, tangled the wave under Fu Baosong's feet, and the dodge became a dream.
One simple art. Raging Waves. The right timing, the right place — and an art with three shifts of movement was undone.
The Water Dragon Wave struck Fu Baosong square, hurled him high, and dropped him hard.
Lin Zhengren rode his waves in and set a foot on Fu Baosong's head.
He looked down, deliberately, contemptuously: "You? Beat me?"
Fu Baosong turned his head under the foot. No anger in his eyes. Something stubborn past understanding: "I can't beat you. But I will not lose without fighting."
Stinking. And hard.
It made men frown. It made men respect.