Free Web NovelChapter 52: Trial of Combat (2)
The lingers of the air and murmurs of the disciples rattled across the training hall vehemently.
"The fifth battle..." Teng Lianhua’s voice is calm and booming across the hall. The Combat Master stood still, his posture as sturdy as a pine tree. His gaze swept across the remaining disciples, lingering for a fraction of a second on the disciples — who completed their battle, before finally locking onto two figures. "Teng Haoran versus Gu Fang Xin."
Thud! Thud!
The sound of their footsteps clicking against the black stone floor. Both of them didn’t speak. The petty arrogance that usually made the air heavy before a duel was absent here. There were no sneers, no muttered taunts, and no grand gestures.
They simply stood silently. Their centers of gravity plummeted seamlessly, knees bending, hands rising to defend. Unlike the chaos of Chen Ming’s earlier match, the atmosphere surrounding these two was serene.
Teng Lianhua raised his hand, pointing toward the disciples. "Begin!"
Boom!
The air rattled suddenly. Gu Fang Xin lunged forward, his legs leaped around the edge of the platform. He stayed low to the ground, moving like a crawling python as he launched a lethal, straight punch aimed at Teng Haoran’s lower ribs. It was a strike meant to shatter bone and end the match in a single punch.
Teng Haoran’s expression didn’t even flicker. With a casual grace, he slowly pivoted his body left, dodging the punch effortlessly. The wind from the fist whistled past the robes, touching nothing but air.
Bang!
Before Gu Fang Xin could chamber his extended arm, Teng Haoran’s elbow thrusted forward, catching Gu Fang Xin squarely on his shoulder hard. The impact was dull and heavy. Gu Fang Xin staggered backward three paces, his boots scraping wildly against the floor to regain his balance.
The spectating disciples leaned forward, a collective murmur rising from the crowd. Every tilt of Teng Haoran’s head, every pivot of his body, looked utterly stripped of vanity. There was no waste of momentum. He moved only as much as was necessary to avoid defeat, and countered Gu Fang XIn’s attacks meticulously.
Elder Mo Qinghe, watching from the doors of the training hall, stroked his chin and nodded in quiet approval. "An exceptional foundation. He understands the motion."
Beside him, Teng Lianhua folded his massive arms over his chest, a flicker of pride burning in his eyes. Because Teng Haoran is also from the Teng Clan — same as him. "He doesn’t waste energy for a showcase."
The battle became a blur of motion as the exchanges increased.
Punch. Kick. Palm strike. Shoulder bash.
Gu Fang Xin was an aggressive disciple, pushing his physical limits to the brink, but with every passing second, a suffocating realization began to settle into his chest that he couldn’t touch him.
Every time Gu Fang Xin’s knuckles grazed what he thought was an opening, Teng Haoran was already vanished, lingering just an inch outside his reach. And every time Gu Fang Xin lost his balance when striking, Teng Haoran’s counter-strikes landed with lethal precision.
By the seventeenth exchange, Gu Fang Xin’s chest was heaving, his breath ragged and hot in his throat. His vision blurred at the edges. But, Teng Haoran remained like a sturdy stillness in motion, his breathing calm and perfectly synchronized with his footwork.
Finally, the twentieth exchange arrived. Teng Haoran closed the distance in a flash. He stepped into Gu Fang Xin’s guard, his shoulder dropping and slamming directly into the center of the youth’s chest with an immense force.
Bang!
The air rushed out of Gu Fang Xin’s lungs in a heavy gasp. He stumbled backward, his vision obscuring, before his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the platform, holding his chest.
"The winner..." Teng Lianhua announced, his voice cutting through the hall. "...Teng Haoran."
The victor did not raise his fists in triumph. He simply closed his stance, brought his left palm over his right fist, and bowed with traditional discipline toward his fallen disciple before stepping down into the spectators’ place.
"The sixth battle..." Teng Lianhua boasted, his calm voice boomed across the hall. "Xiao Yanrui versus Xiao Lanxue."
A profound hush fell over the hall. Even Chen Ming, who had been aiding his bruised knuckles and scowling in the corner, straightened up, his eyes widening with curiosity.
"Brother against sister?" Ying Yue whispered softly from the sidelines, her fingers tightening in excitement.
The twins ascended the steps together, their movements eerie in their synchronisation. They stood ten paces apart, two mirrors reflecting the same lethal intent.
Teng Lianhua looked between them, acknowledging the grim beauty of the battle. "You may begin."
Boom!
Xiao Lanxue moved first. Even stripped of her beast essence, her movements possessed a graceful fluidity. She moved forward, rotating to the blind spot of Yanrui’s left flank, she unleashed a rapid-fire of three palm strikes, each aimed at a different lethal place on his body.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Xiao Yanrui met her head-on, the slaps of their palms colliding sounded like firecrackers. They moved with an identical sync — the same flow of footwork, same sharp breath. It was less like a fight and more like a beautiful battle dance.
"Haha... These two are elegant!" Mo Qinghe murmured, leaning over the wooden railing. "They haven’t just trained together; they share the same fighting soul."
The pace increased, the sound of their fists clashing became a continuous rattle of thunder.
Palm. Kick. Elbow. Back fist.
Neither gave an opening, and neither retreated. Instead, they continually adapted, shifting their bodies to expose the minute flaws they knew existed in each other’s forms.
By the sixteenth exchange, Xiao Lanxue decided to break the guard. She threw a lazy feint with her left hand, leaving her guard loose. As expected, Yanrui moved to counter, but Lanxue’s real strike — a lethal, clenched fist was already rushing toward his exposed ribs. It was a brilliant trap.
Yet, Xiao Yanrui knew his sister better than she knew herself. Instead of retreating, he lunged into the danger zone. His left hand ducked down, his fingers clamping onto her wrist just inches from his ribs. Before she could process the failure of her trap, Yanrui rotated his waist.
Bang!
His shoulder struck her sideribs. The force lifted Xiao Lanxue off her feet, sending her trenching across the floor for several meters.
She slid to a halt near the edge of the ring. She attempted to stand, her jaw clenched in defiance, but her legs trembled under the shock of the impact. Looking up at her brother, who stood waiting with his arms at his side, a faint, proud smile broke through her exhaustion.
"I lost," Xiao Lanxue wheezed, letting out a calm laugh.
Teng Lianhua nodded slowly. "The winner is... Xiao Yanrui."
The twins approached the center of the floor, exchanged a respectful bow, and walked down together. There was no resentment, no lingering hostility; there was only the brother and sister bond between them.
"The seventh battle. Lian Nichang versus Chen Yu Ming." Teng Lianhua immediately called out, flicking his wrist once.
As the both disciples stepped onto the floor, the weight in the hall seemed to lift slightly, replaced by a lingering tension. Chen Yu Ming offered a polite smile. Lian Nichang returned the gesture with a graceful tilt of his head.
"Haha!! I will defeat you!," Chen Yu Ming said softly, bowing slightly.
"Likewise," Lian Nichang replied with a calm bow.
"Begin."
Chen Yu Ming immediately took the start, launching a barrage of straightforward, heavy punches meant to pressure her opponent into a corner. But Lian Nichang was a ghost on the floor.
He stepped sideways, pivoted on his legs, and deflected the incoming strikes with calm flicking motions of his wrists. Every time Lian Nichang counter-attacked, he struck the muscle, deadening Chen Yu Ming’s nerves and destroying her rhythm.
As the exchanges wore on, Chen Yu Ming’s frustration grew. Sensing her opponent’s impatience, she launched a massive straight punch.
Lian Nichang simply leaned into the sideways of the attack, his palm gently brushing against Chen Yu Ming’s elbow, using his opponent’s own forward momentum to ruin her balance. Chen Yu Ming stumbled forward, wide open.
Bang!
A precise, fast palm strike buried itself into Chen Yu Ming’s stomach. The air escaped her lungs in a loud grunt.
Lian Nichang never used overwhelming power; he simply outmaneuvered, out-thought, and out-paced his opponent at every turn. By the twentieth exchange, Chen Yu Ming collapsed onto both knees, gasping for breath, while Lian Nichang stood still.
"The winner is Lian Nichang." Teng Lianhua announced, his voice booming across the hall.
A calm, appreciative applause rippled through the hall. Lian Nichang knelt down, offering a hand to help Chen Yu Ming to her feet, bringing a warm conclusion to the battle.
The atmosphere relaxed, but only for a heartbeat. Seven battles were over, and only one remained.
Teng Lianhua slowly walked toward the center of the floor. Every step he took clicked through the floor of the training hall.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The casual chatter and sound of applause died instantly. The disciples instinctively swallowed their breath. The Combat Master stopped at the center, his towering figure casting a long shadow. He slowly turned his gaze toward the far corner of the room.
"Lin Yuan..." Teng Lianhua’s voice was devoid of malice, and anger. There was only a primal anticipation. "It’s your turn."
Lin Yuan slowly straightened his posture, a faint smile playing on his lips. He adjusted his robes and began his walk toward the platform, his steps calm, steady, and devoid of fear.
The training hall held its breath. On one side stood the academy’s legendary Combat Master, a strong cultivator of the Core Beast Realm. On the other stood a fifteen-year-old disciple who had spent the last few months shattering every expectation and rewriting the rules of what was deemed possible.
Master versus Student. Legend versus Prodigy. Teng Lianhua’s fingers curled into fists, a fierce grin spreading across his rugged face. Lin Yuan came to a halt exactly ten paces away, his posture relaxed, his eyes clear.
Both of them didn’t move or spoke. But, an invisible, crushing pressure began to emanate from the platform, suffocating enough that the disciples watching from below took a step back.
