Chapter 52: Chapter 52: Tournament

CHAPTER 52

Tournament

LUO FAN

Two Months Later

A boisterous commotion at the far end of the market street drew my attention. A dense crowd of men had gathered around a makeshift arena in the open square. Just beyond them, I could make out groups of women standing beneath the shade of nearby trees, shielding themselves from the oppressive sun. Children darted through the chaos, their laughter mingling with the rising chatter, though any who tried to sneak a closer look at the spectacle were promptly shooed away by the adults.

Even with my still-improving vision, I could see the wide arena clearly. At its center, two men were locked in fierce combat.

“A martial arts tournament?” I murmured, intrigued. It was surprising to see such a display in a modest town like this.

Ruan Yanjun stood beside me, his arms folded casually as if he’d seen this a hundred times before. “Do you want to watch?” he asked, his tone indifferent yet carrying an edge of curiosity.

I glanced at him, hesitating. “Do we have time?”

“If it’s about cultivation, we have plenty,” he said with a faint smile, already striding toward the crowd.

I followed close behind, weaving through the throng until we reached a spot where we could see clearly. We were taller than most of the villagers, so it wasn’t difficult to stand just a few feet back and still get a good view of the action.

The two fighters in the arena were an interesting contrast. One was older, bulkier, his movements slower but forceful. The other was younger, wiry, and agile, moving with a precision that spoke of rigorous training. It quickly became apparent that the older fighter was struggling.

The younger man—his name, Bao Bao, was shouted repeatedly by the crowd—pressed the attack with relentless punches, forcing his opponent back step by step. Then, in a decisive move, Bao Bao leaped into the air, delivering a sharp kick to the man’s neck before following up with an energy-infused palm strike to the chest.

The older man crumpled to the ground in a heap, barely conscious.

The crowd erupted into cheers as the referee declared Bao Bao the winner. The young fighter basked in their adulation, standing astride his defeated opponent with a smug grin and his arms raised high.

“Not even a minute,” someone near us muttered, impressed.

“He’s incredible,” another man said to his companion. “Reaching level three at just twenty-one? He has no rivals here. He should leave for a bigger city—sect leaders would be fighting over him!”

“True, but he has his own plans,” the second man replied, nodding sagely. “He’s determined to build a sect here to honor his hometown. Someday, he even plans to challenge the Eternal Damnation Sect Leader, Ruan.”

“That’s bold,” the first man said with a laugh. “But I think he could do it. Give him ten years, maybe less. Sect Leader Ruan better watch out.”

I glanced at Ruan Yanjun, who stood silently beside me. Though his face remained composed, I could hear the faint sound of suppressed laughter in his throat.

“They don’t know who they’re talking about,” I whispered, trying to defend the villagers’ pride.

“I’m not offended, A-Fan,” he replied, his voice laced with amusement. “They’re just so... entertaining.”

Meanwhile, Bao Bao was soaking in the crowd’s adoration, his grin as wide as the horizon. I couldn’t deny his talent—his moves were sharp, and his strength was impressive for his age. But his arrogance was glaring. He lacked the humility to temper his ambition.

“Our young champion wishes to give you more entertainment!” the referee announced, raising his voice to hush the murmuring crowd. “Since the last fight was so quick, Bao Bao is open to challengers! Who dares to test their skills against our hero?”

The square fell silent. No one moved.

Bao Bao leaned toward the referee and whispered something, his expression cocky.

“Our champion,” the referee continued, now grinning broadly, “is willing to fight two opponents at once!”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Still, no one stepped forward.

“I accept the challenge.”

The voice rang out confidently, cutting through the silence like a blade.

I froze. My stomach sank as I recognized the voice instantly. Turning sharply, I saw Ruan Yanjun striding forward, his hands clasped behind his back and his every step exuding an aura of arrogance so palpable it felt suffocating.

“Lord Ruan—!” I hissed, but he didn’t even glance my way.

The entire square went dead silent. All eyes followed him as he crossed the open ground. His imposing frame, standing a head taller than most, cast a long shadow across the arena. Even the ever-cocky Bao Bao faltered, his grin slipping as his eyes widened in disbelief.

Ruan Yanjun stopped in front of Bao Bao, his posture regal, his expression calm. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto the younger man.

Is he really going to fight a level three?

I thought he does not fight with nobodies? Or ants as he’d called them.

But here he was, standing before the stunned Bao Bao and a crowd that didn’t even dare to breathe.

I wasn’t sure what was more shocking—his decision to fight or the absolute certainty in his eyes that this was going to be over in seconds.

What on earth have you gotten yourself into this time, Lord Ruan?

The referee was the first to recover from the shock, scurrying up to Ruan Yanjun with an awkward smile plastered across his face. "Ah... may I know this good man's name, please?"

Ruan Yanjun smirked, his hands still casually clasped behind his back. "My name is not important."

The referee blinked, visibly taken aback. "But, sir, you must introduce yourself before we can allow you to—"

“I don’t fight with nobodies,” Ruan Yanjun interrupted, his tone sharp and cutting.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The insult hit like a slap, and I watched Bao Bao’s face flush a deep, furious red. His shoulders squared, and his jaw tightened as the crowd began murmuring, their excitement turning into simmering tension.

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Panicking, I pushed my way through the crowd and grabbed Ruan Yanjun’s wrist, my heart pounding. “My lord,” I whispered urgently, “please let it go. This isn’t worth it.”

He glanced down at me, his smile softening for a brief moment—but only for me. Then, as if dismissing my plea entirely, he turned back to Bao Bao and gestured toward me.

“Here is your opponent.”

It took me a moment to process his words. When realization struck, my stomach dropped.

He couldn’t mean me. Surely, he didn’t just challenge Bao Bao on my behalf.

The crowd collectively turned to stare at me, their gazes sharp as blades. I felt my knees weaken under the weight of their scrutiny, my pulse thundering in my ears.

Bao Bao broke the silence with a snort of disbelief. “You’re joking, right? A level one?” He sneered, his eyes raking over my frail figure with disdain. “A level two couldn’t last a minute against me, and you’re offering me a level one? What kind of farce is this?”

I had, in truth, surpassed level two not long ago, though my outward appearance rarely inspired confidence in others. My frail frame, a lingering consequence of years of chronic illness, often led cultivators to dismiss me as a mere level one—a weakling barely fit for the rigorous paths of cultivation.

Neither I nor Ruan Yanjun ever went out of our way to correct this misconception. If anything, my taciturn nature and his mischievous streak seemed to encourage it. He had an almost cruel delight in watching their smug faces crumble the moment they realized their error.

Ruan Yanjun chuckled darkly, the sound rich with mockery. “Small-town hero Bao Bao, you think quite highly of yourself. Afraid, are you? Perhaps you worry that this half-blind, level one beauty will make a fool of you.”

The insult landed squarely, and the young man’s expression twisted into one of pure rage. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Beside me, I could barely find the words to argue. “My lord,” I hissed, pulling his sleeve. “What are you doing? I can’t beat him—he’s a level three!”

“You don’t think you can handle a level three?” Ruan Yanjun’s tone was light, teasing, but his gaze was steady and unyielding. “It’s time to test what you’ve learned these past two months.”

Before I could muster another protest, Bao Bao barked, “Fine! I’ll fight him. But don’t blame me if your disciple dies. This isn’t my fault!”

“Do your worst,” Ruan Yanjun replied smoothly. “Kill him if you must... that is, if you can.”

Bao Bao’s fury boiled over, and the crowd buzzed with excitement as he stormed into the arena.

“Lord Ruan, please—” I tried one last time, my voice trembling.

He bent closer, his voice dropping low enough for only me to hear. “Trust yourself, A-Fan. You’ll surprise even him.” Then, with a playful grin, he added, “Oh, and don’t use the Quickie. I’d rather not hear the gossip about your so-called ‘signature move.’”

I could’ve strangled him if I weren’t already petrified. He patted my shoulder and stepped back to the sidelines, leaving me to face Bao Bao alone.

As the referee signaled for us to begin, Bao Bao leaned in with a sneer. “You should surrender while you still have the chance. I won’t be holding back.”

I swallowed hard but refused to yield. My upbringing and pride forbade me from backing down, even though this was no longer a friendly match. It was a trial of survival, one I hadn’t chosen but was now trapped in.

We bowed, and before I could even raise my guard, Bao Bao launched into the air. His foot came down in a sharp arc, aiming straight for my shoulder. I spun to avoid it, but he immediately followed with another kick, his movements fast and unrelenting.

For the next minute, I was on the defensive, barely dodging his blows. His attacks came primarily from his feet—lightning-fast kicks that left little room for counterattacks. My arms and ribs throbbed from the few strikes I failed to block, and my breath came in ragged gasps.

I parried another strike with my stick, but the force of his kick sent me skidding back several feet. Sweat dripped down my face as I steadied myself, glaring at my opponent.

Bao Bao smirked, his confidence unwavering. “Just as I thought. You’re all talk. One more hit, and you’re done.”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to let him see the doubt gnawing at me. My energy reserves were nearly depleted, and my body screamed in protest with every movement. One more mistake, and I’d be down for good.

Ruan Yanjun’s voice carried from the sidelines, cool and taunting. “A-Fan, don’t toy with him too much. End it already. He’s not worth the effort.”

I shot him a glare, silently cursing his audacity.

Bao Bao’s face twisted with fury at Ruan Yanjun’s words, and he surged forward with another spinning kick aimed at my head.

But this time, I saw an opening.

Steeling my nerves, I shifted my weight and pivoted, narrowly avoiding the attack. As his momentum carried him forward, I raised my stick and struck the base of his spine with a sharp, concentrated blast of energy.

The impact sent him stumbling, and before he could recover, I surged forward, channeling every last ounce of my strength into a precise palm strike to his chest.

The air seemed to still as Bao Bao staggered backward, his eyes wide with shock. Then, with a heavy thud, he fell to the ground, coughing and gasping for breath.

The crowd erupted into stunned silence.

I stood there, panting and swaying, barely able to remain upright. My stick trembled in my grip, and my chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath.

I glanced at Bao Bao, now curled into a pathetic heap on the ground. His body convulsed with pain, his face frozen in shock. For all his earlier bravado, he was now unable to speak, much less move.

Ruan Yanjun’s laughter broke the tension, rich and unrestrained as he sauntered toward me with the poise of a man utterly untouchable. He surveyed the crowd with a smirk that oozed disdain. “This?” he began, gesturing casually to the defeated Bao Bao. “This is the pride of your town? The so-called god-given miracle destined to rival the venerable Ruan Yanjun in a mere decade?” He paused dramatically, his smirk deepening. “He can’t even handle a half-blind, sickly level one. How utterly disappointing.”

The crowd stirred uneasily, whispers turning to murmurs, murmurs to growls. I sighed deeply, already anticipating the chaos his words would incite. Could he not leave things alone for once? No, of course not—this was Ruan Yanjun. If there was an opportunity to provoke, he’d seize it with both hands and a gleeful heart.

As expected, his words were like a spark to dry tinder. Someone in the crowd yelled, “Cheaters!” and the tension snapped. A wave of men lunged forward, their fury palpable.

Ruan Yanjun didn’t even flinch. With a single, elegant sweep of his hand, shimmering strings of energy arced through the air, striking the would-be attackers squarely in their chests. They were hurled backward with such force that they landed near the distant shade where the women and children had been standing. Those who hadn’t been caught in the strike froze in their tracks, terror written plainly on their faces.

“It’s the Devil of the South!” someone shrieked. “Sect Leader Ruan!”

And then pandemonium. The crowd scattered like leaves before a storm, scrambling to escape the very mention of his name. Only a few wide-eyed children remained, staring at him with something closer to awe than fear, until their mothers dragged them away.

Ruan Yanjun laughed amidst the chaos, a low, amused rumble that sent shivers down my spine. “I haven’t even done anything serious, yet they scatter like frightened rats,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery.

I sighed heavily, rubbing my temples as I felt the onset of a headache. “Lord Ruan, I’m starting to understand why the world insists on painting you as the devil.”

He turned to me, his smirk playful, his tone laced with feigned innocence. “Starting to? A-Fan, I am the devil. Why are you still unconvinced?”

I rolled my eyes. “Let’s just leave. I’m about to pass out.”

His smirk shifted into something sly. “Do you need this devil to carry you?”

“No,” I snapped, taking a step forward, only to stumble as exhaustion and pain caught up with me.

Before I could fall, his arm slid around my waist, steadying me effortlessly. “Stay still,” he said, ignoring my protests as he pulled my arm over his shoulder. “Unless, of course, you’d like me to carry you like a princess for all to see. Shall I?”

My face flushed. “Absolutely not.”

“Good.” His grip tightened, and we began to move slowly through the emptying street.

He had to shorten his strides to match mine, his pace deliberately unhurried. “At this rate, it’ll be sundown before we reach the carriage,” he teased, his voice light and casual as if we hadn’t just caused a town-wide uproar.

“The carriage isn’t that far,” I muttered. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Shall I leave you here to fetch it? But then…” His tone grew mockingly serious. “I’d hate to find you strung up by an angry mob when I return.”

I exhaled sharply, conceding defeat. His arm around my waist was both comforting and disconcerting, the weight of his presence simultaneously steadying and suffocating.

“Lord Ruan,” I said after a while, breaking the silence, “does it truly amuse you to see me struggling like this? All of this—your provocations, your taunts—it always seems like a game to you.”

He turned to me, his expression softening just slightly, though the amusement in his eyes never wavered. “Amuse me? A-Fan, I’m proud. You defeated that deluded level three brat, even in your condition. Is it wrong for a master to feel pride?”

“I never agreed to be your disciple,” I countered, glaring at him.

“And I never agreed to take you as one,” he shot back smoothly, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’re far from worthy of that honor.”

I clenched my jaw, biting back a retort. Every time I thought I’d cornered him in an argument, he twisted his words to leave me flustered and frustrated.

“Then why did you call me your disciple?”

“Would you prefer I call you my servant instead?”

I looked away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a response.

His laughter was rich and deep, echoing through the empty street. “My A-Fan, you truly never fail to amuse me.”

As much as I wanted to make him stop calling me his A-Fan, I preferred to stay silent, knowing that anything I said would only add fuel to his fire. Some battles, I’d learned, simply weren’t worth fighting.