Chapter Thirty-Three: The Taste of Bullying

Standing amidst the crowd, Yang Fan glanced over at Tan Hao, then made his way toward him. After all, in such a vast arena with the competition yet to begin, standing alone in one spot was rather awkward.

“Yang Fan, how have you been preparing these past few days? If we end up on the field together, remember to go easy on me,” Tan Hao called out as Yang Fan approached.

“I haven’t really prepared much. I’ll just see how things go once I’m up there,” Yang Fan replied, his expression utterly indifferent.

Truthfully, that was exactly how he felt among the new students. What was there to care about? A man knows his own strengths and weaknesses. Right now, Yang Fan was more concerned about whether he should imitate Zhou Yiyi in future missions and seek out evenly matched opponents. Yet, deep down, there was still a lingering fear. He thought back to his previous encounter with people from the Dark Realm—though he had ultimately turned the tables, it had been a truly terrifying experience.

Tan Hao looked at Yang Fan’s nonchalant demeanor and was at a loss for words. Was he really not taking the Freshman Tournament seriously at all? Tan Hao knew Yang Fan often went out on missions, but as for his actual strength, Tan Hao really had no idea. He only knew Yang Fan was a second-level martial artist, but whether he had mastered any combat techniques, Tan Hao couldn’t say. Every time he asked, Yang Fan would just smile and say nothing.

But now, Tan Hao was convinced that this guy must know some combat techniques; otherwise, how could he be so unconcerned about the Freshman Tournament? Tan Hao himself was now a first-level martial apprentice, almost at the peak, and had just exchanged some hard-earned credits for a new technique. Yet, he hadn’t even managed to grasp the basics, let alone reach proficiency.

...

Time passed quickly as people chatted in the arena. Before long, the competition was about to officially begin. First, the referee and mentors took to the stage to offer a few words of encouragement, then announced the official start of the tournament.

The Martial Arts Academy’s gymnasium was enormous, with a spacious central area. Even with three hundred people standing there, there was still plenty of room to spare. Three hundred may not sound like a lot, but when clustered together, the figures seemed to blur into a crowd.

Once all the competitors had taken their positions, the referee began to announce the rules.

“The Martial Arts Academy Freshman Tournament is about to begin. The first round is a free-for-all. You may choose your own opponents, form teams, or fight solo. Lethal attacks are forbidden. The round ends when exactly one hundred competitors remain. With that, let the competition begin.”

After the mentor finished speaking, a brief silence enveloped the arena. It was all so sudden—just a few words, and that was it? Wasn’t there usually some grander speech, as per international custom?

A moment later, everyone snapped back to reality. But as it was everyone’s first time competing, though some were eager to make a move, none had the courage to be the first to strike. Everyone knew that whoever acted first would inevitably be targeted by those nearby, unless they belonged to a prearranged group.

Yang Fan watched the situation unfold with some resignation. Why wasn’t anyone starting the fight? Just standing around like this—what was the point?

He decided to take the initiative. Drawing his long blade, he swung it at the person closest to him. The academy’s rules forbade lethal attacks, so he used the back of his blade. The person beside him, caught completely off guard, was struck down before he could react. Yang Fan’s blow landed on the man’s shoulder blade, the searing pain bringing beads of cold sweat to his brow.

The look he gave Yang Fan was tinged with grievance.

Yang Fan felt a bit embarrassed seeing his classmate sprawled on the ground. He had simply chosen someone at random—there was no intent to single anyone out. But it no longer mattered. Yang Fan’s action was like tossing a stone into still water—immediately, the nearly three hundred people around him burst into action, fighting one another.

Those near Yang Fan also sprang into motion, but with an unspoken agreement: they all turned their weapons toward him at the same time. Seeing this, Yang Fan felt a flash of unease. Nearly ten people surrounded him, all at least first-level martial apprentices. If they attacked together, he might not be able to withstand it; a direct confrontation would surely see him eliminated.

He bent his knees and, in a sudden burst of speed, hunched down and darted away, his keen eyes spotting a path through the crowd. In an instant, he slipped free, the coordinated attack missing its mark. The others quickly realized that Yang Fan must have mastered combat techniques; even if they didn’t know him, they recognized that someone who could use such skills was not to be trifled with. They didn’t bother searching for him again, turning instead to the nearest opponents.

Yang Fan weaved through the crowd, not attacking unless provoked. Any injured students who could no longer continue were immediately dragged off the field by the referee—a display of aerial skill that Yang Fan couldn’t help but marvel at. Just how powerful was this mentor, to pull people out midair like that, as if wielding a sword with such finesse?

As he pondered these things amid the chaos, he was oblivious to how it might seem to the other competitors. While they fought with all their might, Yang Fan’s mind wandered. If they had known, they might have cried in frustration. Here they were, giving it their all, while he was daydreaming—how disrespectful!

Truthfully, as long as he wasn’t targeted by a group, Yang Fan didn’t care much. The difference in levels was still significant. Even at the peak, a first-level martial apprentice could muster only about five hundred pounds of force, and most were still learning to control their power. Being able to utilize even half of that was impressive. But Yang Fan now possessed over a thousand pounds of strength—several times more than the others. Even if he didn’t use his full potential, his power far exceeded theirs.

How many could withstand a single blow from him? Even if they blocked the first strike, what about the second, or the third? Yang Fan was fighting casually, while his opponents had to go all out—how long could they last under such pressure?

...

Gradually, more and more people fell at Yang Fan’s hand and were dragged off the field. He didn’t bother to count, but there were at least a dozen or two. Most of those he struck down looked at him with wounded resentment. Why was someone so strong even participating in the Freshman Tournament? Wasn’t this just bullying?

Since Yang Fan rarely visited the classroom building, few recognized him. To have an unknown face suddenly emerge and demonstrate such overwhelming strength was rather demoralizing.

As the battle went on, no one dared approach Yang Fan anymore. It was clear: as long as you didn’t provoke him, he wouldn’t attack you. Soon, a curious vacuum formed around him. He wasn’t the only one; elsewhere, Zhou Yiyi was similarly left alone. She was even fiercer than Yang Fan—he had been the first to strike, but she was a close second. Had he hesitated for just a second, she would have been the one to ignite the melee.

In these past months, Zhou Yiyi had changed a great deal, almost as if she were evolving into Zhou Ting. When Yang Fan first met her, she was mischievous and unruly, a little troublemaker. Now, she had become cool and aloof.

Wielding an iron staff, Zhou Yiyi swept her surroundings. No one dared provoke her, but she would still occasionally lash out at those nearby—so much so that even Yang Fan felt she was bullying people.

Elsewhere in the crowd, a few others also stood unchallenged—mostly newly promoted second-level martial artists, and a few first-levels who had mastered basic techniques, already somewhat famous among the freshmen.

Watching the dwindling number of competitors, Yang Fan suddenly found the tournament far less interesting than he’d imagined. A mischievous idea began to take shape.

Yang Fan started moving through the crowd, heading toward a nearby second-level martial artist. The young man, Mu Qingshan, quickly noticed. With a second-level martial artist—a sure bet to make it through the first round—approaching him, how could he not be on guard? Mu Qingshan was bewildered. What did this guy want? He tightened his grip on his sword in wary anticipation.

When Yang Fan was just a few meters away, he suddenly accelerated, raising his long blade overhead and bringing it down in a sweeping arc. Mu Qingshan cursed inwardly—he knew this guy was up to no good. What was his problem? He hadn’t provoked him! Still, he raised his sword to meet the attack.

Blade met sword. Mu Qingshan staggered back two steps, his sword-hand trembling from the impact. His heart sank—this guy was incredibly strong. Just one blow had left his hand numb with pain.

After his initial attack, Yang Fan didn’t press the advantage. Instead, he stood not far away, watching Mu Qingshan as he recovered—after all, he was just here for amusement, not to knock the guy out of the tournament.

Mu Qingshan was bewildered. What was this supposed to mean? He’d been struck, and now, as he struggled to regain his footing, the other just watched him? Was this guy insane?

Feeling increasingly unnerved by Yang Fan’s gaze, Mu Qingshan waited for the numbness in his arm to subside, then lunged forward with his sword. This time, Yang Fan shifted to defense. Swords, after all, weren’t meant for chopping—that was the job of the blade.

Mu Qingshan’s sword danced through a flurry of thrusts, flicks, points, sweeps, and twists. Thanks to his keen perception, Yang Fan could clearly track each movement, blocking blow after blow, all the while increasing the force behind his defenses. Gradually, Mu Qingshan’s arm began to ache from the strain, his strength fading as Yang Fan’s powerful blocks sent waves of numbness up his arm.

Mu Qingshan racked his brain—had he ever wronged this person before? Yet, since entering the academy, he’d devoted himself to study, never even quarreling with anyone. Why was this troublemaker singling him out?

Had he known Yang Fan was simply looking for entertainment, Mu Qingshan might have broken down in tears. Who acted like this? It was just too much.

...

As time passed, fewer and fewer contestants remained. Soon, only a hundred were left standing on the field. When the referee called a halt, Mu Qingshan was nearly in tears. The Freshman Tournament, which had seemed so promising, had been ruined by this scoundrel who, without a word, started bullying him. When he was exhausted, the guy didn’t even finish him off—just stood there watching. If anyone tried to sneak up on him, Yang Fan would even fend them off. Yet Mu Qingshan had no idea who this person was or what he wanted.

When Yang Fan heard the referee call for a stop, he sheathed his blade and walked away from Mu Qingshan, making no further moves against him.

Mu Qingshan was left in utter disbelief. What on earth was that?

Yang Fan strolled off, secretly delighted. The pleasure of teasing others was simply incomparable!