Chapter Thirty-Four: I Forgot!

Only one hundred contestants remained on the field—the preliminary round of the Freshman Tournament had come to an end. Next would be the drawing of lots for one-on-one matches to determine the top fifty. This was now entirely up to chance: whom you would face, and who would draw your number, was all a matter of luck. There was no point in worrying about any underhanded dealings... Who would bother rigging the matches for a bunch of freshmen?

...

"Twelve."

Yang Fan pulled a slip from the box before him. It was a fairly early number; there were only two matches today—one free-for-all, and one drawn by lots. The contest for the top twenty would take place tomorrow. He rather hoped he could draw a top-seeded number; otherwise, he’d have to wait around. Though he had nothing pressing to do, watching others compete from the sidelines seemed pointless.

Yang Fan’s confidence had bloated; he had become almost arrogant. Watching first-rank matches no longer stirred any feeling in him. Even recalling the time Zhou Ting had taken him and Zhou Yiyi to watch a duel between two third-rankers now left him unmoved. Back then, the clash between the third-rankers had ignited his passion, filling him with hot-blooded fervor, making him want nothing more than to train. But now, Yang Fan found his motivation for cultivation waning. On reflection, it seemed there was nothing that truly compelled him to keep pushing himself so hard.

Especially now that he had a hundred and fifty thousand in his account, Yang Fan felt his funds could sustain him for a very long time—he’d never seen so much money in his life. With wealth and a bit of power—at least enough to be stronger than most—he had to wonder if he really needed to work so relentlessly at his cultivation. Perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t so bad to take things slow, to relax now and then.

Nor did he possess the orphan’s usual longing—the desire to become strong just to search for his parents and ask why they had abandoned him. Yang Fan felt that, since he had been left behind, whatever the reason, it no longer mattered. Finding them or not, it made little difference—he truly was indifferent.

Humans are inherently lazy; for some, that laziness comes and goes quickly, for others, it lingers. Once the drive is gone and no clear goal remains, comfort becomes the easy choice. That was Yang Fan’s current state. When he first heard about the ruins, he felt a sense of urgency—he needed to train hard so he could contribute when the time came. But as time passed, the matter of the ruins seemed ever more distant, and whether he contributed or not felt irrelevant. When the sky falls, there’s always someone taller to hold it up, and Yang Fan was sure he wasn’t that tall one.

His life as an orphan had taught him to be self-centered. He was not particularly brave; even becoming a cultivator had only been about making his own life a little better. He had chosen the Magic Metropolis Academy because it was the best—what young person doesn’t want the best, be it in things, environment, or company, even if they have no desire to compete or stand out?

Such thoughts are neither right nor wrong—they are simply true for Yang Fan at that moment. What is right or wrong, anyway? Sacrificing oneself for others—is that right? Maybe for some, but for Yang Fan, it would be a betrayal of himself. He had always known he was not the sort to give up everything for someone else. He would do what he could, but if it was too much, he’d think twice. Like when he chose his missions—he never picked those beyond his limits or even close to them. Getting hurt was painful, dying even more so.

...

The matches resumed swiftly. Everyone paired up according to the numbers they’d drawn—one hundred slips, half of them duplicates. The two students with matching numbers went to the center of the arena to compete.

Freshmen had been at the academy for only two months. Most had never studied combat techniques, some didn’t even know how to fight. Even when holding weapons, few dared to strike seriously at their opponent. They were all just barely adults, most had never seen blood. The tournament rules were explicit: no lethal blows. Everyone was hesitant, afraid to go all out.

Yang Fan watched the matches, utterly bored. “What is this—a street brawl?” he thought. He couldn’t take it seriously. The matches cycled through quickly, and soon it was his turn.

...

Standing in the center of the arena, Yang Fan looked at his opponent in surprise. This guy seemed familiar. Mu Qingshan, facing Yang Fan, felt like crying. How could it be him again? Was he cursed? During the earlier free-for-all, it had been this guy who’d inexplicably targeted him. Now, with the draw, he’d landed him again. If Mu Qingshan hadn’t known the draw was fair, he’d have shouted injustice.

Yang Fan now remembered, too—wasn’t this the guy he’d picked on for fun earlier? He’d been so focused on amusement that he hadn’t even looked at the guy’s face. If Mu Qingshan knew that, he’d probably cough up blood in frustration.

“Hey, come on, I’ll let you have two moves,” Yang Fan said with a grin.

“Bro, who are you, really? What did I ever do to you?” Mu Qingshan’s eyes were red. He was a second-rank martial artist—he’d expected to breeze into the top ten, even the top three was within reach, since only a handful of freshmen had reached the second rank. But then along came Yang Fan, and they’d drawn each other for the one-on-one. Mu Qingshan knew he was outmatched and would be eliminated. Sure, there was still the challenge for a top-ten spot at the end, but this humiliation, this helplessness, this urge to cry—he couldn’t bear it.

“I’ve never even met you! What’s your name?” Yang Fan was genuinely puzzled. He hadn’t seen this guy before today—why did he sound so aggrieved? Yang Fan had no idea how much psychological trauma he had inflicted on Mu Qingshan.

“I’m Mu Qingshan—wait, that’s not the point! If you don’t know me, why did you single me out earlier?”

“I didn’t target you.”

“Yes, you did! Why’d you keep hitting me?”

At this point, the referee was getting exasperated. Were these two really having a chat in the middle of a match? There were so many people waiting, and he wanted to get this boring freshman tournament over with and get back to his own training.

“Hey, what are you two doing? Is this the place for a conversation? Get on with it—fight!”

Around the arena, shouts and jeers rose: “Fight or get off!” “Are you two idiots?” and so on.

Yang Fan realized this was getting awkward—why was he chatting with this guy? They weren’t even friends. So he drew his blade and advanced on Mu Qingshan.

Mu Qingshan was stunned. What was this? Wasn’t he supposed to get two free moves? The way Yang Fan charged in, there was no sign of allowing him to attack first. Was he just joking when he said it so earnestly?

...

Yang Fan didn’t care what Mu Qingshan was thinking. He was already in front of him—was Mu Qingshan really still in a daze? Yang Fan swung his blade at him. Mu Qingshan snapped back to reality. The blade was coming at him edge-on—last time, in the free-for-all, the guy had used the back of the blade, but now it was sharp steel. With no time to think, Mu Qingshan retreated, raising his sword to block. The force of the blow sent him staggering.

Mu Qingshan knew he was no match for Yang Fan—he had known as much in the free-for-all. But he was one of the only second-rankers among the freshmen; to surrender now would be humiliating. He had to at least put up a fight.

So, resolved to lose with dignity, Mu Qingshan steadied himself and prepared to go on the offensive. But as he looked up, he saw the gleam of Yang Fan’s blade—razor sharp. His thoughts froze. Instinctively, his sword met the attack.

Clang!

Mu Qingshan landed on his rear. Yang Fan’s long blade hovered at his throat. Mu Qingshan was stunned—this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. In the free-for-all, Yang Fan had always waited for him to get ready before resuming. Whenever he was off-balance or out of breath, Yang Fan had let him recover. But this time, there was no such courtesy. This wasn’t the script!

Yang Fan, oblivious to Mu Qingshan’s thoughts, might have mocked him if he’d known. The free-for-all didn’t have a time limit; it was just for fun, and with a hundred people needed to finish, he’d saved Mu Qingshan as a plaything. Now, though, these were direct matches—Yang Fan was eager to finish and go eat. Who had time to dawdle with Mu Qingshan? The faster, the better.

“You tricked me!” Mu Qingshan finally came to his senses, looking up at Yang Fan.

“What?” Yang Fan was confused. What was this guy talking about?

“You said you’d let me have two moves!” Mu Qingshan’s voice was thick with grievance.

Yang Fan scratched his head, lowering his blade. Come to think of it, he had said that—but after the referee’s shout, he’d forgotten.

“Sorry, I forgot.”

Mu Qingshan felt utterly defeated. This was just too much—how could anyone be so cruel?

The referee promptly announced Yang Fan’s victory. As soon as it was declared, Yang Fan turned and walked off, leaving Mu Qingshan sitting dazed and disheveled in the center of the arena.

“Aren’t you going to help me up?” Mu Qingshan murmured softly.

He felt despair—what kind of person was this? No sense of sportsmanship at all! No respect for his opponent! Did he not care that he was a second-rank martial artist?

“All right, all right, hurry off now,” the referee said, seeing Mu Qingshan still sitting there, muttering to himself.

Mu Qingshan rose in a daze and wandered off to the side.