Chapter Thirty-Six: I’ll Take You Down (Please add to your favorites, click, and follow.)

The opening of the Freshman Tournament brought a rare liveliness to the cultivation academy, which was usually silent except for discussions about cultivation progress. Everyone was absorbed in talking about scenes from this year's competition. Some said so-and-so was particularly formidable; others claimed someone else had lost unfairly. Naturally, Yang Fan and Mu Qingshan were among the hot topics.

Mu Qingshan had always been diligent in class and earnest in his cultivation, his strength well recognized by all. To reach the level of a second-rank warrior so soon after enrollment, it was impossible for him not to attract attention among the freshmen. Yet, before the tournament, Yang Fan’s name had hardly been mentioned. Still, this was the very person who had defeated Mu Qingshan with just two strikes—his cold ruthlessness was witnessed by many new students. He dispatched his opponent without so much as a backward glance, a scene that left a deep impression on the hearts of most young men. Of course, if they’d known Yang Fan’s only concern was getting to the cafeteria and teasing the chubby guy, they might have been mortified by their own dramatic imaginations.

Ever since Mu Qingshan was defeated by Yang Fan’s twin blades yesterday, no one had seen him. His friends had wanted to console him, thinking it a pity, but the boy was nowhere to be found. Even Mu Qingshan’s homeroom instructor was surprised. Mu Qingshan was his own protégé; he knew his student’s abilities inside out. Although Mu Qingshan hadn’t yet mastered any combat techniques, to be so cleanly and decisively defeated among the second-rank freshmen was something the instructor had not foreseen. At the same time, he worried for Mu Qingshan, fearing the blow might be too much for him, that he might become obsessed with his defeat.

Meanwhile, Mu Qingshan had locked himself in his dorm room, refusing to see anyone. He was indeed shaken, but not in the way his teacher imagined. It wasn’t the blow to his strength that wounded him, but rather a shock to his spirit. He still couldn’t figure out why that guy with the blade had targeted him so relentlessly. The drawing of lots was beyond his control, but why had Yang Fan singled him out during the chaotic elimination round?

...

At that moment, Yang Fan had just finished his blade practice. The number of swings had risen from five hundred to a thousand each: thrusting, slashing, chopping, hooking, spinning, advancing—a thousand repetitions of each. Even with his cultivation nearly at the peak of second rank, Yang Fan was exhausted after a full round of practice. His horse stance could now be held for about an hour each time. His foundation was solid, and he felt he was close to a breakthrough.

To Yang Fan, the joy of cultivation was not about facing formidable opponents or achieving great feats, but rather the sense of fulfillment from each small improvement. Although the saying went that warriors must compete, that warriors must fight, Yang Fan’s understanding of this was limited. No one had ever explained to him why warriors must strive and battle. He had heard this phrase countless times since joining the Shanghai Cultivation Academy, but never truly grasped its meaning. To him, it was just a matter of limited resources and unlimited warriors—so one had to fight for them. Beyond that, he had little deeper feeling.

The second round of the elimination tournament was scheduled for that afternoon, when the top twenty would be determined. Yang Fan arrived at the arena punctually. Almost everyone was already present. During the first round, all the freshmen—except Yang Fan—had paid close attention to the matches. This included Zhou Yiyi.

Yang Fan had caught a distant glimpse of Zhou Yiyi during yesterday’s elimination round, and her ferocity had left an impression on him. In the drawing of lots, she was number thirty-eight—Yang Fan’s match came much earlier, so he hadn’t watched her fight. But after entering the arena, he overheard some of the eliminated freshmen chatting, and Zhou Yiyi’s name came up.

They were saying she’d taken down a peak first-rank martial apprentice in a single move.

Such a result didn’t surprise Yang Fan. After all, this was Zhou Yiyi—the daughter of Zhou Haifeng, an eighth-rank grandmaster, and the sister of a fourth-rank martial artist. She herself was already a second-rank warrior. Facing a peak first-rank, especially one without mastery of any combat techniques, was child’s play for her.

...

Yang Fan was still listening with interest when yesterday’s referee took his place at the center of the arena. The instructor cleared his throat and announced, “Shanghai Cultivation Academy, Combat Techniques Division, Freshman Tournament, Round Three, Top Twenty Selection, begins now. All participants, enter the arena.”

As soon as he finished speaking, fifty contestants stepped onto the field.

Yang Fan glanced around and spotted several familiar faces. Zhou Yiyi, of course, was glaring at him with such ferocity that he felt a chill. Then there was Tan Hao—Yang Fan was surprised to see him make it through, since he hadn’t paid attention to Tan Hao at all the previous day. Clearly, Tan Hao had some ability and shouldn’t just be considered a gossipmonger.

Another familiar face was Jiang Chao, the first-rank apprentice from the island trial who’d once made Yang Fan climb a tree. Jiang Chao had since advanced to second rank, which, given the time that had passed, didn’t surprise Yang Fan.

As for the rest, Yang Fan didn’t recognize them.

Everyone took their positions, keeping their distance from each other. With fewer people on the field, the arena seemed larger, but the remaining contestants were all formidable. Each person was tense, alert to the others, waiting for the referee to give the signal so they could launch a decisive blow at their nearest rival.

In this tense atmosphere, one person stood out as somewhat out of place: Yang Fan. After scanning the participants, he gave a languid yawn, shaking his head. He swore he hadn’t meant to yawn—it was completely involuntary.

Before he’d even finished, the referee’s voice rang out, “Begin!” shattering the calm.

Still sluggish from his yawn, Yang Fan was caught completely off guard. He felt a sharp pain in his lower back and was sent stumbling forward. Instinctively, he forced his legs down, anchoring himself with a solid horse stance that broke his fall.

Fury surged in Yang Fan’s heart—someone had dared to ambush him? He drew his blade and spun around, only to see a long staff.

Good heavens, that was a thick staff! Goosebumps raced across his skin. With a spring and a twist, he exploded into motion—his legs bent, muscles tensed, and he leaped away just as the staff crashed down where he’d been.

Pressed for time and not paying attention to his surroundings, Yang Fan crashed straight into someone’s chest. His momentum was abruptly stopped, his neck almost snapping, while the person he collided with was left utterly bewildered.

“Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing?” was all this poor soul could think. One moment they’d been fighting, the next, it was as if a gust of wind had knocked them down.

Yang Fan had no time to worry about the collateral damage. Clutching his aching neck, he searched for his assailant—the one who’d ambushed him with a staff. How could someone attack without warning? Too shameless!

Yang Fan’s rage boiled over as he spotted a burly man wielding a massive staff. The man looked imposing, swinging his staff with such force that two people nearby had already been taken out. Yang Fan locked onto his target—he couldn’t let such a brute get away with a sneak attack.

Brandishing his blade, Yang Fan strode toward the burly man.

The person Yang Fan had crashed into still hadn’t recovered, and his opponent was equally baffled. Where had his adversary gone? Suddenly, he was just sitting on the ground—what technique was this? Some new combat skill? Instant Sitting Technique?

...

Yang Fan closed in on the burly man from behind—an eye for an eye. If he’d been ambushed, he’d return the favor.

In a flash, Yang Fan brought his blade down.

Clang!

The blade and staff collided. The burly man, almost without looking, swung his staff behind him, barely blocking the strike. Before he could turn, Yang Fan’s second strike was already falling. Once again, the staff parried, and the burly man spun around to glare at Yang Fan, his expression furious.

Yang Fan, seeing his attack blocked again and the man facing him with such anger, felt his own temper flare.

What was this? Why the glare? You ambushed me first—now I return the favor and you have a problem with it?

“Sneak attack? How despicable!” the burly man shouted.

Yang Fan bristled, retorting, “You’ve got some nerve saying that! I’ll beat you to a pulp!”

With that, Yang Fan launched himself forward, blade raised overhead, every ounce of his blood and energy surging, unleashing his Thunderblade—a triple-strike technique.

The burly man, seeing the power coiling through Yang Fan’s body and gathering in his hands, knew immediately this was a combat technique. He rooted his feet, gripping his staff, and with a roar, countered with his own technique: “Heaven-Splitting Strike!”

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Blade and staff clashed three times in rapid succession.

The blade shattered. The staff broke in half.

The burly man staggered back two steps; Yang Fan landed and stood firm. Staring at his newly acquired, now-ruined blade, Yang Fan’s eyes turned red—this had cost him a credit, ten thousand cash!

He howled, voice raw with frustration, “You bastard, I’ll kill you!”

The burly man, staring at the stump of his staff, was stunned—this guy was strong. Hearing Yang Fan’s outburst, he felt a mix of emotions. What had he done to deserve this? Yang Fan had attacked first, destroyed his weapon, and now threatened to kill him. Was he that easy to bully? Had Yang Fan gotten cocky, or was his own muscle just for show?

Before he could finish the thought, Yang Fan charged, fists clenched.

Yang Fan threw a punch straight at the burly man’s face. The man blocked with both hands, driving his knee up; Yang Fan’s free left hand pressed down, stopping the knee strike.

The two broke apart, only to clash again.

Everyone nearby gave them a wide berth. The madness of their fight—combat techniques colliding, weapons breaking, bodies slamming together—was enough to convince onlookers to steer clear.

From afar, Zhou Yiyi watched Yang Fan’s battle with furrowed brows. She’d thought she had caught up to him, especially since she’d heard he’d been slacking lately. But now, seeing this, she realized she might not be his match after all.

Tan Hao, having just barely dispatched his own opponent, glanced over and instantly resolved to befriend Yang Fan at all costs.

Jiang Chao, who had almost forgotten the boy he’d once mocked on the island, was reminded by yesterday’s match of that rookie chased by a lion. Seeing how formidable Yang Fan was now, Jiang Chao thought it best to keep his distance—who knew if Yang Fan held grudges? He certainly wouldn’t be able to win a fight if it came to that.

“I’ll kill you, kill you, kill you!” roared Yang Fan, his voice echoing through the enclosed arena, reverberating endlessly...