“I got added.” Tou He made a face. When Wu Ying stared at him, the ex-monk dropped his voice as he said, “I think they realized I let myself lose the second fight.”
“You…” Wu Ying clamped his mouth shut before he said anything further. Damn the monk. A slight burning rage appeared in Wu Ying’s chest once again as he contemplated the genius martial artist of a friend before him. If he wasn’t so immune to hard work…
Silence descended over the group. Together, the pair turned toward the stairs where, instead of Elder Khoo, another Elder stood, his presence sending a chill through the courtyard. This Elder was one Wu Ying knew only from rumor—the Inner Hall Master, Elder Khoo’s equivalent. Of course, Elder Shin was of greater seniority than Elder Khoo, his position more secure. But the cold gaze he swept over the gathered hopeful outer sect members quieted even the bravest among them.
When pin-drop silence finally held, Elder Shin spoke up. “Those of you standing here have some hope of becoming high-standing members of the sect, of learning stronger techniques, advancing your cultivation, and earning the right to the greater secrets of our sect. But the opportunity to do so is much in demand. This year, we only have eight spaces available.”
The Elder’s words shocked the group, the open slots being lower than normal. Wu Ying looked around the now-tense group, doing a quick count. Just over twenty hopeful applicants and most of them stronger than him.
“To make this simple, there are seven who did not lose a single battle. Step forward,” Elder Shin commanded.
From the group, the seven swaggered forward, looking at the others with a smirk.
Then Elder Shin looked over the group, his gaze falling on Wu Ying, a slight smirk crossing his face. “And you, Wu Ying, can be the eighth.”
Wu Ying twitched, the malice clear in Elder Shin’s intention. But still, the cultivator had no choice. He walked forward, joining the group, and tried not to listen to the muttered comments around him.
“Him? Why him?”
“He has no sense of propriety. He didn’t even clean himself!”
“Don’t you know? Elder Mo’s group wants him gone.”
“Is he that cultivator? A disgrace.”
Wu Ying’s lips tightened as he stood with his back to the group, staring at Elder Shin, who made no move to silence the talk. When the other Elders moved slightly, growing restless at the delay, only then did Elder Shin continue.
“The eight individuals standing here have earned a place in the inner sect,” Elder Shin said. When the collective intake from the competitors and audience had subsided, he continued with barely concealed malicious glee. “But any of the other competitors may challenge any of the eight to a battle.”
Immediately, all the remaining contestants focused on Wu Ying, their gazes boring into the injured and bedraggled cultivator.
“The winner will, of course, have gained the loser’s place. Understand that you will only have one opportunity to win your fight. Choose your opponent well.”
Wu Ying drew a deep breath, Elder Shin’s words weighing him down further, the pressure almost making his knees buckle. But a memory came of a blade flying at his chest, and Wu Ying found himself straightening, meeting the expectant gazes around him with a half-smile. Could any of them be more dangerous than what he had faced? He had already escaped death twice. And this—this was just a spar.
“Elder Shin.” A voice, one that Wu Ying recognized. His eyes tracked over, surprised to see Elder Ko of the library speaking up. “This test seems to be potentially flawed.”
“Elder Ko,” Elder Shin said, dissatisfaction tingeing his voice. Still, he stared at the other Elder before he inclined his head. “To clarify. No cultivator may be challenged more than twice.”
Elder Ko stepped back, retreating into the throng. Wu Ying stared at the group one last time before he turned back to Elder Shin, who detailed further rules, minor clarifications about the upcoming battle. In the time given, he circulated his chi and waited. Two fights. And then he would win.
At least, Wu Ying consoled himself, those he fought would be like him—one-time losers. Not the towering geniuses who stood beside him. So. He had a chance. Maybe.
“Of course it’s you,” Wu Ying said when the speeches were finally done and he turned around. If he had been a betting man, Wu Ying could have won some serious coin. Well, if anyone was willing to take his money.
Across from Wu Ying, Yin Xue smirked. “Well, I guess you didn’t have a chance to escape me.”
“No. I didn’t,” Wu Ying said, letting his hand rest on his borrowed blade. Wu Ying found himself smiling slightly in satisfaction. If he had to fight someone, Yin Xue was a good choice. Injuring the lord’s son, inadvertently or on purpose, would make Wu Ying lose little sleep.
From the corner of his eyes, Wu Ying was surprised to see Tou He matched up against a slim gentleman wielding a pair of hooked swords. Tou He himself carried his staff, propping the weapon on one shoulder, looking way too casual for the fight he was about to engage in.
“We could just exchange a few blows and I’ll call it my defeat,” Tou He tried wheedling his opponent, who stared at him impassively.
Wu Ying’s attention was torn back to his own stage, where a new cultivator had appeared, staring down at Yin Xue. The new cultivator was attired like the rest of them, but instead of wielding a more common weapon, he had a pair of tong fas slipped into his belt. The simple wooden weapons were basically a stick with a handle a third of the way in on the slimmer side, offering the martial artist a location to hold and wield the weapon. It was an interesting weapon that Wu Ying had never actually fought before. Curiously, Wu Ying cocked his head to the side to listen to the conversation between the pair of cultivators.
“Senior Lin Tsui, I was here first,” Yin Xue whined.
“And I do not care. You can stay and suffer afterward, or you can leave,” Lin Tsui said, staring straight at Yin Xue fearlessly.
Yin Xue paled slightly, staring between Lin Tsui and the referee who made no move to help. Finally, Yin Xue shook his head and backed away, allowing the other cultivator to take his place on the fighting platform. Wu Ying watched the incident silently, amusement dancing in his eyes. Yin Xue snarled slightly, fist clenching around his sword’s hilt when he saw Wu Ying’s smile, but eventually he shook his head.
The referee looked between the pair still on the combat stage. “Are we ready?”
Wu Ying spat to the side, clearing his mouth of blood and torn skin as he glared at Lin Tsui, who stood up slowly too, favoring his left ankle. Once more, the pair circled one another, Wu Ying carefully probing Lin Tsui’s defenses. Of course, since his opponent wielded two weapons that exceled at blocking, Wu Ying made sure to never overextend himself. In turn, Lin Tsui probed Wu Ying’s footwork and defense, attempting to find the appropriate time to enter Wu Ying’s measure. Because of Wu Ying’s reach and his ability to fade away with dragon steps, Lin Tsui had to gauge his timing appropriately. After all, rushing in was the most dangerous time for him.
All this—and Lin Tsui’s fighting style with the tong fas—was hard-earned knowledge, gained from significant bruises, a newly re-cracked pair of ribs, and a swelling eye. The damn tong fas were fast, highly manipulable, and perfect for close-in fighting. If Lin Tsui got into Wu Ying’s measure, Wu Ying’s only chance was to retreat as quickly as possible.
“Why did you learn the Shen style anyway?” Lin Tsui asked conversationally, eyes narrowed as he casually batted away a quick probe of the sword.
“For people like you.”
Wu Ying had to smile slightly. That last sweep had done exactly what he wanted—injured his opponent and forced him back. The Shen kicking style, integrated into his Long family style, had been a surprise and the only reason Wu Ying was still in the fight. Every time Lin Tsui closed in, he had to worry about being grappled and kicked away. Though Wu Ying’s last attack had done nothing to stop Lin Tsui from smashing him across the face with his tong fa, leading to the fast-growing swelling on his face and bloodied mouth.