The Chen family's Martial Training Ground was a vast expanse, stretching over two hundred meters in both length and width.
On ordinary days, family members would gather there to train. The atmosphere was conducive to practice, and elders would occasionally provide guidance. Chen Zong had initially been a frequent visitor, but relentless ridicule and bullying, coupled with injuries inflicted by Chen Zhongjie that disrupted his progress, eventually drove him away. He decided to train alone instead.
The armory stood in one corner of the Martial Training Ground, where over a dozen family members were currently honing their skills.
"Look! Isn't that Chen Zong?" A sharp-eyed youth exclaimed, spotting him.
"That's him, all right. I thought he was training alone. What's he doing back here?"
"Probably realized he wasn't improving on his own and decided to return to the Martial Training Ground."
"Does he really think Chen Zhongjie has forgotten about him?"
"Poor guy. I heard his Vitality Pill was reassigned to Chen Zhigang yesterday."
"That was the right move. Brother Gang is the top Martial Apprentice in the family. Chen Zong is utterly useless compared to him. Giving him a Vitality Pill would have been a complete waste."
Ignoring the stares and whispers of the dozen family members, Chen Zong strode across the Martial Training Ground and entered the armory.
The armory was roughly ten meters wide and deep, with wooden racks lining all four walls. These racks held a variety of weapons: swords, spears, sabers, staves, bows and arrows, and daggers.
An elderly man guarded the armory. Likely fatigued by his age, he was dozing. Chen Zong didn't disturb him, heading straight for the sword rack.
The rack held over a dozen swords, ranging from over a meter in length to less than half a meter. Chen Zong first eliminated the longest and shortest, leaving five swords of suitable size.
He picked up each sword one by one, unsheathed it, swung it casually, and carefully assessed its feel and balance.
Just as people differ, so too do swords. Length, thickness, weight—the best sword is the one that fits its wielder best.
Finally, Chen Zong held two swords, one in each hand, and compared them closely. Though their dimensions appeared identical, their weights varied slightly. After several minutes of careful deliberation, he set down the sword in his left hand, choosing the one in his right.
The sword's blade was a mottled dark gray, while its wooden hilt was jet black, engraved with spiral grooves for a better grip. The entire weapon looked distinctly ordinary, likely worth only a few Jade Coins. This was hardly surprising; the Chen Clan of Small Lake Town was merely a branch family, with limited resources. Naturally, free-issue weapons wouldn't be of high quality.
Chen Zong didn't mind at all; in fact, he felt a surge of excitement. This was the first time he had ever held a sword, yet it felt strangely familiar, as if he had been wielding one for years. Gripping the hilt with his right hand, he gently ran his left fingers along the blade. The icy touch sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.
The sword's blade measured sixty-two centimeters, while the hilt was twenty centimeters long. At the guard, the blade was three and a half centimeters wide and one centimeter thick, tapering to two and a half centimeters wide and six millimeters thick at the tip. Without its scabbard, the sword weighed five pounds and eight ounces.
Reluctant to put it down, Chen Zong eventually sheathed the sword, woke the dozing old man to register it, and strode out of the armory with the weapon in his left hand. He immediately found himself under the scrutiny of over a dozen family disciples.
"He's out."
"And he's still carrying that iron sword."
"He couldn't master the Tiger Force Fist Technique. Now he thinks he can learn swordsmanship? But our clan's Foundation Establishment Martial Arts don't even include any sword techniques!"
"You're overthinking it. Even if we did have Foundation Establishment sword arts, they'd be far more difficult than the fist techniques. If he can't handle the Tiger Force Fist Technique, what makes you think he can handle swordsmanship? He's probably planning to sell it for a few Jade Coins—maybe ten or twenty—enough to buy some snacks," one disciple declared with self-assuredness, a scenario that wasn't unheard of.
"Hey, Chen Zong! Remember to give me half the money you get for that sword!" another man shouted, clenching his fist menacingly. "You know what'll happen if you don't."
Chen Zong frowned, about to retort when a familiar black-clad figure strode into the Martial Training Ground.
"Chen Zhongjie..." Chen Zong gritted his teeth, his voice a low growl like a cornered tiger, fury surging from the depths of his heart.
Ever since his father had lost his cultivation base and Chen Zong had begun training, he had endured relentless bullying, mostly at the hands of Chen Zhongjie. This was because Chen Zhongjie was Chen Zhigang's lackey, and Chen Zhigang's father had a long-standing feud with Uncle Zhengtang.
"Chen Zong!" Chen Zhongjie spotted him, his initial surprise quickly turning into a mocking grin. "Little weakling, long time no see. Did you forget my warning?"
Six months ago, Chen Zhigang had claimed that Chen Zong's presence in the training ground was disrupting his cultivation. Eager to please, Chen Zhongjie immediately confronted Chen Zong, threatening to beat him every time he set foot there again. Naturally, Chen Zong refused to back down, and Chen Zhongjie promptly beat him into submission, forcing him to rest for five or six days, unable to train and further burdening his father.
Chen Zhigang's father was the clan's foremost martial artist, arrogant and domineering, even disregarding the Clan Leader. His superior strength and ability to rally support left Chen Zhengtang, who lacked a cultivation base, powerless to intervene.
To avoid burdening his father and focus on his own training, Chen Zong had stopped visiting the Martial Training Ground. Now, hearing Chen Zhongjie's words, his anger blazed like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
"Oh, look who's got a sword! What's this? Finally realized you're a useless piece of trash and planning to go chop trees with your cripple of a father?" Chen Zhongjie's eyes fell on the sword in Chen Zong's left hand, his laughter dripping with mockery.
"Chen Zhongjie, take back your words and apologize to me," Chen Zong growled, his face darkening. The words "trash" and "cripple" dredged up painful memories. He spoke slowly, each syllable heavy with fury.
"A cripple father and a trash son—did I say anything wrong?" Chen Zhongjie scoffed, his laughter dripping with contempt.
"You're asking for death!" Chen Zong's eyes burned with molten fury. With a guttural roar, he surged forward like a charging tiger, hurtling toward Chen Zhongjie.
Chen Zhongjie's hair stood on end. For a split second, he felt as if a ferocious tiger were roaring in his face. Shaking off the absurd sensation, his eyes flashed with malice, and a cruel grin twisted his face. He lunged forward like a wolf stalking its prey, his body hunched low. His left hand curled into a claw-like shape, thumb pointing toward his chin, while his right fist rested at his waist, the knuckles of his middle and index fingers protruding like sharp fangs.
"Looks like Chen Zhongjie's Wolf Fang Fist Technique has improved again."
"Chen Zong is doomed. I wonder how many days he'll be bedridden this time."
As the crowd gloated, Chen Zhongjie closed the distance to Chen Zong.
"Wolf Strike Stance!" Chen Zhongjie hissed, his speed surging. Closing in, he thrust his right fist through the air, aiming for Chen Zong's abdomen with the mercilessness of a wolf's fangs.
Chen Zong's eyes narrowed, focusing intently on Chen Zhongjie. He saw every detail: the twisted face, the cold, ruthless eyes, the glint of savagery in his pupils, and the faint tremors of his raised left hand. He clearly tracked the trajectory of Chen Zhongjie's right fist, which sliced through the air like a wolf's fang.
"Tiger Rush Stance!"
Chen Zong clenched his fist, letting out a primal roar as he unleashed the perfected Tiger Force Fist Technique at its peak. His momentum shattered the air, creating a thunderous roar.
The Wolf Fang Fist Technique and the Tiger Force Fist Technique were martial arts of the same caliber. The former emphasized speed and seizing opportunities, while the latter focused on raw power and overwhelming frontal assaults.
When their fists collided, a sickening crack echoed, like bones shattering. The malicious grin on Chen Zhongjie's face twisted into terror as Chen Zong's punch, unstoppable as a landslide, shattered his Wolf Strike Stance and drove straight into his abdomen.
A dull thud reverberated like a war drum. The force of the blow sent shockwaves through Chen Zhongjie's martial robes, causing them to ripple violently. His stomach caved inward under the impact, the devastating power threatening to pulverize his internal organs. His back arched in agony, his eyes bulged from their sockets, bloodshot and wide with horror, and drool spilled from his gaping mouth.
Chen Zong withdrew his fist. Chen Zhongjie crumpled to his knees, clutching his stomach, his body wracked with searing pain. With a retching groan, he vomited a shocking stream of crimson blood.
The punch had been brutal, a cathartic release of Chen Zong's pent-up fury. Chen Zhongjie had sustained internal injuries that would require at least a week of complete rest to heal.
"Chen Zhongjie," Chen Zong said coldly, his gaze unwavering, "remember this well. The next time you insult my Father, you'll face the consequences yourself. Relay this message verbatim to Chen Dalei and Chen Zhigang." With that, Chen Zong turned and strode away, his steps firm, his back straighter than ever.
As fellow members of the Chen Clan, injuring Chen Zhongjie was enough. Chen Zong had no intention of killing him, knowing it would violate clan rules and invite punishment.
The Martial Training Ground fell silent. Every eye widened, and mouths hung agape, as if they were seeing Chen Zong for the first time. A tidal wave of shock and disbelief surged through their minds.
Leaving the training ground, Chen Zong encountered two approaching figures.
"Brother Zong!" Chen Yiming called out, rushing forward. "What are you doing at the Martial Training Ground?"
"Getting a sword," Chen Zong replied, gesturing to the iron blade in his left hand with a smile.
"Brother Zong, are you switching to swordplay? But our clan doesn't have any sword-based Martial Arts," Chen Yiming asked, puzzled.
"Just messing around," Chen Zong chuckled. He felt the previous night's events were significant and instinctively knew he should keep them to himself. Chen Yiming didn't press the issue but stared at Chen Zong's face, frowning. "Brother Zong, you look different from yesterday."
"That's because my cultivation base has reached the second layer of the Qi Blood Realm," Chen Zong replied with a grin.
"That's amazing!" Chen Yiming exclaimed, even more excited than if he himself had made the breakthrough.
"Yiming, come over here," a delicate voice called out, tinged with icy coolness.
"Yuyao, it's been a while," Chen Zong said, turning to greet her with a smile.
Her developing figure was beautifully accentuated by a tight-fitting red martial arts uniform. Her long, slender legs, encased in soft deerskin boots, were particularly striking, captivating all who saw them.
Chen Yuyao, the Clan Leader's daughter, was the same age as Chen Zong. Like Chen Yiming, she had been one of Chen Zong's childhood playmates. However, after they began martial arts training, Chen Yiming remained as close to Chen Zong as ever, while Chen Yuyao gradually distanced herself.
"Chen Zong," she said coldly, glancing at the iron sword at his side, "diligence is commendable, but you must face reality. Uncle Zhengtang has lost his cultivation base and his health is failing. Do you really intend to let him continue felling trees and splitting firewood to support your lack of progress indefinitely?" She paused, then added, "Out of respect for Uncle Zhengtang's past contributions to the clan, I could ask my father to arrange a less strenuous task for you within the clan."
"Thank you for your concern, but I don't need it," Chen Zong replied, his brow furrowing slightly. An indescribable discomfort settled in his heart. As childhood sweethearts, it was impossible for him to have no feelings for Chen Yuyao. At times, he couldn't help but recall their younger days, when Yuyao, her hair in braids, would trail behind him, calling out, "Brother Zong!" It was a cherished memory.
But now, Yuyao's words seemed to have dimmed that memory.
People change, Chen Zong told himself silently.
"Suit yourself," Yuyao said, her brow creasing in dissatisfaction at his attitude, though she restrained her anger. "But let me offer one last piece of advice: know your limits. Overestimating yourself will only bring suffering to your family. Also, Yiming has exceptional talent for martial arts. Don't bother him again; you'll only hinder his progress."
"Cousin, my affairs are none of your concern!" Chen Yiming snapped, tugging at Chen Zong's sleeve. "Brother Zong, let's go. Don't waste your time with her."
"Farewell," Chen Zong said to Yuyao in a flat tone, departing with Chen Yiming and leaving her standing there, her face flushed with displeasure.