151: Chapter 151 Sword Competition

The sword light on the arena dissipated.

Three streaks of sword light flew from the tip of Zhao Mingyang's sword, piercing toward Lin Fan's brow, throat, and heart in a triangular formation.

The sound of the sword light tearing through the air was sharp and piercing, like three red-hot iron wires scraping across an iron plate simultaneously.

The gazes of everyone below the stage were fixed on those three streaks of sword light—they were fast, so fast that the newcomers could only see three blurred trails of light.

They were ruthless, so ruthless that the senior Disciples were silently calculating in their hearts whether they could block this strike.

Then, Lin Fan drew his sword.

The autumn water sword slid from the scabbard at his waist; the movement was not fast, one could even say it was somewhat leisurely.

Drawing the sword, gripping the hilt, raising his hand, thrusting out—every movement was clear, as if he were demonstrating for the newcomers below the stage.

But no one could laugh. Because the moment the sword tip thrust out, five streaks of sword light lit up simultaneously.

Not three, but five. Five streaks of sword light bloomed in the Void Realm, like five sword flowers blossoming at once, arranged in a plum blossom pattern.

Each streak of sword light was as solid as a real blade, with a faint layer of rosy light flowing across the sword body; it was the radiance naturally emitted after Internal Energy had been infused to its limit.

The five streaks of sword light tore through the air simultaneously, yet they did not emit any sharp whistling sounds—they were too fast, so fast that the sound was left behind.

The noise below the stage was cut off instantly, as if someone had grabbed it by the throat.

Three streaks of sword light collided with three streaks of sword light. Zhao Mingyang's three streaks and Lin Fan's three streaks crashed together in mid-air, emitting three crisp sounds of metal clashing.

Clang, clang, clang—Zhao Mingyang's sword light shattered, turning into fine specks of light that dissipated into the air. Lin Fan's three streaks of sword light also vanished simultaneously, as if they had never appeared.

But Lin Fan still had two streaks of sword light. Those two streaks passed through the scattering light, through the turbulent air currents churned up by the Sword Qi above the arena, and past the sword blade Zhao Mingyang had hurriedly raised to parry, thrusting toward his body from the left and right.

Zhao Mingyang's face turned deathly pale under the reflection of those two streaks of sword light. Five streaks of sword light! Only these three words remained in his mind, crashing against his skull over and over, making his ears buzz. Five streaks of sword light!

How could it be! How long had he practiced? From the moment he received the Xiaguang Sword Technique until now, he had risen before dawn every day to practice, and even at night, when everyone else was asleep, he was still swinging his sword in the courtyard.

Calluses had formed on his hands; they broke and reformed, broke and reformed, eventually turning into a layer of hard, dead skin.

He had practiced the Xiaguang Sword Technique to the Minor Achievement Realm, thrusting three streaks of sword light with a single strike, and everyone praised him as a Genius. But now, Lin Fan had thrust five streaks of sword light with a single strike.

He wanted to dodge, but his body couldn't keep up with his eyes. He wanted to block, but just as his wrist turned and before his sword edge was in position, the first streak of sword light had already arrived.

Clang—he barely parried one streak of sword light, but the immense force transmitted from the sword made the web of his thumb go numb, and his entire arm trembled along with it.

The second streak of sword light seized the gap while his arm was numb, precisely piercing through his defense and running right through his right upper arm.

The sword light passed through his arm, bringing out a mist of fine blood. Zhao Mingyang only felt a chill in his right arm, followed by a sharp pain that shot up along his arm, so painful that his entire arm lost all strength.

The precious sword in his hand almost flew out of his grip; he had to clutch the hilt tightly with his left hand to keep it from falling to the ground.

But his body had already lost its balance. He stumbled backward, stepped on the bluestone at the edge of the arena, his foot slipped, and he fell backward, crashing down.

With a muffled thud, his back slammed onto the dirt ground below the arena. The wound on his right arm was jarred again upon impact, and fresh blood flowed down his sleeve, dyeing the cuff bright red.

Zhao Mingyang lay on the ground, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out, but cold sweat had already broken out in dense beads on his forehead.

He stared up at the crowns of the crooked old pine trees overhead; the pine needles swayed gently in the sunlight, making his vision blur.

On the arena, Lin Fan sheathed the autumn water sword back into the scabbard at his waist. The movement of the blade sliding into the scabbard was clean and swift, just as unhurried as when he had drawn it.

He stood in the center of the arena, not having moved a single step. There wasn't even a sword mark on his robes, his hair was neat, and his breathing was steady.

It was as if that strike just now had been merely a casual swing.

One move.

The entire venue was silent for a full three breaths. After three breaths, it exploded.

"Five streaks of sword light! I saw five streaks of sword light!"

"What Realm is it to practice the Xiaguang Sword Technique to five streaks of sword light? Above Minor Achievement? No way!"

"Mastery! It's the Mastery Realm! One strike with five lights is the hallmark of the Mastery Realm! He has practiced the Xiaguang Sword Technique to Mastery!"

The newcomers jumped up from the ground, the expressions on their faces as if they had seen a ghost in broad daylight. Most of them hadn't even entered the threshold of the Xiaguang Sword Technique, and some couldn't even remember all the sword moves, only barely managing to imitate a rough approximation.

Yet Lin Fan had already practiced the Xiaguang Sword Technique to the Mastery Realm—not Proficiency, not Minor Achievement, but Mastery.

That was a Realm some veteran Disciples couldn't reach even after practicing for several years.

The senior Disciples stood on the periphery, their arms, which had been crossed, dropped down at some point. They saw more clearly than the newcomers. Lin Fan's strike just now, it wasn't just about the number of sword lights, but more importantly, the solidity of the sword light.

Each of those five streaks of sword light was as solid as a real blade, which indicated that his infusion of Internal Energy had reached the level of freely controlling it.

When ordinary Disciples practice to five streaks of sword light, the light might be somewhat faint, with edges that diffuse. But Lin Fan's five streaks of sword light had sharp and clear edges; one could even vaguely see the patterns on the sword body within the sword light.

This wasn't just entering Mastery; this was taking a major step forward within the Mastery Realm.

Junior Sister Zheng Xiaoyun stood in the crowd, her hand still clenched, but she was completely stunned.

She had her mouth open, her eyes wide, watching the figure on the arena who was sheathing his sword.

Was this still the Junior Brother Lin she knew? The clumsy boy from a year ago who spent one thousand taels of silver to ask her to teach him the Purple Qi Diagram and took a month just to enter the threshold?

The stubborn figure who was deemed by everyone at the Training Ground to be on the verge of being expelled, only to end up shocking the entire field with a palm strike that unleashed hidden energy? Now, he had thrust out five streaks of sword light with one strike, knocking Zhao Mingyang, publicly acknowledged as having the best sword talent among the newcomers, off the arena in a single move.

Senior Brother Li stood beside Junior Sister Zheng Xiaoyun, his lips moving as he let out a low exclamation of amazement.

He didn't say much, but the four words "peerless Genius" spoken from his mouth carried much more weight than when spoken by those newcomers.

Zhao Mingyue rushed out from the front row of the crowd. The smile on her face had shattered completely the moment the five streaks of sword light lit up, replaced by a pallor bordering on terror.

She ran to the foot of the arena, crouched beside Zhao Mingyang, and frantically pulled out a handkerchief to press against the wound on his arm; the handkerchief was soaked through with blood as soon as she pressed it on.

"Brother! Brother! Are you alright?"

Zhao Mingyang did not answer. His eyes were still open, but the light within them had scattered.

His pupils reflected the blurred shadows of the crooked old pine trees overhead, swaying gently with the movement of the pine needles. His lips were trembling slightly, not from pain, but from a dense, pervasive despair seeping out from the gaps in his bones.

How could it be? How could it end up like this? How many days and nights had he practiced the Xiaguang Sword Technique? The calluses on his hands had worn down layer after layer, and the wrapping on the sword hilt had changed color from being soaked in sweat.

When he practiced the sword technique to Minor Achievement, even the Senior Brother who taught him said he was gifted, the one with the highest sword Dao talent among this batch of newcomers.

Yet Lin Fan thrust five streaks of sword light with one strike. Not three, not four, but five. Two more than him.

He had lost. He lost cleanly, he lost completely, he lost so thoroughly that he couldn't even find an excuse for himself.

The opponent didn't even use some profound sword technique; it was the same Xiaguang Sword Technique as his, using the very technique he was most proud of, in the field he was most confident in, in one move, he had knocked him off the arena. What was more despairing than losing was losing with nothing to say.

Lin Fan walked down from the arena. His footsteps on the bluestone steps made a light, rhythmic tapping sound.

He passed through the dense crowd below the arena, walked up to Zhao Mingyang, and stood still. Sunlight leaked through the branches and leaves of the old pines, casting mottled light and shadows upon him.

"You lost." His voice was calm, without any smugness or mockery, as if stating a fact, "According to the agreement, give me the treasure map."

Zhao Mingyang lay on the ground, his lips still trembling, his gaze unfocused as he stared at the pine needles overhead, as if he hadn't heard what Lin Fan was saying at all. His right hand was still clutched tightly around the sword hilt, his knuckles white, his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm, seeping a trace of blood.

Zhao Mingyue looked up. Her eye sockets were slightly red, not from crying, but from anxiety.

She glanced at Lin Fan; in those eyes, there was no longer the arrogance from a year ago when she questioned the shopkeeper at Wanbao Pavilion, nor the sharpness from when she said "Could it be that you are a Genius like my brother?" at the Training Ground.

All that remained was a sense of unwillingness, flattened by defeat. She bit her lip, reached into Zhao Mingyang's robes, pulled out the yellowed sheepskin scroll, and threw it toward Lin Fan.

"Here." Her voice was short and crisp, without any extra emotion, "Brother, let's go."

She draped Zhao Mingyang's arm over her shoulder and used her strength to help him up from the ground.

Zhao Mingyang was half a head taller than her, and the weight of his body made her stagger slightly, but she gritted her teeth, steadied herself, and walked toward the outside of the crowd step by step.

The watching Disciples automatically cleared a path, their gazes following the siblings' backs; some shook their heads, some sighed, and some whispered something.

Lin Fan reached out and caught the sheepskin scroll. The sheepskin felt dry and rough to the touch, its edges worn and frayed, and the thin hemp rope tied around it had faded, loosely wrapped twice.

He didn't open it on the spot; he tucked the scroll into his robes and turned to leave.

"Senior Brother Lin!"

"Junior Brother Lin, wait!"

The newcomers swarmed up, the admiration on their faces genuine and real. Some squeezed to the front to state their names, saying which peak or courtyard they were from, wanting to ask for guidance in the future. Some reached out from the crowd, wanting to pat his shoulder to get close, saying they had long thought highly of him.

Several senior Disciples also walked over from the periphery, their pace not fast, but the solemnity in their gazes was completely different from the condescending scrutiny from before.

One of the square-faced, broad-shouldered veteran Disciples from Zixia Peak walked up to Lin Fan, cupped his fists, and spoke in a courteous tone: "Junior Brother Lin, I am He Ziming from Zixia Peak. I would like to get to know you and perhaps spar with you another day? Regarding your strike just now, I feel inferior."

Lin Fan did not stop his pace. He cupped his fists toward everyone, with an apologetic smile on his face: "Apologies, Senior Brothers and Senior Sisters, I really don't have time today."

He passed through the bustling crowd, his pace getting faster and faster. The Cloud Shadow Step was brought out unconsciously, his body flashed a few times in the crowd, and he quickly passed through the gentle slope beside the arena, turning into the path leading down the mountain.

The enthusiastic voices behind him gradually faded away, scattered by the mountain wind in the pine and cypress forest, leaving only a few scattered sounds like "Don't push, don't push" and "Junior Brother Lin is truly a Genius" lingering in the air.

A few senior Disciples stood in place, watching his figure disappear hurriedly at the end of the path, their faces revealing a hint of regret.

"What a pity, missed an opportunity to befriend a Genius." He Ziming shook his head, lowered his cupped hands, his tone filled with genuine regret.