11: Chapter 11 Weekend Test

After hanging up the phone, Li Zhengyang stared at his bank account balance for a while.

Seventy thousand.

He opened the system, selected recharge, entered 70,000, and confirmed.

[Recharge successful!]

[Recharge amount: 70,000]

[Obtained Blood Qi value: +700]

[Current Blood Qi value: 4828]

[Current Realm: 4th Rank Martial Artist]

He hadn't broken through to the 5th Rank.

He was still short by 172 points.

That meant 17,200 yuan.

Li Zhengyang rummaged through all his pockets and fished out 37 yuan and 60 cents.

"Fine, let's leave it at that for now."

He put the change back into his pocket and lay down to rest.

Early the next morning, when Li Zhengyang arrived at school, the atmosphere felt wrong.

The Martial Arts Technical College's combat test arena was an open-air ring surrounded by stands that could accommodate seven or eight hundred people.

Usually, the monthly exams only attracted two or three hundred people, but today, it was packed with a sea of people, with students even standing in the aisles.

It was lively.

Just as Li Zhengyang walked through the entrance of the test arena, he heard the first comment.

"He's here, he's here—the one who sold his quota."

The voice drifted down from the stands, not too loud, but just right for everyone around to hear.

Li Zhengyang didn't stop walking.

"Hey, did you hear? That registered poverty quota? He sold it for 200,000."

"No way, so many people have their eyes on that quota, and he just sold it like that?"

"He's poor, isn't he? Poor people are blinded by money; it's normal."

The murmurs weren't coming from just one place; they came from all directions, and he was surrounded by people pointing fingers at him.

Li Zhengyang walked to the side of the ring and found an empty spot.

A boy next to him leaned in. He was half a head taller than Li Zhengyang, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, with a look of righteous indignation on his face.

"You're Li Zhengyang?"

"Yeah."

"You even sold the poverty student quota? That quota is a government policy for impoverished families, not something just for you. Do you have any idea how many people are waiting..."

Before he could finish, Li Zhengyang raised his hand and slapped him across the face. *Smack.*

The sound was crisp, and the entire test arena went quiet for a full half-second.

The boy was stunned by the slap. He staggered back two steps, clutching his left cheek, his eyes wide.

The few students nearby who were ready to chime in were also stunned.

"You hit me? You motherf..."

"*Smack!*" Another slap followed.

The boy lost two teeth, flew backward, and embedded himself into the wall.

Seeing this, the crowd went silent.

Li Zhengyang leaned back against the railing. This smear campaign was well-orchestrated.

Director Wang knew how to get things done; he started by stirring up public opinion and applying pressure, thinking that once Li Zhengyang couldn't take it anymore, he would naturally return the money from the sale of the quota.

Unfortunately, his calculations were wrong. Li Zhengyang didn't care at all what these people thought of him.

The quota was his, and whether or not he sold it was his own business. These people, on the other hand—they didn't even have the qualifications to get it themselves, yet they had a problem with him disposing of it?

A voice came from the podium. Director Wang was sitting in the center of the judges' table, with two teachers on either side of him.

He held the microphone and cleared his throat.

"Quiet, everyone, quiet. The rules for this monthly combat test are the same as before: one-on-one free challenges, no restrictions on methods."

He paused, then added, "Both parties participating in combat must sign a liability waiver. If there are any injuries or deaths, the school will not be held responsible."

A liability waiver. Li Zhengyang had been at this school for two years, and they had never done such a thing for monthly exams.

In the past, if you lost a fight, you'd end up with a bruised nose and a swollen face at most, and a bit of medicine from the school infirmary would fix it. Adding a liability waiver today made the motive all too obvious.

But that didn't matter; he liked it.

The routine combat tests began below. The skill levels were uneven, with the highest reaching 4th Rank Martial Artist, which made Li Zhengyang yawn.

By the time the ninth match came around, there was a commotion by the ring. Wang Ming had come up.

His entire outfit, from head to toe, reeked of money.

His custom martial arts armor had an inner lining made of special material for channeling Blood Qi. He wore a pair of alloy bracers on his wrists, and the combat boots on his feet were clearly high-end custom work, with weighted alloy blocks embedded in the soles to increase kicking power.

The whole set, conservatively estimated, cost over a hundred thousand.

The uncle and nephew had planned it out: first create public pressure, then provoke Li Zhengyang, and find a way to get the 200,000 back.

He stood on the ring, scanned the crowd, and then his gaze landed on Li Zhengyang.

"Li Zhengyang." "Get up here."

The stands erupted in a buzz.

"Wang Ming is a 5th Rank Martial Artist? When did he break through?"

"Wasn't he just 4th Rank?"

"I heard he used some good stuff; his uncle got him the resources."

Li Zhengyang didn't move; he just glanced at him.

Wang Ming smiled, a condescending smile.

"What, are you scared? Someone who sold their own future for 200,000—did you sell your guts to get on stage too?"

Some people in the stands laughed.

Li Zhengyang straightened up from the railing.

"I can fight you, but let's add a wager."

"If you don't have money, don't waste my time."

Wang Ming raised an eyebrow, and his face turned visibly red.

"Are you fucking negotiating with me?"

"Yeah."

Wang Ming pulled a bank card from his pocket and slapped it onto the floor of the ring.

"Fifty thousand! If you win, it's yours! If you lose, you drop out!"

Li Zhengyang had already walked to the edge of the ring. He placed one foot on the edge but didn't go up.

"Fifty thousand?" He shook his head.

"Wang Ming, are you looking down on me, or are you looking down on your own status as a prospective undergraduate?"

On the podium, Director Wang's hand tightened on his teacup. This kid was fishing.

But Wang Ming didn't see his uncle's signal, or rather, the confidence of a 5th Rank Martial Artist made him disdainful of looking.

"How much do you want to bet?"

"Two hundred thousand." Li Zhengyang vaulted onto the ring and stood still. "Let's bet that 200,000 you used to buy the quota. If you win, I'll return the original price to you, and I'll kneel and call myself trash—if three times isn't enough, I'll call it ten times. If I win, you give me another 200,000."

The crowd exploded. 200,000 against 200,000.

Wang Ming was choked up, his expression wavering between arrogance and hesitation.

"Scared?" Li Zhengyang added.

These two words were more effective than 200,000.

"Scared of a poor wretch like you?" Wang Ming gritted his teeth and turned to look at the podium. "Uncle!"

Director Wang slammed his teacup down on the table.

He wanted to stop it, but with hundreds of people from the school watching, he couldn't. If he stopped it, it would be the same as telling everyone that his nephew was a coward.

"Sign the paper," Director Wang squeezed out the three words.

The agreement was written on the spot, both parties signed and pressed their thumbprints, and Director Wang personally notarized it.

In black and white: the loser pays 200,000.

After signing, Li Zhengyang tossed the pen to a staff member and loosened his neck.

He didn't take his spear; he was empty-handed.

"Start!"

Wang Ming moved.

The explosive power of a 5th Rank Martial Artist wasn't bad, especially with the support of that gear; the efficiency of his Blood Qi circulation was at least 20% higher than if he were unequipped.

He stepped forward three meters and threw a right punch, the wind of his fist whistling.

This punch was aimed at Li Zhengyang's chest. It landed dead on.

Someone below gasped. But the sound choked off halfway.

Because following that dull thud, there was the sound of a bone breaking. *Snap.*

It was very clear. It wasn't Li Zhengyang's ribs that broke. It was Wang Ming's entire right arm.

From the knuckles to the elbow joint to the shoulder blade, there were three fractures, and his arm was bent at an unnatural angle.

Li Zhengyang hadn't even circulated his energy. This was purely the hardness of his physical body.

A 5th Rank Martial Artist striking the protective Qi of a 4th Rank Martial Artist was like throwing an egg at a wall.

There was a full major realm difference; the chasm between a martial artist and a Martial Artist (4th Rank) couldn't be filled by equipment.

Wang Ming's face turned pale. "Is that it?"

Li Zhengyang looked down at his chest, where there was a fist print on his T-shirt. "The future undergraduate?"

He raised his right hand, gripped Wang Ming's neck with his fingers, and lifted him up.

Wang Ming's feet left the ground, and he desperately tried to pry Li Zhengyang's fingers off with his left hand, but he couldn't budge them.

Li Zhengyang raised his left hand and slapped him. *Smack.*

Wang Ming flew from one end of the ring to the other, rolled three and a half times, and slammed into the railing at the edge.

The railing was welded from steel pipes, and one of them was bent by the impact of his body.

"Ah, my hand! My arm!"

Wang Ming lay on the ground, his right arm bent at an angle no human body should have.

He tried to push himself up with his hand, but as soon as he applied force, his right arm wobbled, and the pain caused him to collapse back down, letting out a howl.

It wasn't a simple fracture. It was a backflow of Blood Qi.

This was the thing martial artists feared most.

When a martial artist strikes the protective Qi of a Martial Artist, all the force is rebounded, flowing back along the fist and into the meridians.

A broken fist bone was a small matter; damage to the meridians was the real disaster.

To put it simply, this arm was ruined, and the meridians on the right side of his body were also wrecked along with it.

His martial arts foundation was destroyed.

From now on, let alone upgrading to an undergraduate degree, whether Wang Ming could continue practicing martial arts at all was a question.

The entire venue was silent. Hundreds of people sat with their mouths open, having forgotten how to react.

On the podium, two teachers stood up. Director Wang sat in his chair, his face ashen.

Li Zhengyang picked up the written agreement from the ground, blew the dust off it, folded it, and tucked it into his pocket.

Then he walked toward the podium, not fast, with a kind smile.

"Director Wang."

Director Wang didn't speak.

"Bank transfer or QR code?"