High Martial Arts: Enlightenment after Practices

Zhou Shaoting’s gaze finally fell back on Zhou Chen. He looked at his most outstanding son, at the suppressed battle Intention in his eyes, and at the sword resting at his waist. Silence. A long silence followed. Then, Zhou Shaoting spoke.

”If you go to battle, how confident are you?”

Zhou Chen did not hesitate. ”A hundred percent.”

This answer was too absolute, so much so that several ministers in the hall couldn’t help but frown.

But Zhou Chen continued, ”It is not that I am arrogant, but for this battle, I must believe I can win.

”If I don’t even believe in myself, why bother going to battle?”

Zhou Shaoting stared at him for a long time before suddenly smiling. His smile was somewhat complex. It held relief, pride, and a faint trace of worry.

”Good,” he said. ”Then you shall go to battle.”

Zhou Chen bowed. ”Thank you, Imperial Father!”

”Don’t be so quick to thank me.” Zhou Shaoting waved his hand. ”I still have conditions.

”In this battle, you are only allowed to win, not lose.

”If you win, I will host a banquet at the Imperial Ancestral Temple to personally celebrate your victory.

”If you lose...” He paused before finishing, ”...come back to receive twenty strokes of the military cane and reflect on your mistakes in solitary confinement for three months.”

Zhou Chen raised his head, the light in his eyes burning even brighter.

”I obey your decree!”

He turned and strode out of the Ziji Hall. The hem of his dark martial attire billowed in the night wind. His steps were steady and powerful, without the slightest hesitation.

Everyone in the hall watched him leave.

Zhang Wu said in a low voice, ”Your Majesty, with the Sixth Prince going to battle, the odds of winning should be over seventy percent.”

Zhou Shaoting did not answer. He simply looked out at the thick night beyond the hall, his gaze distant.

Seventy percent? As a father, he only hoped his son could return safely.

***

Outside the Ziji Hall, the night was as tranquil as water.

Zhou Chen walked down the white marble steps. The eunuch guarding outside the hall hurriedly stepped forward. ”Your Highness, should I prepare a carriage?”

”No need,” Zhou Chen said. ”I will walk back.”

The eunuch did not dare to say more and stepped aside.

Zhou Chen walked alone through the deserted palace pathways, heading toward the Eastern Palace. He didn’t take a carriage, nor did he bring a guard. He just walked slowly, all by himself.

The night breeze brushed against his cheeks, carrying the chill of early autumn. The locust trees lining the palace path RUSTLED, their leaves shimmering with a silver-gray luster under the moonlight.

Zhou Chen walked very slowly. His battle Intention had settled down, replaced by something much more serene.

A hundred percent confidence? Of course not. He just had to display absolute confidence in front of his Imperial Father and the ministers, because Great Liang needed such confidence.

But he was well aware that the eccentric who repelled Zhao Yuanwu with a single strike was by no means ordinary. Although Zhao Yuanwu had long been away from the Battle Array, he was, after all, a veteran Sub-Saint. To be able to force him back within three moves while remaining completely unscathed—such strength would definitely place him among the absolute pinnacle of the Sub-Saint circle in Great Liang.

Zhou Chen asked himself if he could do the same. He could, but definitely not as calmly as the intelligence reports described. This meant that the opponent’s strength was very likely not below his own.

Perhaps even stronger. Zhou Chen stopped in his tracks and looked up at the night sky.

Beijing was unusually clear tonight, with the Milky Way stretching across the sky, stars as numerous as grains of sand. He recalled the first time he exchanged blows with Xie Yunfeng three years ago. He won that battle, but it hadn’t been an easy victory. Xie Yunfeng’s sword had been too fast and too sharp; it wasn’t until the seventy-first exchange that he finally seized a fleeting opening.

A year later, during their second encounter, he won with a bit more ease. In their third bout, he won by a margin of nineteen moves. During the fourth—which was the battle three months ago—he managed to Break Xie Yunfeng’s Sword Momentum at the fifty-third move, securing victory with a single strike.

He was improving. Xie Yunfeng was also improving. It was just that he was improving faster.

But what about that eccentric? Where lay his limits? Zhou Chen didn’t know. He only knew that he was looking forward to this battle. Not for his Imperial Father, not for the Royal Family, and not even for Great Liang. Merely for himself.

He wanted to know just what level his thirty-five years of arduous Cultivation had reached. He wanted to know what a top Genius in Great Liang like himself amounted to when placed in the wider world. He also wanted to know if that Divine Weapon brought out from the Imperial Ancestral Temple could truly help him cleave through all obstacles, just as the legends claimed.

Zhou Chen withdrew his gaze and continued walking forward. Up ahead, the lights of the Eastern Palace were faintly visible. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.

***

At the same time, thousands of miles away.

Liang Wei Third, the polar ice fields.

Zhao Yuanwu stood alone at the entrance of the abandoned cave.

It had been three days. He had replayed that brief, miserable battle in his mind dozens of times. Every move, every stance, every look. That eccentric’s spear. That bizarre Gravity Manipulation. The terrifying pressure transmitted from the spear tip during that clash. And that final phrase, ”See you again.” Not ”We shall never meet again,” nor ”I will take your life next time.” Just ”See you again.” As if certain they would cross paths once more. As if certain that when they did, he would still be no match.

Zhao Yuanwu clenched his fists. He was already over sixty, his Qi and Blood starting to decline. This battle was perhaps his final chance in this life to exchange blows with a top-tier Sub-Saint. But he had lost. Lost cleanly and without dispute.

Zhao Yuanwu closed his eyes. The wind of the ice field whipped up snow particles, striking his face with a piercing, bone-deep chill. He did not dodge. After a long time, he opened his eyes, turned, and walked away.

The blizzard soon buried his footprints. The cave entrance returned to silence once more, as though no one had ever been there.

***

At the Eastern Palace.

By the time Zhou Chen returned to his sleeping quarters, it was already the midnight hour. He did not rest immediately; instead, he walked to the training ground behind the hall.

Under the moonlight, the training ground was vast and silent. He unfastened the longsword at his waist and unsheathed it. The blade was roughly three feet and three inches long, no wider than two fingers, completely silver-white, with two blood grooves carved into its spine.

Engraved near the hilt were two small ancient seal characters: Jinghong.

This was the Divine Weapon his Imperial Father had bestowed upon him the year he advanced to Sub-Saint. It was said to be the posthumous work of a master swordsmith from a century ago, capable of slicing through iron like mud and splitting a falling hair.

Zhou Chen stood, sword in hand. The night breeze brushed across the blade, emitting a faint HUM.

He did not circulate his energy or channel any Sword Qi; he simply gripped the sword, feeling the weight and temperature radiating from the blade. Then, he began to practice. Not those exquisite Sword Techniques, nor the secret ultimate arts of the Royal Family. Just the most basic thrusts, upward flicks, chops, and slashes.

Once, twice, three times. His movements were not fast; in fact, they could even be considered very slow. But every strike was immensely focused. The sword edge sliced through the air, producing a soft HISS. The moonlight flowed over the blade like a thin layer of frost.

Half an hour later, Zhou Chen sheathed his sword. His forehead was slightly beaded with sweat, yet his breathing was even steadier than before.

This was his method of maintaining top condition. Not last-minute Cultivation of a High-Tier Cultivation Technique, but a return to the basics, allowing his body to reacquaint itself with the purest combat instincts.

He turned back to the hall. Upon reaching the threshold, he suddenly stopped in his tracks.

”Since the State Preceptor is here, why not show yourself?”

A light chuckle drifted through the night sky. Li Xuangang’s figure emerged from the shadows of the eaves, still leaning on that purple sandalwood walking stick.