Chapter Sixteen: The Duel of the Third Rank

With a low shout, Wang Moyan channeled his entire aura into the long blade in his hand. He raised the blade and charged swiftly toward Shen Qinghe; five meters vanished in an instant. Just as they were about to collide, Wang Moyan suddenly leapt into the air, his blade glowing with a barely perceptible crimson light as his aura surged through it.

Suspended in midair, Wang Moyan brought his blade down with force. Shen Qinghe raised his spear horizontally above his head, his legs sinking into a horse stance. With a resounding crash, the two clashed and instantly separated.

Wang Moyan landed and retreated two steps, while Shen Qinghe staggered, his body tilting backward. Regaining their footing, both rushed at each other once more.

Shen Qinghe thrust his spear forward, but Wang Moyan sidestepped, slashing at Shen Qinghe’s flank. Shen Qinghe drew back his spear to block. As their weapons collided, Shen Qinghe lifted his right leg and swept it toward Wang Moyan’s waist.

Wang Moyan tried to retreat, but was a moment too late—the leg was about to strike his waist. His expression changed; twisting his body, he took the blow on his back.

The sharp slap of flesh against flesh echoed as Wang Moyan stepped forward, forcibly halting his momentum and immediately counterattacked with his blade. Shen Qinghe, just catching his balance after retracting his leg, found the blade sweeping toward him.

He hadn’t expected Wang Moyan to withstand the blow; unable to block in time, he could only withdraw. As he retreated, Wang Moyan pressed his attack, his blade raining down upon Shen Qinghe.

The spear, less agile than the blade during close combat, could only parry as Shen Qinghe was pushed back, retreating step by step. He had just gained the upper hand, but Wang Moyan’s reckless, body-sacrificing style turned the tide, leaving Shen Qinghe helpless.

This was supposed to be just a match—was this really necessary? Taking the full force of that kick would already leave injuries, and forcibly stopping its impact could easily cause internal harm. Yet Wang Moyan pressed forward, heedless of injury, causing Shen Qinghe’s head to ache; something felt off about this scenario.

Shen Qinghe steeled himself. After blocking another slash from Wang Moyan, he took advantage of the moment when Wang Moyan’s strength had ebbed and not yet renewed. Shen Qinghe twisted his spear, thrusting at Wang Moyan like a swimming dragon.

Wang Moyan saw the spear coming and rolled backward, retreating. The advantage shifted once again.

With distance regained, Shen Qinghe spun his spear—thrusting, flicking, lifting, smashing—relentlessly driving Wang Moyan back.

“It’s about done. Wang Moyan’s going to lose,” Zhou Ting observed.

“Really? That fast?” Yang Fan was puzzled; the bout had only just begun. The two fighters exchanged moves rapidly, but the actual engagement was brief.

“From the start, Wang Moyan took Shen Qinghe’s aura-infused kick head on, then forcibly absorbed the impact. His organs are already wounded. He launched a full-force attack without time to suppress his injuries; naturally, he can’t last. Now Shen Qinghe has regained the initiative, and his ‘Breaker Spear’ is known for its overwhelming force. Prolonged defense with an injured body won’t hold up. Once he can’t endure…” Zhou Ting explained.

On the field, the match continued—one attacking, one defending.

“Frenzied Slash!” Seizing an opening, Wang Moyan unleashed his full aura, the faint crimson glow on his blade erupting suddenly. He pressed his assault upon Shen Qinghe.

Shen Qinghe’s eyes brightened. “This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.”

“Breaker!” Shen Qinghe abruptly stopped his retreat, shouted, and spun his spear to meet Wang Moyan’s blade.

Blade and spear collided, aura exploded outward, a shockwave swept in all directions.

Zhou Ting stepped in front of Yang Fan and Zhou Yiyi, her own aura surging. Yang Fan, watching Zhou Ting, felt as if she transformed from an aloof goddess into an icy mountain, shielding him.

...

When the aura settled, Shen Qinghe knelt, leaning on his spear, while Wang Moyan stood behind Li Qing, who had intervened at the critical moment to separate them.

“I declare Shen Qinghe the victor,” Li Qing announced.

“Brother Wang, thank you for the match. Your ‘Frenzied Three Slashes’ is indeed formidable—I’ve learned much,” Shen Qinghe said as he stood.

Wang Moyan’s face was grim; he suddenly spat out a mouthful of blood. After steadying his breath, he said, “I lost this time—carelessness cost me. Next time, I’ll challenge you again. Your ranking on the Yellow List—I’m going to claim it.”

Shen Qinghe replied, “I await your challenge anytime.”

With these words, Wang Moyan departed first. Suffering internal injuries, he needed urgent treatment lest lasting harm hinder his martial path.

“The excitement’s over. Let’s head back to the academy,” Zhou Ting said to Yang Fan and Zhou Yiyi.

The three left the warehouse and drove away.

On the way back, Yang Fan asked Zhou Ting, “Are martial artists’ battles always this quick?”

Zhou Ting replied, “Mostly, yes. Modern martial artists participate in relic battles, and in conflicts between worlds, only the outcome matters, not the process. Every move is a killing strike; conventional martial arts are mostly for show, useless in real combat. No one cares about elegance—the likes of Wang Moyan’s rolling dodge are perfectly normal. Survival and strength matter far more than face.”

Yang Fan thought it over; the length of a fight didn’t matter, only the result. Whether victory was decided in ten minutes or one, the outcome was the same—why not choose the faster way?

In martial duels, pride is unnecessary. Seize every chance for victory, fight for survival—that’s a martial artist’s duty.

...

Magic City Cultivation Academy, freshmen dormitory area. Dorm 0001.

Yang Fan sat on the sofa, still replaying the duel he’d just witnessed.

Third-rank martial artists weren’t considered especially strong among the twelve martial ranks; their realm was only mid-tier Yellow. The fight was brief, but the outcome decisive. Yang Fan had watched it closely.

A third-rank martial artist had just opened their “Qi Sea,” gathering aura, and even at this stage, their power was evident—the warehouse floor was left in disarray after the fight, despite the two barely touching the ground. The scattered stones thrown up by aura, the footprints left by defensive maneuvers, were clearly visible.

Yang Fan had always thought tales of martial artists shattering mountains and rocks were exaggerated. After all, flesh and blood could hardly compare to stone. But today, he witnessed even third-rank warriors crack the ground with their aura—what about higher ranks? Fourth? Fifth? Or even those at tenth or eleventh rank—could they truly shatter mountains with a single strike?

Yang Fan dared not imagine.

...

His desire to cultivate, already burning, was now reignited with even greater fervor.

What man doesn’t wish to grow stronger? Or rather, what cultivator doesn’t?

The cultivation manuals say that once you step onto the path, you must press forward without turning back.

Yang Fan went to the training room once more, preparing to cultivate.

Zhou Ting was a year ahead, having advanced from ordinary to third-rank within a year. By the time her sophomore year began, she’d reached fourth-rank over the break. Technically, it was a year to fourth-rank, but at the end of the academic year, she was at the peak of third-rank; once vacation started, she was already a sophomore.

Yet Zhou Ting’s cultivation aptitude was only second-rank. Yang Fan felt his own first-rank aptitude shouldn’t be slower than hers—especially since he had system assistance. If he could quickly reach third-rank and open his Qi Sea, his strength would soar even faster with the system’s help.

...

Swallowing a first-rank Qi and Blood Pill, Yang Fan began his cultivation anew.

He felt his Qi and blood grow stronger, his control ever more refined. He sensed he was nearing the ability to channel Qi and blood to refine his body.

The pinnacle of first-rank meant swiftly circulating Qi and blood throughout the body, generating force, nurturing the meridians, strengthening the physique. When the body was fully enveloped and refined by Qi and blood, and his strength reached 500 catties, he’d be at the peak of first-rank.

To advance to second-rank, one must master Qi and blood, infusing it from flesh into bone. When Qi and blood began to fortify the bones, one entered the second-rank martial artist realm.

Yang Fan felt he was still some distance from the first-rank peak; reaching second-rank would take some time.

“I wonder if I can reach second-rank by the time classes start?” Yang Fan muttered.

It was hardly arrogant to aim for two levels in a month—the evening’s battle had truly inspired him.

He wanted to be strong, like Wang Moyan and Shen Qinghe. He wanted to stand like Zhou Ting, shielding others from the aftermath.

And everyone needs a goal—no matter how improbable, what if it comes true?

The effect of the Qi and Blood Pill gradually faded.

With the aid of medicine, cultivation was indeed rapid; over two days, three pills had brought Yang Fan’s strength to mid-first-rank. His physique was much improved—by his estimate, half his flesh had already been fortified, and his strength had increased again. The exact numbers were unclear; only testing would reveal them. But it should be between 280 and 300 catties, making the credits well spent.

After taking a Qi and Blood Recovery Pill, Yang Fan began to regulate his breath, calming the rapid flow of blood caused by the medicine.