Du Zhong wiped the cold sweat from his brow, eyes clouded with a mixture of relief and tension. He hefted the bronze gong and struck it hard.
“Fifth round of the mastery trials,” he announced. “The House of the Duke of Yong reached the finish first, before three sticks of incense burned out, and claimed eight command pennants. Young Master Yan finished second—and gained… nothing. This round goes to the House of the Duke of Yong!”
Wei Linlang beamed. She swung down from her horse and cupped her hands in a respectful bow toward Prince Huai and Xuan Suo. “The Su family of the House of Yong begs your pardon for the spectacle today,” she said with composed grace.
Then she strode back to her family. A figure in plum red swept into her arms like a gust of wind—Su Yuanyuan hugged her and looked up, eyes wide with admiration. “Sister-in-law, you’re incredible!”
She really was—Yuanyuan gushed—after all, she’d fought the capital garrison soldiers.
Wei Linlang tilted her chin, pleased. “Of course I am. I almost joined Father’s main camp back then. I could have been a scout.”
Lady Mo came forward as well, her gaze soft and proud. “Linlang, you’ve worked hard.”
Linlang flushed and lowered her voice. “It’s nothing, really. Anything for a win.”
On the side of the Yan family, Cheng Da returned to Yan Wenqi and dropped to one knee, head bowed. “I’ve lost the match, Master. I’ve failed you. I beg your punishment.”
This was the third loss. Yan Wenqi’s early confidence had long since evaporated. He rose and slapped Cheng Da across the face, his voice like gravel. “Worthless. I’ll teach you a proper lesson when we get back.”
After five rounds the score stood three wins for the House of Yong and two for the Yan family. One more match would decide the day—and the stakes were far higher than pride. If they failed to punish the House of Yong here, the Yan family would answer to the Wang household. The thought made Yan Wenqi’s palms damp.
His gaze drifted over the cheerful scene in the Duke of Yong’s camp, settling on Su Huaiyuan’s face—so like Su Qing’s, it made his jaw clench. He curled his fingers into a fist until his knuckles went white. If that was how things had to be, then the sixth round would end with Su Er not leaving the ring alive.
After a short pause, Du Zhong stepped forward again. “The sixth round—combat—will begin. Competitors, prepare and enter the ring.”
The sun leaned west. No one had expected the trials to stretch this late. Fatigue hung on everyone, but the promise of a climactic fight wiped it away; excitement buzzed through the crowd. Everything—fortune or ruin—would be decided in this match.
On the side of the Duke of Yong, Su Yuanyuan tugged at Su Huaiyuan’s sleeve, suddenly serious. “Brother, Yuanbao knows you’re strong. Yan Wenqi won’t be an equal in skill, but he’s vicious and cowardly—he won’t fight fair. Be careful. Don’t underestimate him; don’t fall for any tricks.”
“Remember what I said,” she added, pumping her small fist. “Knock him down so he can’t get up!”
Su Huaiyuan felt warmth at the nickname and patted her head. “Don’t worry, Yuanbao. I know.”
He stilled his smile and leapt onto the ring with a steady, practiced grace.
He faced Yan Wenqi and let out a cold breath. “Yan Wenqi. Today this ends.”
Yan shed his outer robe and stepped up, rubbing his wrist. A cruel gleam lit his eyes. “Yes. It ends.”
Drums began to beat on either side of the platform—an ancient signal to rally the fighters and to let the crowd know a grand bout was about to begin.
The two men stood apart in the center of the ring. Both wore an easy posture, but both were ready.
Du Zhong’s voice carried over the murmur. “Sixth round—Yan Young Master versus Su Second Young Master. Within the burn of one incense stick, the man who first loses the power to strike will forfeit the match. Begin!”
He stepped back, leaving the two to it. Yan Wenqi bellowed and charged like a hound, eyes feral. Su Huaiyuan planted his feet and met him, fists springing forward.
Yan Wenqi was the son of the capital’s military commander. He had picked up some skills, but he was lazy by nature—his technique showed off but had little foundation. He struck with flair and little weight.
Su Huaiyuan, on the other hand, had been raised under marching orders and frontier drills. He knew several combat styles and carried a raw strength that few could match.
Their palms met with a shockwave. Yan’s body rocked backward from the force; his arms went numb and useless for a moment while Su Huaiyuan’s legs did not so much as shift.
A roar of approval rose from the crowd.
Yan drew a breath and closed distance, switching to dirty, up-close grappling. He slithered in, fingers and hands hunting for the softest spots—eyes, throat, groin—vicious, underhanded.
But Su Huaiyuan remained calm, blocking every strike with the air of a man holding a leash. And between blocks he handed Yan three stinging open palms to the face, each one a rebuke as much as a blow.
“The first,” he said as his hand fell, “is for your crooked tricks. Don’t come here to play gentlemanly games when you don’t know how to walk the path.”
“The second,” came the second slap, “is for meddling with my tea set in the tasting round—trying to frame my house.”
“The third,” he finished, “is for the way you looked at my sister. You rotten spender—you are not fit to stand before her.”
By the third slap Yan’s cheeks were flushed, his mouth a tangle of blood. Dazed, he stumbled back and spat something into his palm. A tooth clattered among the blood. Fury took him like heat; he lunged forward, wild-eyed. “I’ll kill you!”
A coin—small, ordinary—flew through the air with such speed it seemed invisible. It struck the inside of Yan’s knee with the sick crack of metal on bone. He folded like a puppet with its strings cut, landing in a humiliating sprawl that left him face-down on the ring.
The crowd exploded with laughter. In the throng, a plain man in black drew a small smile, lifting his brow with casual interest.
Yan, convinced Su had set him up, scrambled up and charged again, this time with no plan—only blind rage. He had no art left; he was no match for Su Huaiyuan’s steady, hard-earned skill.
Su Huaiyuan met his charge, and with a single motion he bashed Yan against the wooden platform as if he were a sack of sand. Yan reeled, the world slanting; his bones felt like they might fall apart.
Seizing the moment, Su Huaiyuan grabbed Yan’s shoulders, preparing to hurl him from the ring and end the match.
But Yan suddenly drew a dagger from his sleeve—a blade with a bluish sheen—and drove it toward Su Huaiyuan’s waist, screaming, “Die!”