"My boy's got persistence, I'll give him that."
Wen Zhi sighed softly.
The Elite Selection arena wasn't a marketplace—no one could simply walk in. Even Martial Saints weren't allowed to approach the platform without permission.
Wen Zhi and Shao Yuqing had come on impulse. Since they hadn't gone to the designated viewing stands, a line of armored soldiers blocked them with long spears, forcing them to watch from afar.
From where they stood, Wen Qiushi's back was facing them, so they couldn't see what was happening head-on.
All they could see was that Chen Sanshi's spearwork was fierce beyond words, swiftly gaining the upper hand and pressing Wen Qiushi into a one-sided fight.
Still, Wen Qiushi hadn't given up. He kept fighting on, stubbornly refusing to yield.
"This spear technique," Wen Zhi murmured, "it's not one of the common sets taught in the army. It feels like a fusion of many schools—refined into something entirely new. Could it be… one of Sun Xiangzong's creations?
"But that doesn't make sense. The Elite Selection isn't over yet—how could he already have learned Sun Xiangzong's personal spear art? Unless the Grand Commander had his eye on him long ago?"
Shao Yuqing said flatly, "That young man surnamed Chen is close with the Sun family's young master. Learning a few moves from him wouldn't be strange. Nothing to fuss about.
"All these prodigies—none of them practice ordinary techniques anyway."
"Hmm." Wen Zhi exhaled. "Then my son losing isn't so unfair."
He looked up toward the city wall, where the aged Grand Commander sat unmoving. "Even we Martial Saints grow weaker with age. Everyone says he's dying, yet how did he still kill Ning Changqun in a single strike? Ning Changqun was stronger than both of us combined! How long must we continue tolerating that old man?"
A large portion of the Eight Great Military Camps' supplies came directly from their personal donations—massive amounts, in fact.
And with Sun Xiangzong controlling more and more affairs, their income had shrunk in every direction.
It wasn't an exaggeration—wherever the Eight Camps went, no one didn't secretly curse Sun Xiangzong's name.
But resentment changed nothing. They could only hate him quietly, waiting for him to die.
"Enough," Shao Yuqing said coldly. "If you keep talking, your son's going to die up there. He hasn't surrendered yet?"
…
"Uhh… uh… I—"
Wen Qiushi tried to say the words "I surrender," but they wouldn't come out. His mouth was shredded beyond recognition, his teeth crushed to dust, and he kept spitting out a sticky mix of blood and fragments.
Even as he desperately used both blades to block, the gaps in his defense grew wider and wider.
"Chi!"
"Chi!"
Every small opening was seized upon without fail. With each one, another bloody hole appeared on his body. Even if none struck a vital point, he couldn't last long.
How many holes could a man endure?
He didn't even have a chance to retreat or jump off the platform. If he stopped attacking, death would follow instantly.
All he could do was endure the agony, groaning and gasping through mangled lips, hoping that someone—anyone—would understand his plea for mercy and stop the fight.
…
"Surrender!"
Offstage, Wen Zhi roared. "Stop! We surrender! He surrenders!"
But no one paid him any attention.
He tried to rush forward, only to be blocked again by rows of spearpoints.
"Master Wen, no one may disrupt the Elite Selection!"
"General, please!" Wen Zhi pointed frantically toward the stage. The voice of a dignified Martial Saint now trembled in panic. "My son's surrendering! He already surrendered! Hurry, separate them!"
"Nonsense."
An older Meridian-Connecting general snorted. "Your son is fighting with all his might—a true iron-blooded man! Master Wen, don't coddle him."
"His mouth!"
The two fighters shifted their positions slightly, and Wen Zhi finally saw his son's face clearly—what was left of it, a bloody ruin. He roared, "He can't speak! Save him! Now!"
"Oh?"
The old general squinted, then said slowly, "Looks like you might be right."
…
By now, the spectators had also realized something was wrong.
"Ahhh…"
Eunuch Hou smacked his lips. "Now this is interesting. That Chen fellow's really something—destroyed the man's mouth so he can't surrender. He's going to kill him outright!"
"So ruthless, at such a young age," said Pei Tiannan coolly. "A man like him is perfect for commanding troops—but isn't this going too far?"
"Too far?"
Eunuch Hou sneered. "Didn't you see what Wen Qiushi did to Tang Yingke earlier? He nearly hacked off the man's arm!"
"Oh?" Pei Tiannan's eyes narrowed. "So you're saying Chen is avenging Young Master Tang?"
"Exactly," Eunuch Hou said with a nod.
In the corner of the field, Tang Yingke was still being treated for his injuries. He could see clearly what was happening now—his pupils trembled violently, and he was struck speechless.
"Brother Tang, you see that?"
Bai Tingzhi's voice was filled with excitement. "General Chen is avenging you! You'd better remember this favor!"
…
"Stop!"
At last, the supervising general realized what was happening. He could tell the muffled groans and gasps from the young master of Splitting Moon Manor were meant as surrender. He sprinted toward the stage.
"Uhh—uhhh—ahhh!"
Wen Qiushi's movements had completely fallen apart. His sobbing cries were barely audible, his body riddled with seven or eight bloody holes, every one bleeding profusely except for his vital organs.
From start to now, only three exchanges had passed—just a few deep breaths of time.
That the others reacted this quickly was already impressive.
Chen Sanshi saw the supervising general rushing toward him. The Dragon and Elephant Blood within his body surged wildly again, and at the peak of Moving Blood, the power and speed of his spear climbed yet another level.
This Wen Qiushi was indeed strong. Since beginning his training, this was the first time Chen Sanshi had found killing someone so difficult. Those twin sabers always managed to guard a vital point at the last instant.
But by his calculations, the time was nearly up. Just one more strike—faster, stronger!
"Lord Chen, you're mad!"
Some of the eliminated participants watching from nearby cried out, faces filled with disbelief.
He was really going to kill him?
Was he not afraid?
"Wen Qiushi's father is the Master of Splitting Moon Manor—a Martial Saint!"
"Lord Chen, stop this!"
"..."
On the stage, blades and spears had no eyes—life and death were the fighters' own responsibility.
That was what the rules said.
But in truth, how many actually dared to kill?
Only those with powerful backgrounds could fight without fear. Even if they lost, their opponents would hold back. Those without such backing, however, had no such luxury—they had to face their enemy's full strength head-on.
And this Chen Sanshi…
"Madman!"
Yan Changqing's heart pounded as he watched.
On the stage, both of Wen Qiushi's wrists looked as if they had been bitten by venomous snakes. His tendons had been completely severed, leaving him unable to hold his twin sabers. Without them, his final means of survival was gone.
He raised his trembling arms, trying to kneel and beg for mercy.
Unfortunately—he never got the chance.
"Stop!"
"Stop—!"
"Puchi—!"
The Reed-Leaf Spear struck the moment before Wen Qiushi's knees hit the ground, piercing clean through his heart. Blood sprayed into the air, scattering like petals of a blooming scarlet lotus.
"Buzz—!"
The supervising general's hand gripped the spear shaft.
But it was already too late.
Wen Qiushi's body froze halfway into a kneel, stiffly balanced on the spear. His head drooped limply, blood sliding from his chin in thick, sticky streams that hung in the air before dripping down. He was already dead—a corpse impaled upright.
"You…"
The supervising general looked at Chen Sanshi, expression complicated. "He was surrendering. You still went for the kill."
"General, he didn't shout," Chen Sanshi said blankly. "That doesn't count as breaking the rules, right?"
"It doesn't."
The general suddenly grinned. "Dead men are always silent."
It was the same man who had halted Tang Yingke's fight earlier when the surrender was shouted.
That kid had yelled clearly enough.
But this Wen brat? He hadn't given the general the chance.
Dead? Then so be it. He brought it on himself.
The general let go of the spear, not even bothering to check the corpse, and leapt down from the stage. None of it had anything to do with him.
"My son!!"
"Boom—!!"
In the distance, Wen Zhi roared. With a single palm strike, he shattered the line of spears blocking him and charged toward the stage—only to find a new wall of soldiers forming in front of him. Beside him, a towering figure like a mountain appeared.
"Lü Ji!!"
Wen Zhi froze in place, his voice trembling. "He killed my son!"
"Your son never declared surrender," Lü Ji said calmly. "The supervising officer already intervened. Everything was by the rules. We didn't favor anyone. Master Wen, don't make this difficult."
"I'll kill him!"
Wen Zhi roared, eyes bloodshot. "Lü Ji, will you stop me?!"
"It's just one dead son. Why are you so worked up?"
Lü Ji frowned impatiently. "You still have two more sons, don't you? The youngest even has an Innate Martial Saint Body. Train him again. Rules are rules. If you act recklessly now, you'll regret it later—and I won't be able to help you."
"You…"
Wen Zhi's face turned crimson, veins bulging. He looked up at the motionless Sun Xiangzong seated atop the city wall, then back at Lü Ji. His fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked.
With a furious roar, he punched the ground. A stone pillar, several zhang tall at the edge of the arena, exploded into dust.
He gnashed his teeth, voice dripping with rage and mockery. "Lü Ji, don't try to threaten me! Maybe you should think about yourself first! How many years have you been a Martial Saint? Can't break through, or won't Sun Xiangzong teach you? Now, at the last Elite Selection of his life, he's passing on his legacy to someone else—and you're still standing here guarding his leash like a dog?!"
"That's none of your concern, Master Wen."
Lü Ji closed his eyes. "Men, bring Young Master Wen's body to his father."
"Yes, sir!"
"Thud."
Soon, the bloody corpse was laid before Wen Zhi's feet.
"Since he joined the Elite Selection, he joined the army," said an old general coldly. "And in the army, death comes with the uniform. Every man here should've been ready for it."
He gave Wen Zhi a disdainful look. "Don't make us lose respect for you, Master Wen."
"Old Wen."
Shao Yuqing patted his shoulder. "Calm down. Your second and third sons are still waiting for you at home. Go."
Wen Zhi slammed his fists into the ground more than ten times before stopping. Then, with bloodshot eyes, he glared at Chen Sanshi standing on the platform one last time.
Wordlessly, he gathered his eldest son's mangled body into his arms and turned away, heavy footsteps echoing as he left the arena.
At the gate of the military city, a wheelchair blocked his path.
"Fang Qingyun?"
Wen Zhi demanded, voice low and furious. "What now?"
"I came to remind Master Wen of something."
Fang Qingyun's clear voice was calm and even. "By regulation, you're forbidden from taking private revenge. If you do…"
"I know!" Wen Zhi spat each word out. "I don't need you to say it! Move!"
"Empty words mean nothing."
Fang Qingyun's tone was steady. "From now on, if anything happens to Chen Sanshi—or anyone connected to him, even a single maid in his household—Master Wen will need solid evidence to prove his innocence. Otherwise, there will be a full investigation."
"So this is Sun Xiangzong's will?" Wen Zhi's face twisted with fury. "He's protecting that brat this much?! What next? If someone else tries to kill him, I'm supposed to protect him too?!"
"That depends on how you see it."
Fang Qingyun glanced toward the arena. "Rules are rules. If we start allowing retaliation every time a Martial Saint's son dies, then what's the point of justice or military discipline? The Eight Great Camps exist because of fairness and merit—you should understand that.
"One more thing," Fang continued softly. "My master's temper has been… unstable lately. So, tread carefully."
"…I understand."
Wen Zhi squeezed out the words, his jaw tight.
What else could he do?
So what if he was a Martial Saint?
Anywhere else, that title meant reverence.
But here—within the Eight Great Camps—it meant absolutely nothing.
All he could do now was grit his teeth and pray that Sun Xiangzong would die soon, so that the world could finally know peace again.