At such a razor-thin instant, Wang Yun could allow no hesitation. He immediately displayed the peerless martial arts he had learned. His master was the Venerable One-Leaf, and the art he passed down belonged to the Chan Buddhist tradition — stressing soft overcoming hard, stillness restraining motion. Wang Yun drew a deep breath, and as soon as his hands moved, his strikes were all seize-break-crash-jab-hook-claw. Though the techniques appeared plain and unadorned, they carried profound internal force, each movement flowing like drifting clouds and running water — natural, seamless, without the slightest gap.
Wei Fu attacked relentlessly, his palms like blades, like spears, like halberds — every strike vicious and aimed at Wang Yun's vitals. Yet Wang Yun fought with utter composure, light of foot and agile, darting in and out. Suddenly he struck — a single palm shot forth, catching Wei Fu unprepared, forcing him back several steps. Wei Fu had thought to end the fight swiftly; now he was shocked. "This youth's skill is no trivial matter!"
After another twenty exchanges, Wei Fu, seeing no quick victory, grew frustrated and barked, "You cannot defeat me — yield at once!" His tone carried contempt, hoping to shake Wang Yun's spirit.
But Wang Yun remained unmoved. "I've only just warmed my arms — how am I unable to win? Try this one." Before the words fell, his left hand traced a curve in the air, and from that arc the right palm shot straight through — the move was sudden and unorthodox, with a sharp snap of wind, driving straight for Wei Fu's chest.
Wei Fu shuddered but reacted with great speed, palms flipping, feet shifting — still fierce, still ruthless. The two exchanged palms in dizzying succession, back and forth, intertwining and unraveling, their changes unfathomable. The force of their strikes stirred gales within the courtyard — the crowd held its breath lest a single blink miss a single stroke.
Then Wang Yun's toes tapped the ground — and he soared like a great bird, his posture graceful beyond words. Mid-air he struck three palms in succession, each like thunder, driving straight down at Wei Fu. Wei Fu had nowhere to withdraw and was forced to meet them head-on. Bang, bang, bang! Three palms — each one driving him back three steps. When Wang Yun finished all three strikes in the air, he withdrew his hands mid-flight and landed without further pursuit. He bowed respectfully:
"I beg your pardon."
Wei Fu, deputy chief of the Flying Sand Gang, now trembled with rage and shock, his face the color of ash. His temper was fierce and his pride higher than the sky — first because his own skill was indeed formidable, second because the Flying Sand Gang was a major power in the martial world, third because he had come today precisely to teach the Flying Eagle Gang a lesson. Within Hedong and Guannei, the Flying Sand Gang was renowned; whether underworld or honorable society, officials or commoners — all gave them three parts respect. Wang Yun had no wish to make enemies, yet Wei Fu, filled with humiliation at being thrice forced back by a youth in full view of the crowd — a disgrace he had never tasted in his life — now birthed a malicious intent.
With a cold voice he said, "Not bad, boy. But so far it was bare-handed. Why not try blades or swords?" His tone was provocative — clearly seeking to reclaim face with the advantage of weapons. The crowd erupted in murmurs — some worried for Wang Yun, others eager to witness a battle of steel.
Right then, a chorus of boos swept through the onlookers, clearly scorning Wei Fu's conduct. His face twitched, yet he forced the momentum up again and was about to speak when a crisp girl's voice rang out:
"Young Master Wang spared your dignity — and you still know no shame?"
From the crowd stepped a young maiden, and every gaze brightened. Her brows were finely drawn, lips curved in faint disdain, her eyes bright and lively enough to arrest any man's pulse. Wei Fu's tone softened, though pride remained: "And who might this young lady be? This matter does not concern you — best not to meddle."
The maiden smiled lightly, voice clear as silver bells. "My name is Qiu Ting — daughter of the Flying Eagle Gang's chief. Do you still say this matter is not mine?"
Wei Fu's tone changed at once. "Miss Qiu — forgive my discourtesy. Please stand aside and watch me discipline this brat!"
Qiu Ting sighed, a trace of helplessness in her voice. "If one's martial arts are insufficient, one must know when to stop — not insist on deciding victory at all costs. What does senior think?"
Wei Fu flushed, stubborn though shaken. "This Young Master Wang once slew an enemy with a single sword — his skill deserves respect. Today I merely wish to learn a few moves!"
Seeing him still obstinate, Qiu Ting sighed again and turned to Qiu Biao. "If so — nothing more need be said. Deputy Chief Qiu — bring me a fine sword!"
Soon, Qiu Biao presented a sword with both hands. Qiu Ting took it and walked toward Wang Yun. Seeing his bearing — upright and unflinching — a flush rose unbidden to her cheeks. Softly she said, "Since Deputy Chief Wei sincerely seeks instruction from Young Master Wang, then no need to be polite — please guide him well." She offered the sword. Wang Yun received it with both hands, gratitude in his eyes.
Li Qian, watching from the side, noted the blush on Qiu Ting's cheeks and could not suppress a grin. "So — the girl has taken a liking to him." The crowd drew back, leaving only two figures standing, swords in hand.
Wang Yun raised his blade and bowed. "Junior Wang Yun — I beg instruction."
Wei Fu's reply was cold: "Make your move."
Wang Yun knew that unless he taught Wei Fu a lesson today, the man would not relent. With a flash of steel, the sword slid from its scabbard. "Forgive my offense." Before the last syllable landed, he was already moving — no hesitation. Knowing the opponent formidable, he unleashed his utmost at once. The sword thrust straight for Wei Fu's chest with a hiss.
Wang Yun had inherited the essence of Master One-Leaf's sword — a set born when the master, copying scriptures onto palm-leaf manuscripts, suddenly grasped meaning from autumn leaves falling before him, and devised sixteen forms accordingly — the Palm-Leaf Sword.
One stroke, then a second, then a third and fourth — swift beyond measure, like a storm of autumn leaves. Wei Fu parried and evaded four strokes in succession, barely fending them off, already sweating. This was the first form: "One Leaf Knows Autumn." The momentum was like autumn wind sweeping leaves — swift, relentless.
Wei Fu, though deputy chief, would not challenge swords without his own foundation. He steadied himself and suddenly reversed into the move "Welcoming Yet Repelling," guarding fully while awaiting a chance. The blades clashed — sparks flying, momentum fierce. The courtyard roared with steel and wind; no one dared blink.
Qiu Ting kept her eyes fixed on Wang Yun, her heart at once tense and expectant — praying for his safety, and inwardly entranced by his bearing. This duel of blades was destined to become a story in the Jianghu.
Once again, Wang Yun's sword flowed — a second, a third, a fourth stroke — faster each time. The crowd burst into cheers: "What speed!" Wei Fu held with iron nerves, drawing breath deep, stabilizing his stance, and again executed 'Welcoming Yet Repelling' — guarding all in silence, biding his moment to strike.