Martial Arts: My talent multiplier increased

Li Jue nodded slightly.

The gray-robed guard stood up, bowed, and left the viewing area, heading towards the position where the city guard squad leader was standing in the direction of the entrance.

Li Jue sat alone, slightly adjusting the position of her fingers on her knees.

What are the chances of Fang Yuan winning?

Li Jue went through it in his mind.

Less than 10%. The gap between the Bone Refining Realm and the Flesh Refining Realm cannot be bridged by talent and skill. It's a generational difference in physique. It's like an iron sword cutting through bronze armor; no matter how sharp the swordsmanship, it can't withstand the crushing force of the material.

But that one in ten chance is the reason why Li Jue must be present today.

If Fang Yuan manages to turn the tide even with a 10% chance, the methods he uses and the cards he reveals will be more valuable than losing the match.

Losing means the enemy disappears. Winning means your hand is exposed.

No matter how you look at it, you're not losing out.

Li Jue picked up the teacup handed to him by the servant.

South corner.

Manager Qian sat alone at the far end of the viewing area, leaning against a stone pillar in the corridor. He wore a slightly worn blue cloth robe, exactly the same one Fang Yuan had seen him wear when he entered the Hundred Herbs Hall. He wasn't holding an abacus, but rather a palm-leaf fan, which he fanned idly.

His gaze did not fall on the martial arts stage, but swept back and forth across the faces of the four elders.

Fang Shoude's unwavering resolve. Fang Shou'an's cold laugh. Fang Shouzheng's helplessness. Fang Shouye's unfathomable depths.

Manager Qian had been in Liangshui City for decades and had seen far too many situations like this. What truly determined Fang Yuan's fate wasn't the fists on stage, but the faces of those below.

He closed the palm-leaf fan and placed it on his lap.

They've arrived. They've chosen a spot in the far corner, with an escape route just two steps behind them at the corner of the corridor pillar. If things go wrong, they'll disappear within three steps.

He's not taking sides today. He's here to check the wind direction.

Fang Zhengkun has arrived.

There was no entourage, not even the sound of deliberate footsteps. There was simply a person sitting in the ebony armchair in the center of the platform.

Fang Zhengkun, dressed in the family head's casual clothes, had a calm expression. After sitting down, he glanced at the sea of ​​people below the stage, his gaze not lingering on any one point.

The four elders simultaneously made extremely subtle adjustments to their postures. Fang Shoude pulled his cane half an inch closer to his side. Fang Shouan straightened his back slightly. Fang Shouzheng loosened his hand from the armrest and then put it back on. Fang Shouye's index finger tapped a beat faster.

Fang Zhengkun did not speak.

He doesn't need to speak. His very presence is a statement.

He accepted the outcome of this match.

When Fang Yuan walked out from the end of the corridor, the buzzing sound from the stands suddenly dropped a notch.

It wasn't that it became quiet; everyone simultaneously lowered their voices.

Hundreds of eyes were glued to Fang Yuan.

He walked through the passageway between the stands and headed towards the stone steps of the martial arts arena. His steps were as casual as if he were taking a stroll in the courtyard.

Without pausing. Without looking around.

Fang Yuan stepped onto the first step. The second step. The third step.

The arena was paved with expensive bluestone slabs. Each slab was polished smooth and flat, with perfectly fitted edges. In the center of the arena was carved a circle with a diameter of three zhang (approximately 10 meters), which marked the standard area for the duels.

Fang Yuan walked to the center of the circle and stood still.

He didn't warm up.

I didn't touch the three wooden stakes on the side, nor did I stretch my arms or move my ankles.

His arms hung at his sides, and he stood very casually, as if he were waiting for someone to bring him food in his own yard.

This stance contrasted sharply with Fang Teng's attack stance three steps away.

Fang Teng leaned forward, raising his fists, honed by bone tempering, to his chest. The knuckles of his fists were prominent, and the outline of the subcutaneous bones was clearly visible. His feet were about one and a half shoulder-widths apart, with his hind foot slightly turned outward, a standard forward-pressing attack stance.

It can be started at any time.

Fang Yuan stood with his arms hanging down and his feet naturally together. He didn't look like he was about to fight; he looked like he was sunbathing.

West side stands.

Fang Ping's breath hitched.

He knew Fang Yuan too well. Fang Yuan always had a purpose in everything he did. But this standing posture in front of him was something he simply couldn't understand.

Undefended? Undefended in front of someone at the Bone Refining Realm?

Fang Ping's mind flashed back to the day of the assessment, when Fang Yuan stood on the stage waiting for Fang Hao to rush over. That time, he was also calm and collected, deciding the outcome with the final punch.

But that time it was a battle between two people at the Body Refining Realm.

This time is different.

Fang Ping clenched his wrist tightly.

Fang Yuanshan walked down the steps on the side of the high platform and climbed onto the martial arts arena.

Today he was wearing the formal attire of a martial arts instructor—a dark gray robe, a black belt around his waist, and the Fang family crest embroidered on his chest. Though over fifty, his steps on the stone slabs were still as heavy as iron.

Fang Yuanshan walked between the two, facing the high platform to the north.

"This duel is authorized by the Council of Elders and will be conducted through internal family arbitration."

The voice wasn't loud, but the energy and blood surrounding it carried the sound waves, making it clearly audible to everyone in the audience.

"rule."

Fang Yuanshan raised his right hand.

"Unarmed combat. Weapons are prohibited. Lethal attacks are prohibited. The winner is determined by the moment one side concedes defeat or becomes incapacitated."

Minimalist. No fancy supplementary clauses, no gray areas for maneuver.

After explaining the rules, Fang Yuanshan shifted his gaze from Fang Teng to Fang Yuan.

The gaze lingered on Fang Yuan's face for an extra moment.

Just a breath. On the surface, nothing seemed amiss, but Fang Yuan received it.

Fang Yuanshan turned to face the platform, took three steps back, and stood in the referee's position at the edge of the platform.

The Third Elder, Fang Shoude, stood up from his seat. He tapped his cane twice on the stone surface of the platform.

"This duel aims to verify the combat abilities and cultivation achievements of our clan's core disciples. It involves no personal grudges and is not involved in external conflicts. The outcome will be judged by public opinion."

It is so neutral that it is impeccable.

But among the hundreds of people sitting below the high platform on the north side, not one of them failed to understand—the Third Elder's grandson was standing on the stage, and the Third Elder was reciting the opening remarks; it was crystal clear which direction the play should take.

Fang Shou'an sat on the right side of the platform, remaining silent throughout. His hands were clasped together, and his gaze slowly shifted between Fang Yuan and Fang Teng.

The rhythm of those shifts was interesting—a pause on Fang Teng, then two on Fang Yuan. The extra pause wasn't attention, but scrutiny. It was a scrutiny of how long the prey could keep jumping around.

Fang Zhengkun sat at the highest point, his gaze fixed on Fang Yuan.

There wasn't a single readable detail on his face. His eyelids didn't move, his lips didn't move, and even the angle of his eyebrows looked as if they were fixed with wire.

Fang Yuan felt that gaze. It was like a beam of cold light shining down from above, not dazzling, but covering a very wide area.

This man is weighing everything.

Fang Yuanshan raised his right hand.

On the martial arts stage.

Fang Teng and Fang Yuan faced each other, two zhang apart.

Fang Teng's attack stance was now at its optimal state. His weight was shifted to the balls of his feet, his fists were slightly raised an inch, and his shoulder blades were retracted. His entire body resembled a tightly wound crossbow.

His gaze was fixed on Fang Yuan's chest. He looked at the torso, not the eyes.

This is a habit of seasoned fighters—the eyes can lie, but the body cannot. Before the opponent moves, the muscle groups in the torso will first produce a premonitory contraction.

Fang Yuan stood opposite him. His arms hung down, and his breathing was deep and even.

He didn't look at Fang Teng's torso. He didn't look at anything.

The amplification of the five senses brought about by twice the bone density allowed the sensory network to capture everything above the training platform: breathing frequency, heartbeat rhythm, and the sound of feet rubbing against the stone slabs. There was no need to stare at it.

Fang Yuanshan's right hand was suspended in mid-air.

The audience was silent.

Hundreds of people held their breath at the same time.

The hand fell.

Fang Teng pushed off the ground with his back foot, and the bluestone slab made a sharp scraping sound.

He was launched horizontally like an iron stake. The two-zhang distance was swallowed up in the blink of an eye.

The burst speed at the early stage of the Bone Refining Realm.

The right fist only finished charging when it was about three feet in front of Fang Yuan, and a faint cracking sound of bones taut could be heard from the surface of the fist.

The target of this punch was Fang Yuan's left shoulder.

It wasn't a vital point, but a test. But even as a test, the bone-shaking effect of the Bone Refining Realm was enough to cause cracks in the opponent's shoulder blade.

Fang Yuan did not raise his hand.

Fang Teng's fist wind was already hitting his face. It was dry, carrying a slightly fishy smell that only bones tempered by fire could have.

On the south side of the stands, Li Jue's hand holding the teacup was slightly tilted to one side.

Fang Ping stood up from his seat.

Fang Cheng's mouth stretched to its limit.

Fang Yuan made a move.

It's not a block, it's not a dodge.

His right foot slid forward half a step on the stone slab.

Half a step.

Fang Teng's fist—grazing the fabric of Fang Yuan's left shoulder—passed past his side.

It was less than an inch off.

The force of the punch lifted Fang Yuan's left sleeve, the fabric stretched taut and then loosened by the force, making a snapping sound.

It didn't hit.

Fang Teng's pupils contracted.

The timing of that half-step was too precise. It wasn't a pre-planned move—Fang Yuan only moved when the fist was already only half a foot away.

A moment too early and you won't be able to stop the subsequent moves; a moment too late and your shoulder will be crushed.

After Fang Yuan took that half step forward, his whole body pressed close to Fang Teng's.

There was less than a foot between their chests.

Fang Yuan raised his right hand—the one that always hung at his side—at this distance.

Fang Teng saw the hand.

The palm is open. The five fingers are not clenched into a fist.

Fang Teng didn't have time to think about what kind of move this was. He pulled back with his back foot, his body instinctively pulling back to create distance.

They took a step back.

Fang Yuan did not pursue.

The two men widened the distance between them by two zhang (approximately 6.6 meters) again.

Three breaths have passed since Fang Yuanshan made his move.

One attack, one evasion, one retreat.

The standoff resumed on the training ground.

Fang Teng stopped, his chest heaving slightly.

That half step.

It's not dodging, it's cutting in.

Fang Yuan's movement just now wasn't to escape his fist, but to get closer to his body.

If he hadn't instinctively stepped back, Fang Yuan's raised hand—

A chill ran down Fang Teng's neck.

He glanced at Fang Yuan's hands hanging at his sides. Long, slender fingers and a well-proportioned frame.

He did not clench his fist.

He never clenched his fist from beginning to end.

On the high platform, Elder Fang Shouye stopped tapping his fingers on the armrest.

Fang Shoude tightened his grip on the end of his cane.

Fang Zhengkun's eyelids finally twitched.

The movement was extremely small, like a dragonfly skimming the water. But this was already the first piece of information Fang Zhengkun revealed today.

In the south corner, Manager Qian's palm-leaf fan lay on the ground. He didn't bend down to pick it up.

He swallowed.

In the center of the training ground, Fang Yuan remained standing, arms hanging down, breathing evenly.

He didn't raise his hand.