Elderly Martial Saint: Sixty Times the Cultivation Speed ​​at the Start

Yi Yang's gaze lingered on the ranking board for a couple of moments.

Number 25, Zheng Qiao, Qi and Blood Level 4, candidate for Inspector General of Yunlin County. His record is spotless; he hasn't even stepped onto the stage today. A player conserving his energy, waiting to reap the rewards in the second half.

Yi Yang took the waist token off his waist, twirled it in his palm, and pondered in his heart: "The ranking in the quarterly exam determines the subsequent allocation of resources. Pills, rewards, and assignments are all linked to the ranking. What I lack most right now is resources. The progress pool of 100,000 points for the sixth level of the Yi Wood Nourishing Life Technique is something that will never be filled with the meager salary from the Patrol Hall."

Now you should be able to reveal your cultivation level of the fourth level of Qi and Blood. Showing this skill is just the right amount.

Sixth-level players will continue to hold back their trump cards, reserving them for Wang Gongqin and for truly critical situations. Fourth-level players are considered above average in this training ground; winning won't be conspicuous, and losing is also acceptable.

Yi Yang clutched the bronze medal in his hand and strode toward the platform.

Zhao Gang was so anxious that he kept stamping his feet, but Yi Yang pretended not to hear him.

There was a space on the stage that had just been cleared. The winner of the previous group had just gone down to change his name tag when Yi Yang stepped on the wooden plank on the edge of the stage and flipped up. His movements were not very smooth, and his knees made a cracking sound. He looked like an old man climbing.

Several young guards in the audience sneered.

Yi Yang stopped, raised the bronze medal, and said in a low but clear voice: "Number 87, challenging number 25 Zheng Qiao."

On the north side of the training ground, in the formation of the county branch of the Sky Patrol Bureau, a tall and slender figure stood up.

Zhengqiao.

He was in his early forties, of medium height and build, strong and capable, with a angular face, short sideburns revealing an old scar on his scalp, and wearing a standard Sky Patrol uniform. The scabbard of the sword at his waist was worn evenly, a sign of years of wearing it.

He glanced at the stage.

What I saw was an old man with half black and half white hair, standing hunched over in the center of the platform, a knife hanging behind his waist, swaying back and forth.

Zheng Qiao frowned, then relaxed.

Number 87 choosing number 25? That's a jump of more than 50 places?

He glanced at Yi Yang's bronze medal number, then looked at the other man's deeply lined old face.

This old guy either has powerful connections, is mentally unstable, or is just trying to boost his ranking.

Regardless of the method, a swift and decisive victory is essential.

Zheng Qiao flipped onto the stage, landing with a steady thud. His toes struck the table, sending up two small plumes of dust. He walked to a spot five steps away from Yi Yang, placed his right hand on the hilt of his sword, and braced his thumb against the guard.

A powerful aura of qi and blood slowly spread from his body. It wasn't intentional, but the sand on the table vibrated slightly as a result.

"Excuse me, sir."

Zheng Qiao's tone was polite, but there was a thin layer of pity hidden within it. He planned to finish the fight in three or five moves to conserve his strength, as there were still tough battles to fight later.

However, Zheng Qiao did not make the first move. Before going on stage, he asked the people around him about Yi Yang's previous record and fighting style. He knew that Yi Yang's movement skills were good, so he planned to wait for Yi Yang to make the first move and then strike back.

Yi Yang didn't keep him waiting long. The old man's right hand slid out of his sleeve, his five fingers gripping the hilt of the knife. Without gathering momentum or shouting, he took a step forward and drew his knife, slashing horizontally.

This strike looked extremely ordinary, so ordinary that even the guards below the stage, who were at the second level of Qi and Blood, felt they could withstand it.

But the moment the blade sliced ​​through the air—the atmosphere on the stage instantly changed.

Blood and qi flowed into the blade, and the force traveled from the shoulder along the upper arm, forearm, wrist, and fingers, all the way to the very tip of the blade. The force was thick and dense, unlike anything that could be achieved by a triple strike.

Zheng Qiao raised his knife to parry.

The two knives collided.

clang!

The clang of metal clashing exploded from the stage to the audience, making the ears of several guards in the front row ring. Zheng Qiao's arm sank two inches from the impact, and a sharp, tingling sensation came from the web of his hand. His right foot slid back half a step uncontrollably.

His pupils constricted sharply, and he exclaimed in surprise, "Fourfold Qi and Blood!"

When those three words came out of Zheng Qiao's mouth, the discussions on the drill ground seemed to be choked and abruptly cut off.

Hundreds of people turned their heads to the table at the same time.

The wealthy merchant who was eating melon seeds in the corridor froze in mid-air, his mouth agape. The heads of various martial arts schools stopped waving their fans and stared wide-eyed.

Quadruple?

That old man's actual cultivation level is fourth level?

Within the Sky Patrol Division's formation, hundreds of patrol guards and their commanders looked at each other, a sense of absurdity permeating the air.

Zhao Gang stood there, his lips moving several times, but the words that came out were unbelievable even to himself: "Fourth... how could he...?"

He swallowed the rest of his sentence. He remembered too many things—Yi Yang's actions in the black market, the corpses in the alley at night, and Yang Shuqing never returning after going up the mountain.

It turns out it wasn't triple anymore.

When I was drinking and bragging with him, what kind of monster was sitting across from me?

A chill ran down Zhao Gang's spine.

Huang Yushu tightened his grip on the scabbard. He recalled how, every afternoon when they practiced in the backyard of the library, the adults could hear the exact location and flaws of each of his moves even through the floorboards.

With the five senses activated by the four elements of Qi and blood, one can certainly hear clearly.

Sun Hao stood next to Huang Yushu, his expression changing from surprise to bewilderment, and then from bewilderment to lingering fear. He had been slacking off and sleeping in the museum every day, and now the person sitting above him was actually a powerful expert at the fourth level of Qi and Blood.

He swallowed hard and whispered to Huang Yushu, "The curator really kept it well hidden."

On stage, Zheng Qiao had already withdrawn his remaining pity.

He re-examined the old man before him. His hunched back straightened, his hand holding the knife became steady, and the look in his two cloudy old eyes was completely different from before.

Four against four.

Zheng Qiao gritted his teeth, moved his numb right hand a couple of times, and raised the knife again.

This cannot be resolved hastily; it must be taken seriously.

But before Zheng Qiao could think, Yi Yang's second strike came right at him.

This time, Yi Yang didn't use any fancy sword techniques. He just used the most basic chopping, slashing, parrying, and blocking. He followed the textbook rules, with each strike having even force and a steady rhythm. There were no unnecessary movements between the strike and the retraction of the sword.

Zheng Qiao received three blows, probing his opponent's style—the power was solid, the defense was tight, and there were no obvious weaknesses.

He began to take the initiative and launch an attack.

The blade cut in from the center line, following a downward slashing path. The full power of the four levels of cultivation caused the blade to produce a sharp whistling sound as it cut through the air.

Yi Yang met the attack with his sword, and the two swords clashed, causing a thin mist to rise from the sandy surface due to the force of the impact.

Ten moves back and forth.

The sand on the table had been churned up beyond recognition, and there were footprints and knife marks of varying depths everywhere. Both men's uniforms were covered in sand, and the cuffs fluttered against their arms under the wind pressure.

The audience in the side corridors held their breath.

This level of combat was completely different from the squabbling of those low-level martial artists. The wind pressure from each strike was enough to make people three steps away feel their scalps tingle. The sound of metal clashing against metal rang outwards in waves, causing the iron rings on the flagpole to clang loudly.

Fifteen moves passed.

Zheng Qiao's forehead began to sweat.

Not right.

The old man's swordsmanship looked ordinary, but every parry he made used the most effortless angle. His opponent's slashes were deflected with minimal force, leaving the opponent's strength wasted. And the old man's counterattacks always came at just the right moment when the opponent changed moves, forcing him to focus on defense.

This is not the kind of combat awareness one should have at the initial stage of the fourth level.

Zheng Qiao's breathing became increasingly heavy.

Twenty moves.

Anxiety began to rise from his chest. He was forty years old, in the prime of his life, with his physical strength and vitality at their peak. But the old man in his sixties opposite him had fought twenty moves without breaking a sweat or turning red in the face, and his rhythm was exactly the same as when he first stepped onto the stage.

I've been worn down.

Just like sawing wood, it's not about splitting it in one stroke, but about pulling it bit by bit, wearing down your physical strength, mentality, and judgment.

Twenty-five moves.

Yi Yang's attack strategy changed; he saw that his opponent was no longer planning to drag the fight out.

Yi Yang's defense on the left flank suddenly slowed down by half a beat, the rhythm of his return attack became hurried, and he took an extra half step back.

flaw.

An obvious flaw.

Zheng Qiao's pupils dilated.

He knew this could be a trap. The same trick he used to seduce Wu Zhongqin earlier was there. Who knew if this old man was just putting on an act again?

However, the exhaustion from twenty-five moves had made him less rational than at the start. His left rib was too wide open, and his return attack was too slow. If he could just take a full step forward, the tip of his blade could reach his opponent's weak spot.

He hesitated for less than half a breath.

Zhengqiao made a move.

Abandoning defense, he channeled all his energy into his right arm, thrusting the blade straight at Yi Yang's left ribs. This was his fastest and most powerful strike of the day, with four layers of force surging from his feet to the blade, making him like an iron arrow released from a bow.

The distance was too close, and the speed was too fast.

It's too late to get it back.

Just as the blade was about to touch his ribs, Yi Yang's body shifted half an inch to the right.

Only half an inch.

The blade grazed the outside of the ribs, cutting through the fabric of the clothes without touching the flesh.

At the same time, Yi Yang's left hand pressed against the spine of Zheng Qiao's knife.

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

He covered the cold blade with his palm, gripped the ridge of the blade with his five fingers, and pulled it towards his chest in the direction Zheng Qiao charged.

Zheng Qiao's center of gravity was pulled forward by this area, and his chest was exposed directly in front of Yi Yang's shoulder.

Yi Yang's right shoulder pressed down.

It wasn't a collision, it was a gift.

He took back the force of Zheng Qiao's charge, combining it with the short burst of power from Yi Yang's shoulder, and the two forces merged into one.

boom.

Zheng Qiao was lifted into the air.

The moment his feet left the table, his eyes widened in a frightening way, not from pain, but from disbelief. The force from that shoulder strike was ridiculously heavy, something that shouldn't be expected from someone at the early stage of the fourth level.

My body lost its balance in mid-air, and I tried to adjust my posture by waving my arms, but the force was too great and I couldn't do it in time.

He flew off the edge of the platform and landed on his back first.

A dull thud came from the bluestone slab, and dust rose half a foot high.

Zheng Qiao lay on the ground, a trickle of blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. He felt a tightness in his chest and couldn't speak. His eyes were fixed on the sky above him, and he didn't get up for a long time.

The drill ground was deathly silent for three breaths.

Then all the sounds came back at the same time.

The faces of the stewards and wealthy merchants in the side corridors were so solemn they could be wrung out. They had done their homework before coming, having thoroughly investigated all the top fifty contestants, and not a single old man named Yi Yang appeared in the intelligence.

The hundreds of people in the Sky Patrol Division's formation were frozen in place, their expressions varied but all remained silent.

The heads of the various martial arts schools exchanged glances, their eyes now filled with a sense of apprehension.

Zhao Gang was the first to shout: "Holy crap! Father-in-law, you were really good at hiding this!"

On the high platform.

Chen Wuyai's iron staff head landed on the table.

boom.

The inner energy realm martial artist's gaze was fixed on Yi Yang, and he slowly turned the iron staff half a circle in his hand. He saw more than just the force on that shoulder.

He saw the opportunity—the moment Zheng Qiao sprinted into position, Yi Yang's lateral movement was precise to the millimeter; he saw the psychological game—the wear and tear of twenty-five moves, the timing of the final opening was just right, forcing Zheng Qiao to gamble.

Chen Wuyai turned his head and said something in a voice that only Song Tiecheng could hear.

"This old man is interesting. His grasp of timing and psychology is something that ordinary fourth-level cultivators can't do. He's a promising talent."

Song Tiecheng nodded, then sighed, "It's just that I'm too old."

On the right side of the platform, the lips of two monks from Jinyang Temple moved slightly, their voices flowing silently between them.

The sturdy Jingyuan spoke first: "Senior brother, this old benefactor's swordsmanship is extremely profound; it wasn't learned through unorthodox methods."

The tall, thin monk's brow twitched: "He is indeed remarkable, but he is over sixty years old and his lifespan is limited, so he is not the best candidate."

Jingyuan remained silent for a moment, then shifted his gaze from Yiyang on the stage to various parts of the training ground.

The back row of the side corridor.

Yi Xun sat on the pear wood chair, still holding the teacup in his hand; the tea inside had already gone cold.

Qi and blood are in four stages.

His older brother, the one who was deemed "unfit for martial arts" by the martial arts school, the one who chopped firewood in Sanmu Village for forty years, the one who couldn't utter a single harsh word when he took his grandson to rob a house.

Qi and Blood in Four Elements!

This made him both proud and hard to accept. If his brother was really that talented, then hadn't he wasted all these years? Was it because he monopolized all the resources that the time was wasted?

Yi Xun was filled with mixed emotions. He drank the tea in his cup, which had almost gone cold, and it was unclear what he was thinking.

Yi Yang calmly walked down from the stage.

His breathing was steady, and his clothes were clean except for the cut on his left rib. Zhao Gang ran over and handed him a water bag. Yi Yang took it, drank a mouthful, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

On the ranking board, "147" was crossed out, and "25" was written with Yi Yang's name.

The clerk from the Sky Patrol Bureau paused for two breaths in front of the wooden board before putting pen to paper.

A sixty-year-old patrol chief jumped from just over one hundred places to twenty-five in half a day, a leap of nearly one hundred places.

This record is probably enough for the people on this training ground to gossip about for half a year.

"Who exactly is that old man?"

"The museum's archives? Isn't every position just for rummaging through files and relaxing?"

"Wasn't he supposed to be at the third level of Qi and Blood? How come he's at the fourth level?"

The buzzing of voices came from all directions, but Yi Yang paid no attention.

Yi Yang tucked his hands back into his sleeves, leaned against the weapon rack at the back of the formation, and found a comfortable position to stand in. He didn't plan to go on stage again. A ranking of 25 was enough, he could get the resources he wanted, and he had only revealed four layers of his trump cards.

How good.

Just as the audience was still processing the battle, a gasp suddenly erupted from another arena on the west side of the training ground.