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

On the secondary platform on the west side of the training ground, a figure was being knocked away.

boom.

His back hit the wooden frame at the edge of the table, two of the wooden strips broke, and he tumbled down through the gap, rolling twice on the ground before coming to a stop.

Yi Zhanzhi.

The seventeen-year-old boy was curled up in the wood chips. His black uniform with gold trim was torn in half. His right arm was crooked at an angle that shouldn't be there. The veins between his elbow and shoulder blade bulged with bluish-purple ridges. It wasn't bruising, but the marks of subcutaneous congestion caused by the deliberate twisting of tendons and bones by external force.

His left leg was also ruined. His kneecap was dented, and dark red blood seeped from under his trouser leg. His leg was bent and lying on the ground, looking like a boneless noodle.

Yi Zhanzhi opened his mouth, his throat gurgling out broken, breathy sounds, unable to utter a complete word.

His eyes were bloodshot, tears and blood mingling together, flowing from the corners of his eyes to his temples.

On the stage stood a boy.

At eighteen or nineteen years old, he was tall and slender with fair skin, perfectly proportioned features, sharp eyebrows, bright eyes, a straight nose, and thin, tightly pursed lips. The way he stood there exuded the noble air unique to scions of a prominent family.

But what lies beneath that air of superiority sends chills down one's spine.

He held a long spear in his hand. The spear was bronze in color, and the tip was stained with blood. The crimson liquid dripped down the ridge of the blade and onto the sand, leaving several dark spots.

The boy placed the gun at his feet, and the butt of the gun hit the table with a dull thud.

He looked down at Yi Zhanzhi, who was curled up in a ball below the stage. There was no pride or joy in his eyes, only the nonchalant look one has when looking at a toad lying on its back on the roadside.

"Thundercloud Martial Arts School, nothing special."

The six words were not loud, but the hundreds of people on the drill ground heard them clearly.

The whole place erupted.

"Who is that?"

"People of Cangyun Pavilion! Look at the azure cloud pattern on the gun!"

"Zhang Songqing! The senior disciple of Cangyun Pavilion in this generation!"

"The Zhang family? The Zhang family, one of the three great families of the inner city?"

"That's right! I heard that this kid reached the third level of Qi and Blood at the age of sixteen, and perfected it at the end of last year. He's been kept hidden by Cangyun Pavilion and hasn't shown his face until today!"

Yi Yang stood at the end of the formation, his gaze passing through the heads of the crowd and landing on the gun-wielding boy on the secondary platform.

He thought to himself, "The cultivation of Qi and Blood is at its peak in the third stage." While a peak cultivation level in the third stage was indeed very powerful among his peers, the way his opponent crippled Yi Zhanzhi in public clearly showed that they had been prepared beforehand.

His tendons and bones were deliberately twisted, and his kneecaps were precisely crushed by the butt of a spear.

This is a move that can take half a person's life. On the duel stage, as long as you're not dead, there's no problem. But if the opponent cripples you like this, it's no longer a question of whether you can win or not.

Below the secondary stage, the queue at Lei Yun Martial Arts School was in disarray.

Liao Xu was the first to rush over and squatted down next to Yi Zhanzhi to check his injuries. His fingers pressed on the tendons in Yi Zhanzhi's right arm, and the sensation he felt with his fingertips made his face turn pale.

The tendon was broken.

It wasn't a tear caused by external injury; it was twisted from the inside by the opponent deliberately manipulating their gun.

Even with the best bone-setting medicine, this type of injury requires more than six months of recuperation. Moreover, after the tendons and bones are reconnected, the efficiency of blood and qi circulation will be significantly reduced compared to before the injury.

For a martial artist striving for a higher realm, this is no different from being crippled. However, there is no way to seek justice in this situation. The other party can easily dismiss it with a simple "swords have no eyes."

"Take him away." Liao Xu said in a low voice, helplessly addressing his fellow martial arts students.

Two disciples from Lei Yun Martial Arts School ran over, lifted the semi-conscious Yi Zhanzhi, and dragged him off the field. Yi Zhanzhi's head drooped, his school uniform was covered in sand and bloodstains, and he left a dark red wet trail as he was dragged across the bluestone slabs.

Laughter came from the ranks of Cangyun Hall in the southwest corner of the training ground. It wasn't loud laughter, but a slurred sound that was suppressed in the throat, deliberately meant to be heard but pretended not to laugh out loud.

Several disciples from Cangyun Pavilion bumped shoulders with wide smiles, their eyes filled with glee as they watched Yi Zhanzhi being dragged away.

Qin Ju stood at the very front of the Cangyun Pavilion's queue, his face expressionless. But when he looked at the gun-wielding youth on the side platform, the corner of his mouth curved upwards.

Imperceptible.

In the back row of the corridor, Mu Fenghai stood up from his chair.

The master of the hall, who was at the sixth level of Qi and Blood, had a livid face. The veins on his temples throbbed twice, and his hands gripped the wooden railing so tightly that his knuckles cracked.

He wants to leave the field.

But not.

The rules of the quarterly exam are clear: the contestants on stage are the ones who have registered to participate, and those in the spectator stands are not allowed to interfere. Two important figures at the Inner Qi Realm are sitting on the high platform, and monks from Jin Yang Temple are also present. If the head of the sect, who is at the sixth level of Qi and Blood Realm, were to rush down and beat up a junior at the third level of Qi and Blood Realm, regardless of whether he was right or wrong, he would be utterly humiliated.

Mu Fenghai gripped the railing, his hand tightening and loosening repeatedly, before finally turning his gaze to Liao Xu.

Liao Xu was directing his disciples to carry Yi Zhanzhi to the back medical tent. As they passed under the corridor where Mu Fenghai was, the master and disciple exchanged a glance through the railing.

Liao Xu shook his head slightly, the meaning behind the shake being: "The injury is very serious."

Mu Fenghai reluctantly sat back down in his chair, the pear wood chair creaking under his weight.

……

Yi Yang turned his gaze away from Lei Yun Martial Arts School.

The fact that Yi Zhanzhi was crippled didn't exactly make him happy, nor did it make him sad. After all, he was a junior of the Yi family, even though this junior had previously fallen out with him and had even come with Yi Xun to seize his house.

But the fact that a seventeen-year-old's martial arts foundation has been destroyed is not something to be applauded anywhere.

But Zhang Songqing, with his perfected third level of cultivation, was so ruthless, and he was also from the Zhang family in the inner city.

The old grudges between Cangyun Martial Arts School and Leiyun Martial Arts School were being discussed by the surrounding martial artists, indicating that today's event was clearly more than just a simple competition.

There wasn't time to think it through.

"Number 25!"

A gruff voice shouted from below the stage.

Yi Yang glanced down at the bronze plaque at his waist; it was calling his name.

A man in his early thirties stood beside the main platform, clutching a broadsword in his hand, and wearing a bronze plaque from the Sky Patrol Bureau hanging on his chest, numbered thirty-one.

Qi and blood are in four stages.

"Old man, I watched your match with Zheng Qiao." The man grinned, but there was little goodwill in his smile. "I wanted to test your mettle."

Whispers started up again around us.

"He really dares to be picky."

"That's not entirely unreasonable. There was definitely an element of trickery involved in Yi Yang's victory over Zheng Qiao."

Yi Yang finished chewing the last bit of dried fruit crumbs in his mouth and clapped his hands.

Go on stage.

In this match, Yi Yang played with even more restraint than in the previous one.

He didn't use any of the Nine Peaks Blade techniques, only the most basic slashing and parrying throughout, and after more than thirty moves with his opponent, on the thirty-seventh move, Yi Yang's back of the blade struck the opponent's wrist bone, and the broad-backed blade slipped from his hand.

"Admit defeat."

The applause from the audience was sporadic.

He won, but it wasn't a pretty win. Many people's feeling after watching it was that the old man was indeed at the fourth level, but on the weaker side of the fourth level, relying on experience and agility to hold on.

This is exactly the effect Yi Yang wanted.

The next four matches were exactly the same.

The second challenger was the deputy instructor of the White Tiger Martial Academy, who was at the early stage of the fourth level of Qi and Blood. Yi Yang fought him for more than fifty moves, and finally tripped him off the stage with a sweeping lower body strike.

The third was a hall master of the Red Tiger Gang, at the mid-stage of the fourth level. After more than sixty moves, Yi Yang "narrowly won".

The fourth was a candidate patrol chief from the county branch, a mid-to-high level fourth-level officer. This match lasted the longest, taking eighty moves to determine a winner. After winning, Yi Yang pretended to rub his shoulders, muttering, "My old bones are no good anymore."

After four matches, their ranking dropped from 25th to 13th.

Thirteen.

The seats in front were filled with tough guys who had reached the late stage of the fourth level of Qi and Blood cultivation, or core figures of various gangs, or veteran retainers who had been kept in martial arts schools for many years.

No one came to choose anymore.

It's not that I'm afraid, it's that it's not worth it. Picking a sixty-year-old man—if I win, I lose face; if I lose, it's even more humiliating.

Yi Yang tucked his hands back into his sleeves and half-closed his eyes.

Thirteenth place.