Start with acting, and you'll achieve immortality!

The next day, when Li Ping stepped into the Blood Arena again, he realized that the Silver Rank area was indeed much more demanding than the Bronze Rank.

The stands were split into three levels.

The topmost private room was draped with heavy brocade curtains, completely airtight; in the middle, around a circle of mahogany seats, wealthy merchants dressed in silk and satin were whispering amongst themselves; the bottommost mud seats were packed tightly together, the stench of sweat and cheap tobacco rising from them.

Many more martial arts practitioners carrying weapons joined the audience; some came specifically to watch the spectacle, while others were drawn by the new characters on the sign—"Jiangning Li Ping."

Li Ping wasn't in a hurry to register.

He hunched over, squatting on a wooden bench at the very edge of the seating area, and asked for a bowl of coarse tea.

The rough porcelain bowl had a chipped rim, but he didn't mind. He just picked at the chipped area with his fingernail, squinting at the ghost knife on the platform.

Ghost Blade has three matches tonight.

In the first match, my opponent was a gunman.

The twin swords of the Ghost Blade were drawn, leaving only two pale afterimages in the air.

With a piercing clang of metal striking metal, the twin swords slashed seven times across the spear shaft. The spearman felt an immense force surge through the spear and into his palm, instantly splitting his hand and drawing blood between his fingers. He could no longer hold the spear, and it crashed to the ground with a thud.

Li Ping stared intently at the soles of Ghost Blade's feet, but only saw afterimages moving about; he couldn't discern anything unusual.

In the second match, his opponent was a man in chains.

Ghost Blade pressed forward relentlessly, his twin blades impervious to water, forcing the chained man to retreat in a sorry state, dragging his chains with him.

Li Ping's gaze remained fixed on Gui Dao's shoulder and elbow—when Gui Dao caught up to the center circle, his twin swords crossed rapidly in front of his chest, creating a short, sharp whooshing sound, before he twisted his waist and changed his move.

In the instant the two arms crossed, the wind blew open the fabric on his left side, revealing a vulnerable opening that vanished in a flash.

In the third match, the opponent was an older swordsman.

Ghost Blade held back, his blade flashing like snowflakes. The old swordsman endured twenty rounds, but ultimately succumbed to his slowness, a chunk of flesh slicing off his shoulder, blood instantly staining half his body crimson.

Before leaving the stage, Ghost Blade's swordplay crossed again in front of his chest—in the same spot, with the same half-breath pause.

Li Ping slowly placed the large, rough porcelain bowl on the bench. The bowl struck the wooden board with a dull thud.

"three times"

He said softly, "His left rib is just too muscular."

Da Niu lowered his voice and said, "Sir, this kid's ribs are soft. Should I go up and break them with a stick?"

"Bet on me to win"

Li Ping stood up and handed the number plate to a henchman, "Bet more, we'll close the net tonight."

when--

The deep, resonant sound of the bronze bell echoed above the empty arena.

Ghost Blade, holding his twin swords upside down, slowly walked into the arena.

He was tall and thin, dressed in black, wearing short boots, and carrying two swords, one long and one short.

The two knives were tightly wrapped in layers of rough black cloth, faintly exuding the lingering stench of old blood.

This was a murder weapon he bought for ten taels of silver at the black market in the south of the city. The blade had been chipped three times, and he had honed it with coarse sandstone until it had a gleaming, cold edge.

Reaching the center of the cage, he crossed his two swords, producing a piercing metallic scraping sound. The blades spun half a circle before coming to a steady stop.

Someone in the audience shouted, "Ghost Blade will win!"

"Those from Jiangning, don't die too soon!"

Li Ping stood empty-handed opposite him, showing no intention of making a move.

Ghost Blade wasn't in a hurry to make a move.

He sized up Li Ping, his gaze lingering on his fist—after four days of fighting in the ring, this guy from Jiangning had won every single match cleanly, and the Iron Fist Gang was starting to talk about him.

"You're not carrying a knife?"

Ghost Blade Question

"No need."

Li Ping said, "Washing the knife is quite a hassle."

Ghost Blade frowned, took a step forward, and unleashed both swords simultaneously.

Li Ping retreats

Take one step back, two steps back, three steps back—the silver-level arena is larger than the bronze-level, making it more spacious to retreat.

The ghostly blade flashed like a shadow, its icy edge grazing Li Ping's neck, sending shivers down his spine. Shredded pieces of clothing and fabric flew through the air.

A collective gasp of astonishment erupted from the stands.

"Jiangning is going to lose!"

"Quickly, bring in Ghost Blade!"

Li Ping is still retreating.

He retreated to a corner, to the edge of the cage, his back slamming against the cold, hard iron bars, making the cage rattle loudly.

A cold glint flashed in Ghost Blade's eyes. He thrust his twin blades forward and backward, each accompanied by a piercing whistle, straight towards the center.

The entire audience held their breath.

Just as the blade was about to touch his chest—

"This is the fourth time; you might as well throw away that rib."

Li Ping's voice was soft, as if he were talking to himself.

As soon as he finished speaking, he sidestepped the twin swords and threw a punch—a layer of faint, earthy-yellow aura, so solid it was almost visible to the naked eye, clung to Ghost Blade's left ribs.

Ghost Blade let out a muffled groan, his twin swords clattering to the ground. He flew backward like a kite with a broken string, his back slamming heavily against the iron bars, causing the cage to shake violently.

He slid down the iron bars and sat on the ground, clutching his chest, and vomited a mouthful of dark red blood mixed with fragments of internal organs.

The stands fell silent instantly; even the walnuts the wealthy merchant was playing with stopped spinning. Thousands of eyes were fixed on the black-clad figure who had slipped to the ground.

Then, the loudest cheers of the night erupted.

Gui Dao, supporting himself on the ground, struggled to lift his head: "You...when did you figure that out?"

"You played three matches, and I watched all three."

Li Ping withdrew his fist, the yellowish-brown aura on his knuckles slowly dissipating. "Leaving half a breath's width of space on your left side when you cross your twin swords isn't a technique, it's suicide."

Ghost Blade closed his eyes, as if accepting it, yet also filled with regret: "I guarded this for four years, and not a single person noticed."

"That's because nobody watches three shows in a row."

Li Ping said, "Once all your cards have been revealed, it's time to leave the table."

The referee raised his hand: "Jiangning Li Ping, advances to the gold medal!"

The audience erupted in chaos.

Some people tore up their betting tickets while cursing, while others crowded to the railing shouting, "Hey, Jiangning guys, let's play another round!"

A burly, bearded man from the martial arts world squeezed through the crowd and shoved a jug of wine into Li Ping's hands: "Li Ping from Jiangning! Have a drink, I'm going to make a killing tonight!"

Li Ping reached out and took the greasy, clay-sealed wine jar, broke the seal with one hand, tilted his head back, and took a large gulp.

The pungent liquor burned down his throat, causing him to exhale a breath of hot air.

Thanks.

He returned the wine jug, saying, "The wine is good. If you're still alive tomorrow, I'll treat you to something even better."

"Just for that," the bearded man patted his chest, "I'll bet you again tomorrow!"

Li Ping smiled but didn't reply.

As he turned to walk off the field, his steps faltered—a dull ache throbbed deep within his dantian, as if countless red-hot needles were darting about within it, or as if a heavy dam was being held back by a raging flood, about to collapse at the last crack.

Lian Sheng's spiritual power lingered in his meridians for four days.

Three tough battles at the Iron, Bronze, and Silver levels, repeatedly squeezing out his blood and spiritual energy. He had already broken through the seventh level barrier at the Bronze level that night, and now he had broken through two more levels in succession—the eighth and ninth levels—all the way to the gate of Great Perfection.

Li Ping clenched his fist, the earth spirit at his fingertips warm and heavy.

From the ninth level to the Great Perfection, there is only a narrow path.

He silently calculated in his mind: one more opportunity was needed.

In the upper-level private room, the curtain moved slightly.

A tall shadow was cast on the railing.

The man's arms were a full size thicker than normal, and his calloused hands hung at his sides like two heavy hammers forged from cast iron.

He looked down at Li Ping's departing figure, his cold gaze sweeping across the back of Li Ping's neck like a venomous snake.

"Next time, I'll take the stage."

After returning to the guild hall, Li Ping locked himself in his room and meditated for three days.

Da Niu stood guard at the door, telling everyone he met, "The master is in seclusion and will not receive guests!"

Qian Duo was frantic, pacing back and forth: "Sir! If you starve yourself for three days without food or water, who will reimburse the guild for its daily expenses of over ten taels?"

The old cat squatted on the doorstep, smoking: "He's holding on because his dantian is almost full."

On the fourth day, the door opened.

Li Ping emerged, looking much better; the earth spirit on his knuckles was so solid it could steadily support a teacup.

He looked at the crowd waiting in the courtyard, but before he could speak, Old Cat hurriedly walked in.

Old Cat wiped his brow, handed over a gold-embossed invitation, his voice trembling: "Sir, the gold-level invitation has arrived, but the Iron Fist Gang changed their rules tonight, saying... no cages, life or death is anyone's responsibility."