Struggle

Zhang Hongshan continued, "The Nation's Lament cannot be lost. Come with me to see His Majesty. For the Nation's Lament to acknowledge its master once more is a blessing for the State of Chen. I imagine His Majesty will also recognize you, and you will be appointed to an official post in due course, allowing you to hold it with honor and justification."

Zhang Ling pondered for a moment. If he were to enter the imperial palace right after the whole business with Prime Minister Xiao Qinhe had just been settled, and now this matter of the Nation's Lament saber was thrown into the mix, heaven knows what kinds of ulterior motives many people might harbor against him. Besides, most of the residents in Chenliu would probably want to take matters into their own hands. Therefore, it was necessary to let people know, yet he had nowhere to go.

Zhang Ling shook his head with a smile and said, "I'm not going."

Zhang Qizhou gave a cold snort. "That won't be up to you."

Much like Zhang Mingze, Zhang Qizhou was accustomed to using the saber. Having spent years fighting on the border, every technique of his was refined for killing. Fearing that this little scoundrel might bolt, he had not bothered to retrieve his Azure Blade. Yet, having crawled out of piles of corpses, even in hand-to-hand combat, he was undoubtedly an expert. There were no flashy fist forms or sweeping palm techniques here; what remained was the relentless, life-or-death ferocity forged in battle. A seasoned man of the jianghu might handle it, but a green rookie? No matter if you were a natural-born prodigy or a young grandmaster, under these blows fraught with hidden lethal intent, the slightest carelessness would result in injury at best. If luck were poor—having managed a fortunate reincarnation, extraordinary talent, and a lifetime of bitter cultivation—everything you had worked for would vanish like smoke under the hands of these butchers who paid no heed to the rules of the jianghu. Stepping out the door might mean all your efforts were cast to the winds. To sum it up in a single sentence: the jianghu is treacherous, and the battlefield recognizes no sentimentality. Either the elders at home failed to offer earnest warnings, or arrogant geniuses considered such advice mere wind past their ears, ultimately sinking beneath the waves in succession. They truly had no one else to blame.

Although Zhang Ling was not deeply versed in the ways of the world, he was fortunately receptive to advice and fond of hearing about things. Before coming here, he had specifically investigated the unique aspects of this uncle's combat style: namely, a total absence of fancy moves, consisting entirely of fatal strikes. The only way to avoid them was to remain constantly vigilant.

Though Zhang Ling had not won the full acknowledgment of the Nation's Lament, the blade had the advantage of exceptional sharpness, far outshining anything he had used previously. Relying on his nimble qinggong and feather-light footwork, he was certain he would not fall behind. If he combined this with saber formations and flying needles to seize abundant opportunities to strike, Zhang Ling even had the confidence to secure victory. However, the slightest misstep, resulting in a depletion of internal energy, would leave him entirely at the mercy of others. Yet, lingering here now was not for the sake of winning a fight, but simply waiting for someone from the imperial palace to follow the qi and track their way here. Hence, there was truly no need to fight his own second uncle to the death.

Zhang Qizhou thrust out two fingers like the teeth of a tiger. If one were to take such a blow, even a physique forged in the Vajra manner would find it exceedingly uncomfortable, let alone his current half-baked body. If that hit Zhang Ling's chest, it would most likely cause severe injury. For now, he could only respond with the Tai Chi fist and the Finger-Twining Soft technique that Zhang Jingqian had taught him in the past. While one was a boxing style and the other swordsmanship, their shared principle lay in overcoming the hard with the soft, complemented by the uncanny shadow-stepping qinggong. Even when fighting above his rank, though he could not win, he could at least preserve his life. This made Zhang Ling ponder deeply just how terrified his elder brother was that he might be plotted against and murdered. In fact, to avoid deliberately provoking trouble, over the course of several months, his brother had not taught him a single formidable, victory-securing combat technique, save for the Empty Cloud Fist that Zong Chengtian had mercifully imparted just before leaving.

Clear skies and drifting clouds, shattering the stars; hidden until unleashed, stirring a thousand mountains.

Thinking to himself, Zhang Ling executed the technique smoothly, meeting Zhang Qizhou's claw-fist head-on. Both men were shaken and recoiled simultaneously. The moment the Empty Cloud Fist was unleashed, almost all his internal energy condensed in a single arm, making the strike astonishingly powerful while retaining enough surplus energy for body protection. It was like hardness and softness meeting seamlessly. Wearing an iron fist guard lined with soft cotton on the inside, the brunt of the impact was largely discharged, so Zhang Ling appeared completely unhurt. Zhang Qizhou, on the other hand, fared much worse. Logically speaking, his second-rank physique should have easily surpassed that of this youthful third-rank, but after this single blow, his right hand was virtually paralyzed and unable to lift, trembling violently with the slightest exertion.

A seasoned expert descending from the battlefield had suffered a disadvantage against a youth of unknown origin. This left Zhang Qizhou feeling utterly aggrieved, yet after this bout of exchanges, he also realized that the kid across from him possessed a myriad of tricks and methods, whereas he had charged in blindly with utter carelessness, nearly falling into traps several times. This humbled the haughty ministry official, causing him to stand still and wait for the numbness in his arm to subside, ready to react should the opponent seize the opportunity to attack.

Meanwhile, Zhang Ling looked at ease on the surface, but that punch had consumed a considerable amount of strength. With his opponent halting his assault, he finally had a breathing space to recover. Yet Zhang Ling dared not let his tongue run wild again; if he truly provoked this second uncle into ignoring his arm injury and launching a relentless onslaught, this joyous reunion between pseudo-grandfather and uncle might well turn into a funeral from excessive celebration.

With a cheeky grin, Zhang Ling praised, "Lord Minister has marvelous martial arts! That punch of mine was no small matter, yet you took it head-on without uttering a single groan. Truly a real man."

A fierce, sharp glare shot from Zhang Qizhou. Mistaking this demeanor for provocation, and finding his right hand temporarily unusable, he raised his left hand and prepared to charge forward. Zhang Ling immediately stopped him: "Wait..."

However, this stubborn second uncle refused to listen, willing to risk further injury just to press the attack. Though Zhang Ling possessed agile footwork, he simply could not cope with his uncle's relentless persistence. With a sudden movement, he turned tail and bolted, refusing to run outside and choosing instead to dodge frantically around the courtyard.

At some point, many of the servants had stopped their chores and stood watching in a daze from afar. Having performed bitter labor all their lives, they finally had the chance to witness a fine spectacle—and one starring their own master, no less. Had they not feared punishment, they would undoubtedly have clapped enthusiastically to applaud the splendid performance.

Catching sight of them, Zhang Ling looked toward them as if they were his talismans of survival and dashed straight in their direction. The servants wanted to move away, but they never imagined the runner could be so fast. Before they could even shift their footing, Zhang Ling had already ducked behind them, figuring that since they were innocent bystanders, Zhang Qizhou would surely exercise some restraint. But his nephew severely overestimated his uncle's benevolence. In Zhang Qizhou's eyes, these people had nothing better to do than gawk, and getting caught in the crossfire served them right. He made no effort to avoid them, simply grabbing whoever was in the way and tossing them aside before lunging for Zhang Ling again. Several times he nearly succeeded, only to be evaded once more. Internally, Zhang Ling cursed endlessly, thinking this man's character was poles apart from Chu Xingran's. A true grandmaster would not bicker with ordinary people, but Zhang Qizhou was different—whoever blocked his path deserved whatever they got.

Zhang Ling wanted to call a truce, but Zhang Qizhou turned a deaf ear and ignored him completely. Gasping for breath, Zhang Ling thought that if all else failed, he would simply flee into the streets for a while and stop trying to reason with this obstinate uncle.

Outside the Zhang residence,

Quite a few people lingered near the gates, listening to the commotion echoing from within, though a high wall blocked their view entirely, leaving them unable to see a thing.

At a nearby noodle stall, Ren Pingsheng was still seated there. The stall owner noticed that he, too, kept gazing into the courtyard and had remained there for a long time without leaving, but given that the man was an official, he dared not disturb him.

Ren Pingsheng suddenly stood up and said to the stall owner, "I'll borrow your stool."