Speaking without restraint

Mu Shaoyang struggled to drag his battered body out of the dark alley. His hand had barely reached an inch into the sunlight when a flash of a blade greeted his throat. He pitched forward, heavy and lifeless.

Song Yutian did not spare a glance in that direction, his voice frigid: “Drag him back where he belongs. Tell that family of his that from this day forth, in Liufeng City, the Song family alone stands supreme.”

Yu Guanqün, enduring searing pain, made his way to Mu Shaoyang’s side. He could scarcely believe it—the one meant to be made an example of should have been himself, and Mu Shaoyang was not supposed to die. Yet the Song family’s master had chosen brutality, striking directly at the young city lord and laying bare the truth behind the rumors. Still, Yu Guanqün felt a secret relief; at least his own life was spared for another day.

He cast another glance at Song Yutian, then, supporting Mu Shaoyang, slowly departed.

On the Song family’s side, no one spoke. Song Jingguo’s eyes were shadowed, but then suddenly cleared, a look of resignation and understanding crossing his face. He sighed, “Yutian, I believe the old master would not blame you for this.”

Song Yutian, wounded in spirit, walked ahead in silence. Song Linjie, utterly confused, longed to ask for an explanation, but knew this was not the time.

When they returned to the Song residence, Zhang Ling learned that the young man was none other than Song Huaishu, the family head’s chosen successor, and the young lady was Gu Chuxia, daughter of a minor family in Liufeng City.

The family competition had yet to begin, but many disciples had already started sparring in private. Watching them, Zhang Ling moved his hands in mimicry, finding it hard to believe—most of these disciples were not his match, not even the proud elite. If not for Zhang Jingqian guiding him with the perfect cultivation method and fortifying his body with countless pills, he could not have made such rapid progress in just a few months, no matter how gifted.

Another night passed with no word of movement from the city lord’s manor. Zhang Ling could only marvel at the city lord’s depth of cunning, and was all the more curious about the mysterious figure the city lord so feared.

Zhang Ling found himself lost in thought by the dueling platform, as a steady stream of guests and Song family elders passed by. If not for Qin Yi, he doubted he would have been admitted. He looked about, but Song Linjie was nowhere to be seen.

After a long while, a disciple mounted the stage, drawing a crowd. Several Song elders sat at the viewing stand. Song Yutian stood beside Zhang Ling and asked, “Have you decided whom you’ll travel with?”

Zhang Ling did not turn, eyes still fixed on the duel. After the private matches, barely a dozen disciples dared mount the platform. Zhang Ling nodded. “Song Linjie.”

Song Yutian grunted in acknowledgment. “I must trouble you to look after him. The boy’s all youthful bravado—good and bad in equal measure. He’s advancing swiftly on the martial path, but with that temperament, he’s bound to suffer setbacks.”

Zhang Ling asked, “Are you so certain Song Linjie will win?”

Song Yutian hesitated, then shook his head. “Even if he loses, I’ll have him go.”

Zhang Ling replied, “That’s a father’s compassion. With you here, he need not concern himself with the family’s petty affairs and can devote himself to the martial arts. You truly are a good father.”

Song Yutian managed a bitter smile. “But not a good son.”

Zhang Ling was about to question him when Song Jingguo approached, smiling. “Yutian, Linjie’s on stage.”

Zhang Ling watched Song Linjie, who glanced back, grinning sheepishly and nodding. Another disciple leapt onto the stage—Song Yin, if Zhang Ling recalled, not especially skilled but exceedingly proud. Song Yin offered a symbolic bow. “Linjie, has your martial prowess grown after a year away? Perhaps your senior could offer a pointer or two.”

Song Linjie seemed not to hear, dazed for a moment. With his blade at his waist, he didn’t draw it, but sprang toward Song Yin, palm striking. Song Yin met the blow hastily, retreating several steps before finding his footing, but Song Linjie was already upon him, landing a kick.

Song Yin tumbled off the stage. Some exclaimed that it was the fastest match of the day. Congratulations abounded—Song family had produced a rare talent. No one spared Song Yin a word. Rising, full of grievances, he cast a dark look toward Zhang Ling and the family head, hesitated, then quickly withdrew.

Zhang Ling watched Song Yin’s retreat, then glanced at Song Yutian with a chuckle. “If you weren’t his father, Song Yin would probably have stormed over, complaining that Song Linjie attacked before the match began and demanding a rematch.”

He turned apologetic. “Forgive me, I couldn’t help blurting that out. I should have known better.”

Song Yutian let it slide with a smile. Song Jingguo paid them no heed, absorbed in the matches.

Song Linjie bounded down, making way for two other disciples. He skipped over to Zhang Ling, who asked, “Well? Confident you can beat them all?”

Song Linjie replied with a cocky grin. “Naturally.”

After several bouts, only two disciples remained. Song Linjie, blade slung over his back, stood on one side, full of youthful spirit; his opponent, refined and unpretentious, raised a hand in invitation. “Please, junior brother.”

Song Linjie was unreserved but unfailingly courteous. For the first time in the matches, he drew his blade. The other disciple did the same. After exchanging respectful salutes, they took their positions; it was clear, though, that Song Linjie held the advantage.

He sheathed his blade, hands clasped in respect. Far from taking offense, the other man seemed only to hold him in higher esteem, and charged first, sweeping his blade in a wide arc. Song Linjie ducked low, nimbly retreating, but his opponent pressed the attack relentlessly, driving him toward the edge. At last, the challenger struck down with all his might.

Song Linjie finally raised his scabbard to parry, then broke away and unleashed a single, razor-sharp strike. His opponent, sensing the force behind it, countered with his own blade.

A flow of energy crackled between them; even Zhang Ling, watching from the sidelines, felt its pull and focused intently as the other disciple fell from the stage.

When the young man rose, he bowed to both Song Linjie and Song Yutian before leaving with dignity.

Zhang Ling watched him go, no longer mocking, but self-deprecating. “It seems I was too quick to judge. Family head, perhaps you’ve been watching me make a fool of myself all along.”

Song Yutian offered a faint smile. “Not quite. There are a few outstanding disciples here, but he is the only one with true composure.”

Zhang Ling asked, “What is his name? Will he be coming with us?”

Song Yutian shook his head. “Song Zhen. But no, he won’t join you. The boy is honest to the core. Since he lost, he won’t risk bringing shame to the family.”

Zhang Ling whispered, “So it is—a fated meeting, yet not meant to be.”