Competing to see who is worse

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One man becomes a tree; two, a shade; three, a grave. In marching, numbers bring strength, but not speed. Caravans rarely exceed a few hundred; too few risk bandit attacks, too many become unmanageable. For those roaming the world, traveling alone is best—yet without the strength to protect oneself, at most a small group is possible. In those cases, numbers can be a curse.

The gatekeeper at the manor did not recognize Zhang Ling, but there was no way he could fail to know the other— the infamous little menace who stirred up chaos in Liufeng City. This boy, however, had a father who was a pillar of the city, and so the servants greeted him with utmost respect and ushered him in.

Zhang Ling habitually surveyed his surroundings, murmuring his opinion of the Wang family. In terms of size, their estate was but a third that of the Song family; its location was vastly inferior, lacking pavilions, waterside gazebos, or lakeside vistas.

But Song Linjie cared nothing for these things. Familiar with the grounds, he led the way to the site of the matches. Zhang Ling’s gaze swept over the crowd and landed on a familiar face, who, noticing them in turn, shrank away in terror— and indeed, everyone who saw them scurried off like rats. Clearly, it was not Zhang Ling they feared, but the little fiend at his side.

Zhang Ling teased, “My, Song Linjie, your reputation precedes you. Everyone we pass is scared to death of you!”

Song Linjie snorted in disdain, “These people bully others daily. If I don’t keep them in check, Liufeng City would be in chaos.”

Zhang Ling chuckled, “You have a point. But without them, you’d probably turn the city upside down all by yourself.”

There was no malice in those words. Along the way, not all who greeted Song Linjie did so out of fear; among them were some who showed genuine respect. He had simply blocked too many people's paths. Song Linjie only smiled nonchalantly, his eyes fixed on the arena.

Two disciples stepped onto the stage simultaneously: one with a sword, the other a saber. Both were of unremarkable appearance— the sort to vanish into a crowd— except that the sword-bearer had a pair of distinctive willow-leaf eyebrows, lending him a touch of presence. He stood upright, waiting in silence. The saber-bearer, by contrast, was both ordinary-looking and fierce, which did him no favors.

The saber-wielder grinned, “Brother Ye, I’ve prepared thoroughly for this match. I intend to win. But if you forfeit now, I’ll owe you a favor.”

The one with the willow-leaf eyebrows rested his sword at his chest, affecting a nonchalant air. He sneered, “Wang Li, your favor is worthless. If you want the family’s qualification, draw your saber.”

With a flourish, the saber-wielder replied, “Then prepare yourself.”

He lunged first, aiming for the shoulders. The sword-bearer dodged, drawing his sword awkwardly. Only when the saber came again did he finally parry. Blade clashed with blade, and instead of being knocked apart, the two locked wrists, contesting their strength, unmoving.

After some time, they reluctantly parted. The saber-bearer gasped for breath; the sword-bearer, striving to maintain his composure, exhaled quietly in short bursts. When the saber came at him again, he had yet to finish catching his breath.

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Unable to recover, the sword-bearer was forced back three feet, and before he could regain his footing, his opponent attacked again. Within a few exchanges, breathless, the sword-bearer stumbled and fell. He still clutched his sword, but there was now a blade at his neck.

The saber-wielder withdrew his weapon and laughed, “Brother Ye, if you’d admitted defeat earlier, you’d have saved us both the trouble. Now you’ve lost anyway.”

The sword-bearer seethed inside. Had he caught his breath, he would not have been forced back so easily. One left the stage laughing madly; the other, for the sake of dignity, dared not show his frustration.

Zhang Ling watched this disgraceful display, embarrassment plain on his face. He glanced at Song Linjie, who was barely restraining the urge to rush up and teach everyone a lesson. Zhang Ling understood— these so-called skills were too much to bear.

The following matches were no better; in fact, they grew steadily worse, plunging from the heights to the depths. Song Linjie was about to storm the stage when Zhang Ling pulled him back. No wonder the Song family patriarch had warned him to keep an eye on his wayward son. Now Zhang Ling himself could barely resist.

Before the Wang family’s tournament ended, Zhang Ling simply dragged Song Linjie away. No one dared view this as an insult.

Out in the street, Zhang Ling finally felt he could breathe. It was far more comfortable than remaining inside.

He cautioned, “When we reach the Luo family, can you restrain yourself?”

Song Linjie nodded, then vigorously shook his head.

Zhang Ling sighed in helplessness. Who would have thought that watching a martial contest could be such a farce— and not even a funny one? Street performers, for all their lack of skill, at least entertained the eye.

The Luo family’s competition was already underway, at its midpoint. As expected, it was just as excruciating to watch. Several times, Song Linjie nearly leapt onto the stage, only for Zhang Ling to stop him. The Luo disciples watched in dread; Zhang Ling suspected their plight was the same as before.

Song Linjie grumbled, “Such useless rubbish! Not only do I have to watch, I’m not allowed to do anything. It’s suffocating!”

If these had been ordinary brawls, watching would not have been so painful. The problem was, these were supposed to be heirs of great families— yet they were this incompetent.

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Zhang Ling waved his hand. “Let’s go. There’s no point in watching any further.”

Song Linjie shot off like a rocket, eager to leave, and the other disciples silently wished he would go faster. Zhang Ling followed at a leisurely pace, but then suddenly turned back.

“Luo Ye.”

He hadn’t caught the name clearly at first. Zhang Ling saw the boy standing closest to him, the only one who had not shied away when Song Linjie appeared. Zhang Ling studied him— he looked no more than twelve or thirteen, but his gaze was exceptionally resolute.

Before Zhang Ling could observe further, Song Linjie came back to hurry him, “Zhang Ling, let’s go!”

Zhang Ling turned away, thinking to himself: The boy is promising, but too young. Their fates would not align this time.

Upon returning to the Song residence, Song Yutian asked, “Zhang Ling, did you find anyone worth your attention?”

Zhang Ling did not answer as expected. Instead, he inquired, “Master Song, do you know the Luo family boy named Luo Ye?”

Song Yutian laughed. “You have a good eye, Zhang Ling. Of the other two families, only that child has some real talent. What is it— you want to bring him along as well?”

Zhang Ling shook his head. “Not this time. I can’t look after two children at once.”

Song Yutian laughed heartily. “Well, since it’s settled, you should depart tomorrow.”

The bright moon faded, its light falling to earth, and they set out on their journey of a thousand miles without looking back.