Pei Nai deftly turned sideways, dodging the wooden staff. Instead, she swung her long rod horizontally, sweeping toward his abdomen.
Junior Brother Wei Kang withdrew his staff and deflected her strike, then quickly grasped the other end with his free hand. Pressing down with both hands, he shoved her weapon forcefully.
Pei Nai stepped back.
Wei Kang rotated his grip, lifting the staff. In an instant, he released one hand, letting the weapon pivot around its center. It traced a wide arc and came crashing down toward Pei Nai’s head.
Part of his movement was instinctive—even he was startled by it. As he struck, he hurriedly warned, “Miss Tang, be careful!”
Pei Nai bent backward in time, grateful for Tang Mingzhi’s flexible waist. Her long rod followed swiftly, knocking Wei Kang’s staff aside.
With a faint palm force from the Ten Thousand Hatreds Palm, she propelled herself upward.
This time, she struck first—swinging her rod diagonally upward, colliding with Wei Kang’s defensive staff.
Wei Kang prepared to counterattack, but Pei Nai gave him no chance. Strike after strike came crashing down, forcing him into constant defense.
Suddenly, she altered the trajectory of her weapon, thrusting the tip forward. Both rod and spear shared the same cylindrical form—her strike landed precisely on his staff.
That single move forced Wei Kang’s staff back against himself.
He winced in pain and stepped back—forgetting that her earlier attacks had already pushed him to the edge of the platform. As Pei Nai swept her rod horizontally, he tried to retreat, but a fierce gust accompanied her strike. The force slammed into him, driving him backward.
His footing slipped, and he fell off the platform.
Though his reflexes were sharp—he flipped midair and landed steadily—stepping off the stage still counted as defeat.
Thunderous applause erupted.
Only Wei Kang remained standing below, staring at Pei Nai in astonishment.
To generate such a powerful, invisible force with a staff—even after years of training—required perfect timing and a measure of luck.
Yet this underestimated Miss Tang had achieved it effortlessly, her movements flowing as naturally as clouds and water—already reaching a superior level of mastery.
Among those present, only Wei Kang and a handful of experts had noticed the invisible force. To others, it merely seemed that Tang Mingzhi had exploited a flaw in Wei Kang’s technique.
On the viewing pavilion above—
Daxi An spoke in the Qilu language, his tone full of admiration. “As expected of the woman I’ve taken a liking to.”
Those around him heard his voice but could not understand his words.
Only Gongyang Zisheng replied in the same language, “Her strength is far beyond this. But it’s strange—why doesn’t she use the Pei family spear?”
“The Pei spear carries special meaning for Tianyao. She likely wants to remain low-key,” Daxi An said.
Yixi’s VIP seating area was positioned very close to the front. That section was reserved for officials of the highest rank. However, those in power were often busy, and only a few had passed their tickets to wives or children, making the area unusually quiet.
Especially the specially arranged Table No. 1—set apart from the others. Everyone who had ever entered the arena had looked up at that seat, yet no one had ever seen it occupied.
Other VIP sections were far livelier, filled with noble youths of Chaoyang City who were already engaged in heated discussion.
“That woman—isn’t she Ju Liancheng’s cousin? Tang Mingzhi, the one the Second Prince of Qilu, Daxi An, proposed to in the grand hall?” someone asked.
A person at the next table chimed in, “Exactly. Look—Ju Liancheng is seated over there at Table Four.”
“But where did this Tang Mingzhi come from? Why haven’t we heard of her before?”
Discussions buzzed all around. Among them, Jiang Qingyue’s face darkened.
She had originally been seated at Table Six, but that area was too empty—and it also had the Princess Chenzhao, Wang Yixi, whom she disliked—so she moved to sit with Jin Ling’er.
She had always enjoyed being among the capital’s noble youths. Because of her father, she was often the center of attention, surrounded and admired.
But now, time and again, this Tang Mingzhi had stolen her spotlight.
Jiang Qingyue glared at Pei Nai, then turned to others, her expression softening. “This Tang Mingzhi certainly likes to stand out. I don’t think she won just now through skill—it looked more like luck. Next round, she won’t be so fortunate.”
“That makes sense,” someone agreed.
Jin Ling’er glanced at Jiang Qingyue but said nothing.
At another VIP table on the third floor, someone had been silently observing Pei Nai’s movements from start to finish. He beckoned a servant and whispered, “Go investigate this Tang Mingzhi.”
The servant nodded and withdrew without a word.
Amid the chatter, Pei Nai bowed first to the audience, then to Wei Kang, before jumping down from the platform.
Other contestants congratulated her while patting Wei Kang on the shoulder. “Junior Brother Wei Kang was careless—he let Miss Tang seize the opportunity.”
Someone joked, “Fell for a beauty’s trap, didn’t you?” Laughter followed.
Pei Nai barely had time to rest when Xing Xiaoren, the Wind-Thunder Eight-Spoked Hammer, stepped onto the stage again.
Facing him was Wei Kang’s senior brother—the senior disciple of the Changxing Sect, Xu Fengming.
Xu Fengming had been the first to step forward earlier, shouting “Impudent!” when Xing Xiaoren had spoken disrespectfully to Master Qianxuan.
A bad feeling rose in Pei Nai’s heart.
Xing Xiaoren was vindictive. When she had thrown that candied hawthorn at him, his gaze alone had seemed ready to tear her apart. And Xu Fengming, in anger, had once called him a “stray dog.”
Everyone knew—the Xing family of the Wind-Thunder Eight-Spoked Hammer hated that term the most.
Now that he had the chance, Xing Xiaoren would not let it pass. Xu Fengming, on the other hand, carried a sense of justice and wished to vent the people’s anger.
This match would not be easy.
Pei Nai felt worried for Xu Fengming.
Neither of them saluted. Xing Xiaoren said something—only Xu Fengming could read his lips.
Xu Fengming’s face turned pale. Without hesitation, he raised his sword and charged forward.
Every strike carried a deadly intent. No one knew what had been said, but it had clearly struck his deepest nerve, igniting his fury.
His blade clashed against the Eight-Spoked Hammer with a sharp, grating metallic screech.
After several exchanges, as Xu Fengming’s sword descended again, Xing Xiaoren lifted the mother hammer, trapping the blade between the spikes along its surface. Seizing the moment, he hurled the smaller hammer straight toward Xu Fengming.