Chapter 3: The Date on the List Moved Up

The room was unnervingly quiet.

The rustle of the pines had stopped; even the wind had died down.

Chen Li tucked the booklet back into his robes, the chill of the paper still lingering on his fingertips. He dipped his brush in ink, finished Ma Jiuling’s entry in the merit ledger, and closed it. Then he sat motionless, staring out the window for a long time.

There were eleven names on that list. He was first, and the date was today. He didn’t recognize any of the ten names following his, but after the eleventh, it simply said: "Pending."

What did "Pending" mean? Waiting for him to enter?

He reached out to brighten the lamp a bit, pulled the booklet from his robes again, and flipped to the last page. This time, he read every single word. He noticed that all the dates following the names fell within the next two months.

The earliest was today. The latest was the eighth day of the month, two months from now.

Chen Li closed the booklet, slapped it face-down on the table, and tapped his knuckles twice.

"Fine by me."

He blew out the lamp.

Early the next morning, before the sky had fully brightened, Zhou Yan was pounding on his door.

"Chen Li! Chen Li, you awake yet?"

Chen Li pulled the door open. Zhou Yan stood there, hair uncombed, still wearing the frantic energy from the previous night.

"The Sect Tournament," Zhou Yan said. "The notice was just posted."

"What tournament?"

"The annual outer disciple competition. Win, and you get into the Inner Sect." Zhou Yan lowered his voice. "Usually, it's just a formality, but this year is different—word from the Inner Sect is that they're only looking at raw strength this time. Nothing else matters."

Chen Li yawned. "What's that got to do with me?"

"You're an outer disciple."

"I've only been here a few days."

"The notice says anyone who's been here a full month can enter. You hit your month the day before yesterday." Zhou Yan glanced at him. "Perfect timing."

Chen Li closed the door and headed toward the dining hall. Zhou Yan trailed beside him, his mouth running a mile a minute.

"Ma Jiuling signed up first thing this morning. I saw it with my own eyes. Then there's Zhao Qingshan and Sun Maoqi—those guys have been outer disciples for three or four years. They're all desperate to get into the Inner Sect this year. If you go up there, you'll probably clash with them in the first round."

"Then we clash."

Zhou Yan paused. "You're actually going to sign up?"

"I'll see."

The dining hall was about thirty percent more crowded than usual, filled with low-voiced gossip. As Chen Li sat down with his bowl, he heard someone at the next table slam their hand down.

"You guys hear about Ma Jiuling? Got flattened by a guy who's been here for three days."

"I heard. They say he used some kind of freakish method."

"What freakish method? I heard he just swung wildly and Ma Jiuling got careless."

"Careless? The guy didn't even move after the third strike."

"That's even freakier."

Chen Li kept his head down and sipped his porridge.

Zhou Yan sat opposite him, whispering, "You hear that?"

"I hear it."

"You're not pissed?"

"Why be pissed?" Chen Li picked up a piece of pickled vegetable. "They can talk; I'll eat."

Zhou Yan stared at him for a long moment before managing, "You're a weird guy."

Halfway through the meal, a man entered the hall. Tall and lean, wearing a green cloth robe with a wooden sword tucked into his waist. The moment he stepped inside, the volume of the surrounding tables dropped.

Zhou Yan leaned in. "Zhao Qingshan. Four years in. He made the top eight in last year's tournament but lost to some guy named Fang from the Inner Sect."

Zhao Qingshan walked straight to Chen Li’s table and stopped.

"You're Chen Li?"

Chen Li looked up. "Yes."

"Ma Jiuling says you beat him."

"He told you that himself?"

"He did." Zhao Qingshan slammed the wooden sword onto the table, the tip pointing directly at Chen Li’s bowl. "I don't care how you won, but you'd better not run into me on the day of the tournament."

Chen Li looked at the wooden sword, then at Zhao Qingshan’s hand. There were calluses at the base of the thumb and thick knuckles, but his grip was wrong—the index finger was clamped too tight, the thumb pressed too hard.

"Are you practicing the Blue Wood Sword Formula?"

Zhao Qingshan’s brow twitched. "How do you know?"

"Your grip. The third form, 'Wood Standing Tall,' requires a loose index finger. Yours is locked. It makes the strike faster, but the recovery slower."

Zhao Qingshan’s face darkened. "You've been here three days and you're lecturing me on sword formulas?"

"Just a random observation." Chen Li picked up his bowl and nudged it aside. "You're blocking my porridge."

Zhao Qingshan stared at him for three seconds, grabbed his sword, and turned to leave. At the door, he threw back: "Don't cry on the day of the tournament."

Once he was gone, Zhou Yan whispered, "That stuff about the grip... was that for real?"

"Yeah."

"How do you know?"

"I could see it."

Zhou Yan opened his mouth to ask *how* he could see it, but thought better of it. He had learned his lesson.

The notice was posted on the stone wall east of the Training Ground. Chen Li went to take a look. To register, you had to fill out a wooden slip with your name and drop it into a bamboo tube. Just as he reached for a slip, another hand reached out and snatched the last one.

Chen Li turned.

The man was in his early twenties with a square face and a short beard on his chin, already wearing the blue-white robes of the Inner Sect. He held the slip and looked at Chen Li.

"Outer disciple?"

"Yeah."

"Lots of sign-ups from the outer sect this year." The man twirled the slip between his fingers. "I'm an Inner Sect Deacon disciple. Name's Fang—Fang Zhongyong. I'm in charge of the tournament."

"Senior Brother Fang."

Fang Zhongyong gave a polite smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You're Chen Li? I've heard of you. Ma Jiuling is my cousin."

Chen Li gave a noncommittal "Oh."

"He spent the whole night crying." Fang Zhongyong handed over the slip. "I'm not trying to threaten you. If you want to sign up, sign up. But fights are messy; don't go complaining that the Inner Sect is bullying people when the time comes."

"I won't."

Chen Li took the slip, wrote his name, and dropped it in the tube.

Fang Zhongyong watched the slip hit the bottom and added, "The rules changed this year. The first round is a melee. Forty people on the stage, only eight stay. The second round is a bracket draw; the winner enters the Inner Sect."

"Forty people?"

"Correct." Fang Zhongyong smiled. "You've been here three days. If you get knocked off the stage, don't say I didn't warn you."

He left. Zhou Yan popped up from the side, face pale. "Fang Zhongyong... he's Ma Jiuling's cousin? Why didn't you say so?"

"I just found out."

"You're still signing up?"

Chen Li put the brush back. "Already did."

The tournament was in three days.

Chen Li didn't spend much time practicing his cultivation during those three days. Every morning, he ran a lap around the back mountain, then spent half an hour squatting by the stream, staring at the water. Zhou Yan followed him for a day and finally asked, "What are you even looking at?"

"How the water flows."

"What's so interesting about water?"

"Water flows downward because of gravity." Chen Li picked up a twig and drew a slope in the dirt. "If you strike down the slope, the force is greater. If you strike up the slope, the force is weaker. Fighting people is the same."

Zhou Yan squatted beside him for a while. "So?"

"So when you hit someone, you have to find their 'downslope'."

"What the hell is a downslope?"

Chen Li tapped the ground with the twig. "For example, if he charges forward, you step aside and give him a little push. His own momentum plus your push—he goes flying."

Zhou Yan thought about it for a moment, then slapped his thigh. "Isn't that just using a tiny force to move a huge weight?"

"Pretty much. But there's a catch—you have to see exactly where he's charging."

"How do you see that?"

"Look at the feet." Chen Li tossed the twig aside. "Feet don't lie. Hands can feint, bodies can twist, but wherever the foot steps is where the person is going. Watch his lead foot."

Zhou Yan nodded blankly. After a long pause, he suddenly realized, "Why are you teaching me this? I'm not even fighting."

"You don't want to get into the Inner Sect?"

"I do, but I..."

"Then practice." Chen Li stood up and brushed the dirt off his hands. "Three days. Plenty of time to learn how to dodge."

On the day of the tournament, the Training Ground was packed.

Forty outer disciples stood below the stage; Chen Li was at the very edge. To his left was Zhou Yan—who had signed up after all, regretted it all night, but found the wooden slip impossible to retrieve once dropped. To his right was a short, chubby disciple, looking nervous and muttering to himself.

From the stage, Fang Zhongyong struck a gong. "First round: melee. One incense stick. Those remaining on the stage advance. Those who fall off lose."

The incense was lit.

Forty people surged onto the stage. Chen Li didn't rush; he stayed at the edge and watched.

Zhao Qingshan was a beast, forcing two people off the stage with three swift sword strikes. Ma Jiuling was there too, but this time he ignored Chen Li, picking on the easy targets and kicking a scrawny disciple off the platform. Sun Maoqi used his fists—wide, aggressive strikes. His style was fierce, but his footing was heavy; he leaned forward with every punch.

Chen Li locked onto his lead foot.

By the time the incense was half-burned, about twenty people remained. Zhou Yan was huddled in a corner, somehow still on the stage thanks to the trick Chen Li taught him—whenever someone charged, he just stepped aside and let them fly past.

Then Zhao Qingshan spotted Chen Li.

"You're quite the dodger." He approached, wooden sword in hand.

Chen Li took a step back, his back to the edge of the stage. "Senior Brother Zhao, someone's behind you."

Zhao Qingshan instinctively looked back—nobody. When he turned back, his face was livid. "You're playing me?"

"There really is someone." Chen Li pointed. "Sun Maoqi is coming for you."

Zhao Qingshan looked again, and sure enough, Sun Maoqi was charging from the side, a punch aimed straight for Zhao's back. Zhao pivoted to avoid it, crossing his sword, and the two became locked in a struggle.

Chen Li used the opening to move toward the center of the stage.

Just as he settled, Fang Zhongyong called out from below, "Chen Li, you've been hiding for half an incense stick. Not going to show us something?"

People in the crowd laughed.

Chen Li ignored him, scanning the remaining fighters. Seventeen left. Zhao Qingshan and Sun Maoqi were still scrapping; Ma Jiuling was chasing Zhou Yan on the other side. Zhou Yan was running circles around a tall disciple until the tall guy got dizzy, stepped wrong, and tumbled off the stage.

Ma Jiuling cursed, then spotted Chen Li.

"We meet again." He walked over, his footing much steadier than last time.

Chen Li looked at his feet. "You changed your footwork."

"Practiced for three days." Ma Jiuling’s lip curled. "Specifically for you."

As he charged, Chen Li didn't retreat. When Ma Jiuling’s fist reached his face, Chen Li stepped aside and caught his elbow with an upward palm. Ma Jiuling flipped right over Chen Li’s head and slammed onto the stage.

The crowd roared.

Ma Jiuling scrambled up, eyes bloodshot. "You—"

"You practiced your footwork for three days," Chen Li said, "but you didn't practice your landing."

Ma Jiuling tried to charge again, but the incense burned out. Fang Zhongyong struck the gong. "Stop! Eight remain. You advance to the next round."

Chen Li counted. Himself, Zhao Qingshan, Sun Maoqi, Ma Jiuling, Zhou Yan—who had actually survived—and three other veteran outer disciples.

Fang Zhongyong walked over with the bamboo tube and had the eight draw lots.

Chen Li drew a blank slip. Fang Zhongyong glanced at it and smiled. "A bye. Lucky you."

Zhao Qingshan was paired with a veteran, Sun Maoqi against Ma Jiuling, and Zhou Yan against someone Fang Zhongyong had personally picked—last year's seventh-place finisher.

In the first match of the second round, Zhao Qingshan forced his opponent off in three strikes. In the second, Sun Maoqi and Ma Jiuling traded twenty moves before Ma Jiuling won a narrow victory. In the third, Zhou Yan's opponent charged three times; three times Zhou Yan stepped aside. On the final attempt, the guy couldn't stop his momentum and charged right off the stage. People in the crowd started shouting Zhou Yan's name.

Zhou Yan’s legs were shaking as he stepped down. He rushed to Chen Li. "I won? I actually won!"

"You did."

"That move you taught me really works!"

"Watch the lead foot," Chen Li said.

Fourth match: Chen Li versus Sun Maoqi.

Sun Maoqi stood opposite him, rolling his wrists. "You had a bye, so your stamina is better than mine. I'll give you that. But let me tell you, I don't fall for tricks."

"Neither do I."

"Then fight me head-on."

"Fine."

Sun Maoqi opened with a punch. Chen Li pivoted, his hand guiding Sun's wrist. Sun couldn't stop himself, stumbling three steps forward before regaining his balance. He glared back at Chen Li. "You're just dodging?"

"Your lead foot is too high," Chen Li said. "When you punch, your front foot leaves the ground by half an inch. Your center of gravity is all on your toes. One nudge and you're gone."

Sun Maoqi’s expression shifted. His second punch was harder, but he kept his lead foot low. Chen Li didn't dodge this time; he took the hit head-on, stepping back two paces and shaking out his hand.

"Strong hit."

"No kidding."

On the third punch, as Sun Maoqi charged, Chen Li didn't retreat—he stepped forward. The fist grazed his ear, and Chen Li’s shoulder slammed into Sun Maoqi’s chest.

Sun Maoqi’s eyes went wide as he fell backward.

The crowd went silent for a heartbeat.

Fang Zhongyong made a note on his ledger. When he looked up, the polite mask had thinned. "Chen Li wins."

Chen Li reached out to pull Sun Maoqi up. Sun stared at him for a long time, then suddenly grunted, "I don't understand how you fight."

"Watch the feet," Chen Li said.

Sun Maoqi blinked, then looked down at his own feet.

Final round: Chen Li versus Zhao Qingshan.

Zhao Qingshan stood opposite him, wooden sword held across his chest. "I watched your last two matches. You wait for people to charge, then you use their momentum."

"Correct."

"Then I won't charge."

Zhao Qingshan advanced, his footing incredibly stable. He delivered strike after strike—not fast, but each one forced Chen Li back. Chen Li retreated five steps until he hit the edge of the stage.

Zhao Qingshan smiled. "Nowhere left to run."

"Yeah." Chen Li suddenly crouched.

Zhao Qingshan’s sword stabbed empty air. He froze for a split second. Chen Li’s hand was already pressed against the stage; using the momentum from the crouch, he swept his leg across Zhao Qingshan’s lead ankle. Zhao lunged forward, and Chen Li gave him a shove in the back.

Zhao Qingshan flew off the stage, stepped into thin air, and crashed below.

The crowd went completely silent.

Fang Zhongyong’s brush paused in mid-air for a long time before finally descending. "Chen Li... wins."

Zhao Qingshan climbed up, face covered in dirt. He stared at Chen Li on the stage for a long time, then suddenly jammed his wooden sword into the ground. "That last move—the crouch and the sweep—what was that?"

"Leverage," Chen Li said. "You had forward momentum; I used your ankle as a fulcrum and pried you over."

"Pried?"

"When you learned the sword, didn't your master teach you how to pry a stone with a pole?"

Zhao Qingshan froze, then slowly nodded. "...He did."

Chen Li jumped down, and Zhou Yan rushed over to hug him. "You're in the Inner Sect! You're in!"

"I get it, I get it. Let go."

Fang Zhongyong walked over and handed an Inner Sect Token to Chen Li. The politeness was still there, but the warmth in his eyes was gone. "Congratulations. Report to the Inner Sect tomorrow."

"Thanks, Senior Brother Fang."

Fang Zhongyong turned to leave, then stopped. "Chen Li."

"Yeah?"

"That 'prying' method—did you come up with that yourself?"

Chen Li tucked the token away. "I figured it out by watching the water."

Fang Zhongyong looked at him for two seconds, nodded, and walked away.

As the crowd dispersed, Ma Jiuling approached. He looked miserable, but he didn't try to fight.

"My cousin wanted me to tell you something," Ma Jiuling whispered. "He said now that you're in the Inner Sect, you'd better keep a low profile."

"I've always been pretty low profile."

Ma Jiuling’s lip twitched. "Also—the Inner Sect isn't like the outer sect. Out here, it's about fists. In there, they compete with other things. Be careful."

With that, he left.

Chen Li stood in the empty Training Ground and flipped the Inner Sect Token over. On the back was a line of small text—not a name, but a string of numbers: 372.

Zhou Yan leaned in. "What's that?"

"No idea." Chen Li put the token away.

He started walking back to his quarters, then suddenly stopped.

The booklet in his robes grew hot—just for a second, as if someone had pressed a hot coal against the fabric.

He pulled it out and opened it. On the last page, the date following the second name on the list had changed.

It had originally said seven days from now.

Now—it said today.

Chen Li stared at the date for three seconds, closed the booklet, and looked toward the Inner Sect.

"Fine," he said. "I'll report tomorrow."

Zhou Yan didn't hear him. "What was that?"

"I said—" Chen Li tucked the booklet back in, "wake up early tomorrow."