Martial Arts Secret Realm: Only I Can Know the Plot?

Prelude to Chapter 120

Feng Congyun took a swig of wine: "No."

Why?

"Because I was young back then, I felt ashamed to admit defeat." Feng Congyun shook his head. "Looking back now, it was pretty silly. Losing is losing, what's shameful about it? Staying alive is the most important thing."

He stood up and patted Sun Fan on the shoulder: "Play well tomorrow, don't get injured."

After saying that, he picked up the wine jug and left.

Sun Fan smiled.

The day of the year-end competition has finally arrived.

On December 20th, before dawn, the area around the central training ground of the Dark Martial Arts School was already packed with people. The two-thousand-seat grandstand was completely full, with even the aisles crowded with people. Lower-grade students without seats stood behind the railing at the highest point of the grandstand, tiptoeing to look down. Some brought binoculars, some brought recording equipment, and some even brought folding chairs, intending to sit there all day.

In the very center of the training ground, the alloy arena, three feet high and ten feet in circumference, gleamed coldly in the morning light. At each of the four corners of the arena stood a pillar, its top inlaid with a fist-sized luminous pearl for illumination. Normally these pearls were covered with black cloth, but today they were all uncovered, making the entire arena as bright as day.

At the very front row of the stands, seven of the eight men at the round table had arrived. Zhang Guangcheng sat in the center, wearing a dark blue Zhongshan suit, his hair neatly combed, his expression as solemn as if he were attending a funeral. Yao Xiaozheng sat to his right, his face calm, his fingers lightly tapping on his knee. The other teachers were preoccupied with their own thoughts; some had their eyes closed in rest, some were whispering among themselves, and some were studying the list.

Principal Lu Chen didn't come. His secretary said he was in seclusion and hadn't come out yet, but everyone knew he never missed the year-end competition, so his absence today must mean something was wrong.

"Old Zhang, I heard there's a promising student in this year's first-year class?" Sitting to Zhang Guangcheng's left was an elderly woman with gray hair, surnamed Zhou. She had taught martial arts her whole life and was the only woman among the eight men at the round table.

Zhang Guangcheng nodded: "Sun Fan. The one who killed the ferocious tiger."

"Killed the ferocious tiger?" Old Mrs. Zhou raised an eyebrow. "A first-year student killing the five tiger generals of the third year? This prospect is quite interesting. Did he come today?"

Zhang Guangcheng glanced at the first-year students' formation and located Sun Fan's position: "He's here. Over there."

Grandma Zhou followed his gaze and saw a young man in a white training uniform sitting motionless at the front of the first-year formation with his eyes closed. Beside him sat Dong Dahai, Hong Lang, Du Ming, and Mu Xue'er, all with solemn expressions. She narrowed her eyes slightly: "This kid is calm and collected; he has a good mindset."

The lottery ceremony began promptly at 8:00 a.m.

The draw was presided over by the head of the Secret Realm Management Department, a tall, thin man with gold-rimmed glasses. He walked to the center of the stage, picked up the microphone, and cleared his throat: "Teachers and students, the annual year-end competition is now beginning."

Sparse applause and whistles rose from the stands. The minister ignored them and continued, "This year, a total of 128 students have registered to participate, including two first-year students, 28 second-year students, and 98 third-year students. The competition will be a single-elimination tournament, with matchups determined by drawing lots. The first round consists of 64 matches, the second round 32 matches, the third round 16 matches, the fourth round 8 matches, the fifth round 4 matches, the sixth round 2 matches, and the seventh round is the final."

This number is in line with everyone's expectations.

After all, even a third-year student like Rouren wouldn't be eligible to participate.

Only those with the qualifications of cadres or above need to participate in the year-end competition.

He paused, then held up the lottery box in his hand: "Now, let's begin the lottery."

The lottery box was transparent, containing billiard balls with the players' names written on them. The minister reached into the box, stirred it around, took out a ball, and read out the name on it: "Class 5, Grade 1, Sun Fan."

A moment of silence fell over the stands, then a buzz of discussion erupted. Sun Fan opened his eyes, stood up from his seat, straightened his collar, and walked toward the ring. His pace was neither fast nor slow, his expression calm, as if he were taking a stroll.

The minister's assistant posted the match-up list on the bulletin board. Next to Sun Fan's name was another name: "Third Grade, Class Nine, Li Wei".

Li Wei—most people haven't heard of this name. He's a student leader in Class 8 of the third grade, at the peak of the Power Realm, ranking in the lower middle of the third grade. He's an offensive martial artist who practices a rare palm technique called "Thunder Palm," characterized by its speed and explosive power, but lacking stamina and unable to sustain in prolonged battles.

Sun Fan stood on the ring, waiting for his opponent to come up.

When Li Wei walked out of the third-year formation, his expression was not good. He was well aware of the gap between himself and Sun Fan—not a difference in strength, but a difference in achievements. Sun Fan had killed Ferocious Tiger, a Qi Gathering Realm expert, while he himself was at the peak of the Power Release Realm, two major realms apart. Regardless of how Sun Fan killed Ferocious Tiger—whether by luck or by taking advantage of an opportunity—the fact that he could kill him meant that he was not someone Li Wei could handle.

But once you're in the ring, you can't back down.

Li Wei took a deep breath, jumped onto the stage, stood opposite Sun Fan, and bowed respectfully: "Li Wei, Class 8, Grade 3, please give me your guidance."

Sun Fan returned the greeting: "Sun Fan, Class 5, Grade 1, please guide me."

The referee walked between the two players and raised his hand: "Ready—"

"6

Li Wei assumed the starting stance of the Thunderclap Palm, his palms facing each other, one in front of the other, fingertips trembling slightly. His internal energy circulated rapidly within him, and his skin glowed with a faint red light—a sign of the Thunderclap Palm being used to its fullest extent. He was gambling, gambling that Sun Fan's "Slaying the Ferocious Tiger" was just luck, gambling that his Thunderclap Palm could catch Sun Fan off guard.

Sun Fan didn't adopt any starting stance. He just stood there, his right hand on the hilt of his sword, his expression calm, like a pine tree rooted in the arena.

The referee lowered his hand: "Begin!"

Li Wei moved. His speed was astonishing; his feet slammed onto the alloy arena with two crisp sounds, and he shot towards Sun Fan like an arrow released from a bow. His palms drew two red arcs in the air, accompanied by a whistling wind, heading straight for Sun Fan's chest.

He used all his strength in this palm strike. He was confident that even a martial artist at the peak of the Power Realm would have to take three steps back if they took this palm strike head-on.

Then he saw Sun Fan draw his sword.

The moment the sword was drawn, Li Wei felt a heavy, suffocating force surging towards him from the front. It wasn't murderous intent, nor was it oppressive aura; it was pure "heaviness"—like a mountain pressing down, so heavy that he could hardly breathe.

His palm strike stopped a foot away from Sun Fan's chest. It wasn't that he wanted to stop; his body wouldn't obey him. The "heavy" pressure on him sluggishly circulated his internal energy, stiffened his muscles, and distorted his movements.

Then he saw a white light.

It wasn't fast, you could even say it was slow. But he just couldn't dodge it. It wasn't because the sword was fast, but because the moment he saw the white light, his body was already locked in place by that "weight".

The sword tip stopped three inches in front of his throat.