The morning after their revelry at the Red Fairy Pavilion, Long Huang stood resolutely at the imposing gates of the Zhao family estate, dressed in formal robes of deep indigo. The fabric shimmered faintly in the morning light, a stark contrast to his usual, more casual attire. Beside him, his friend Zhao Gun adjusted his sleeves with a scowl, a tension radiating from his posture.
"You're late," Zhao Gun grumbled, his tone sharp.
"You're the one who dragged me here," Long Huang countered, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, which mitigated any real sting in his words.
Zhao Gun huffed but chose not to argue further. Instead, he straightened his back, its rigidity mirrored by the grand entrance they were about to cross. The Zhao estate loomed ahead, a sprawling complex of intricate pavilions and immaculate courtyards, each inch radiating wealth and power. Servants darted about, balancing trays laden with delicacies and extravagant decorations for the day's grand celebration.
As they made their way deeper into the estate, Zhao Gun leaned in, speaking under his breath. "My father is… traditional. Don't take anything he says personally; he can be quite imposing."
Long Huang chuckled softly. "What, is he going to challenge me to a duel in the middle of the banquet?" His teasing tone cut through the tension between them.
Zhao Gun shot him a glare that was as sharp as a drawn blade. "Don't give him ideas."
As Long Huang approached the Zhao family estate with Zhao Gun, he reached into his spatial pouch and produced an ornate wooden box.
"I brought something for your father," he said, handing it to Zhao Gun.
Zhao Gun blinked in surprise. "You... got my father a gift?"
Long Huang smirked. "What, did you think I'd come empty-handed to the Patriarch's fiftieth birthday?"
Zhao Gun examined the box curiously before opening it slightly. His eyes widened at the contents - a rare Spirit Ginseng, its roots still faintly glowing with residual qi.
"Where the hell did you get this? These are worth a fortune!"
"The Medicine Pavilion," Long Huang replied casually. " Bought it before coming here. Figured a man who has everything might appreciate something that actually helps cultivation."
Zhao Gun looked genuinely touched. "He's going to hate that he's impressed by you."
Passing through the main hall, they were met with a sea of faces—sect elders, affluent merchants, and even a few nobles from the neighboring regions. At the center of it all sat Zhao Gun's father, Patriarch Zhao Tianwei, a formidable figure with broad shoulders, a beard flecked with silver streaks, and eyes that glinted like daggers fixated on their prey.
As Zhao Gun approached and bowed with deference, the patriarch's gaze snapped to Long Huang, his interest piqued.
"So," Zhao Tianwei boomed, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, "this is the boy who defeated my son."
The room fell silent, curiosity crackling in the air. Long Huang met the patriarch's sharp gaze without flinching, offering a respectful bow. "A fortunate spar, Patriarch Zhao. Your son's skill is renowned throughout the sects."
Zhao Tianwei leaned back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Humble words. Yet I have heard whispers that you train day and night, mastering techniques that transcend your current realm." His eyes narrowed, piercing as a hawk. "Tell me, Long Huang—what drives you?"
The question hung heavily in the air, filled with challenge.
Long Huang didn't hesitate. "The desire to surpass my limits."
A ripple of murmurs flowed through the crowd—a mix of admiration and skepticism. The patriarch's lips twitched; an almost imperceptible smile formed. "A cultivator's answer," he mused. Then, with a sweeping motion of his hand, he gestured toward the lavish feast spread before them. "Eat. Drink. Tonight, we celebrate. Tomorrow… we'll see if your words hold weight."
Zhao Gun tensed beside him. "Father—"
"Enough," the patriarch interrupted, but his tone was not unkind. "Enjoy the festivities, Gun'er. And you, Long Huang—prove to me that you're more than just talk."
Hearing this, Long Huang smiled.
"Patriarch Zhao, this humble disciple offers congratulations on your fiftieth birthday. May this small gift bring you robust health and continued success in your cultivation."
The patriarch's bushy eyebrows rose as he accepted the box. When he opened it, his stern expression faltered for just a moment.
"A thousand-year-old Spirit Ginseng," he murmured, carefully examining the radiant root. "This would cost at least 10000 gold notes in the market." His sharp eyes lifted to study Long Huang. "You either have deep pockets or went through considerable trouble to acquire this."
Zhao Gun coughed. "He bought it himself, Father."
A murmur ran through the assembled guests. Patriarch Zhao's lips twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile.
"Then the gift is all the more valuable," he said, closing the box with deliberate care. "You have my thanks, Long Huang." he then turned and continued entertaining his other guest.
As the banquet continued, Long Huang felt the weight of countless eyes upon him, each glance a whispering thread in the tapestry of intrigue surrounding him.
"That's the Azure Lotus Sect's rising star?" one guest muttered.
"A friend from the Xin family says he fought a Green Eyed Tiger King and lived," another added, skepticism lacing their tone.
"Tch. Probably just luck," a third scoffed.
Near the wine tables, a group of Zhao disciples—Zhao Gun's rivals—watched him with disdain and derision. One of them, a tall young man with a scar slashing across his cheek, stepped forward, oozing confidence.
"Long Huang, was it?" he sneered, arms crossed defiantly. "I've heard you rely on tricks rather than true strength. Care to prove otherwise?"
Before Long Huang could retort, Zhao Gun moved to stand beside him, his voice ice-cold. "Liu Jian. This isn't the time or place."
"Hey Zhao Gun does he go the same villain coach as you "Long Huang asked feeling a bit puzzled.
Liu Jian smirked, an expression drenched in arrogance. "Afraid your friend will embarrass himself?"
Long Huang sighed and set down his cup, a glimmer of determination igniting in his eyes. "If you want a match, name the terms."
The hall fell into a tense silence, anticipation crackling in the air. Even Patriarch Zhao, at the high table, shifted with undisguised interest.
Liu Jian's grin widened, a wolf regarding its prey. "A simple duel. No weapons. First to yield losses."
"Fine." Long Huang shrugged, confidence radiating from him. "But let's make it interesting—if I win, you apologize to Zhao Gun for your disrespect. If you win… I'll admit I'm all talk."
The room erupted into whispers and gasps. Liu Jian's face clouded momentarily, but he nodded. "Deal."
Guests eagerly shifted aside, creating a wide-open space in the center of the grand hall, the air crackling with tension and anticipation as two formidable fighters squared off against each other. Liu Jian, his muscles coiled with energy, wasted no time; he lunged forward with explosive speed, his palm strike thrusting toward Long Huang's chest like a bolt of lightning, the force creating a palpable rush of air that stirred the spectators.
Long Huang, however, was the epitome of grace, sidestepping the oncoming assault with an elegance that resembled a leaf dancing in the autumn breeze. Liu Jian's frustration grew apparent, his eyes narrowing as he ramped up the intensity of his attack. Fists became a blur, a relentless flurry of precise strikes aimed in quick succession. Each blow sliced through the air with a sharp whistle, but Long Huang remained elusive, evading each strike as if the space between them had become an intricate dance of dodges and counters.
"Stop dodging and fight!" Liu Jian roared, his voice steeped in rage.
Long Huang's lips curled into a playful smile. "As you wish."
In an instant, the atmosphere shifted dramatically, a palpable tension filling the air. Long Huang's demeanor underwent a startling transformation, his previously measured composure giving way to a fierce intensity. In the blink of an eye, he blurred, closing the distance with a speed that seemed to defy the very laws of nature, as if he were a phantom.
When his fist connected with Liu Jian's stomach, the impact reverberated like a thunderclap, echoing through the training hall. The controlled force of the blow was staggering, sending Liu Jian staggering backward, his breath forcibly expelled from his lungs in a sharp gasp. The stark contrast between Long Huang's fluid movement and the sudden violence of the strike left the spectators momentarily speechless, a hush falling over the room as they witnessed the raw power displayed before them.
Before Liu Jian could regain his balance, Long Huang twisted on his heel and swept his legs out from under him with a skilled kick, sending him crashing to the floor. With a deft motion, Long Huang planted one foot lightly against Liu Jian's throat.
"Yield," he said calmly, an unyielding calmness radiating from him.
Embarrassment twisted Liu Jian's face, his pride grappling with the inevitable. After a strained moment, he spat out, "I yield."
The hall erupted into applause—some in sheer astonishment, others murmuring in disbelief. Patriarch Zhao's laughter boomed above the noise, vibrant and full of approval.
"Well fought!" the patriarch declared, raising his cup high. "A toast to strength and skill!"
As the celebration resumed, Zhao Gun clapped Long Huang on the back, pride shining in his eyes. "You showed him," he said, unable to contain his excitement.
Long Huang shrugged, a hint of a smile on his lips, but his eyes surveyed the crowd, aware that this was just the beginning of his journey—a path lined with challenges, triumphs, and the ever-present thirst to push beyond his limits.