Chapter Forty-Two: The Competition Begins

Chapter Forty-Two: The Contest Begins
Episode Six: The Night Demon Wields Power to Oppress the Law; Yunpeng Manifests His Might to Vanquish All Evil (Part Two)

Ye Hua lingered outside for a while, waiting for the crowd to thin before edging closer and squeezing in among the spectators to gaze at the wordless stone tablet. The once blank white marble now shimmered with radiant light, its surface awash in ethereal glow. Rows of golden characters appeared upon it, detailing the order of matches for disciples from each sect.

Ye Hua scanned the stone for a long time before finally spotting at the bottom: “Guangzong Temple’s sixth disciple, Wang Zhidao, versus Biyun Temple’s ninth disciple, Ye Hua, Forty-Second Platform, August Sixteenth.” Ye Hua pondered silently, “Wang Zhidao from Guangzong Temple? I wonder what level of cultivation this senior brother has reached.” He looked further down and saw the list of those exempted from the first three rounds; his eldest brother Bai Shisong’s name stood out prominently.

“Eldest Brother ranks among the Five Gentlemen, so his exemption is well deserved.” After studying the list for a while, Ye Hua extricated himself from the crowd. He wondered where his senior brothers might be now—amidst the throng in front of the temple, searching for them would be difficult. He scanned the area but found no trace of his brothers, and was about to head back alone.

Just as he turned, he glanced up and saw a black line of people winding along the mountain, slowly moving forward—the thousands of disciples from Five Platforms Mountain climbing toward Bodhisattva Peak. Ye Hua was startled. “Today is the first day of the contest, with several matches scheduled. Although Biyun Temple isn’t participating yet, it wouldn’t hurt to observe and learn about the other competitors.” He joined the crowd and proceeded at a leisurely pace.

Ascending the southern slope of Bodhisattva Peak, he climbed the steps, recalling the legend: “It’s said there are one hundred and eight steps leading to Bodhisattva Peak, symbolizing the one hundred and eight afflictions. Only by treading them can one glimpse the Bodhisattva’s true form. I wonder if this is true.” Ye Hua mused silently.

Halfway up the mountain, he looked back. The green peaks layered endlessly, stretching for thousands of miles, shrouded in mist and blending with the sky—every direction seemed as one.

While Ye Hua was absorbed in the view, he overheard two young men nearby pointing into the distance and chatting, “Look, that’s the Great White Pagoda. They say the relics of Shakyamuni Buddha are kept there.” Ye Hua followed their gaze and indeed saw a towering stupa piercing the clouds, its body pure white, faintly emitting a ringing sound.

One of the young men said, “My master told me the top of the Great White Pagoda is made from eight pieces of primordial copper, with thirty-six copper wind chimes hanging around the rim. Each eave holds three wind bells, and with those on the tower’s waist, there are two hundred and fifty-two in total—a truly formidable Supreme Mystic Treasure!”
“Supreme Mystic Treasure, huh! Ah… Ah! Even a Mid-Mystic Treasure would make my life complete!” Ye Hua heard one of them sigh deeply.

“Haha, Brother Zhai, stop dreaming! A Mid-Mystic Treasure? Ha… ha!” The other burst out laughing, amused by his friend’s wishful thinking. Brother Zhai, realizing his slip, hung his head and replied, “Brother Ma, don’t tease me, I was just wishing. Let’s hurry up, the matches may have started already.”
“Alright, let’s get going.” They fell silent and strode up the mountain.

Ye Hua glanced at the Great White Pagoda a few more times, but dared not linger and pressed on toward Bodhisattva Peak. After finishing the steps and walking another half a mile of stone path, he finally reached the summit. His eyes widened—the mountaintop revealed a flat expanse of several hundred acres, astonishingly broad.

Looking around, he saw dozens of stone platforms where disciples were locked in combat, each surrounded by groups of Five Platforms Mountain disciples, their cries and shouts echoing across the field.

Ye Hua approached the nearest platform and looked up. Upon it stood a slender man wielding a long sword, locked in fierce combat with a woman whose weapon resembled a necklace of pearls. Their battle was intense, but the woman was clearly at a disadvantage. At each corner of the platform stood a stone stele inscribed: “Nineteenth Platform, Yanqing Temple’s third disciple Huang Shang, Longquan Temple’s sixth disciple Qian Wei.” Below, an elder monk stood guard.

Ye Hua thought, “These four elder monks must be from the Council of Elders. I wonder whether Senior Sister Qian Wei or Brother Huang Shang is stronger.” As he pondered, a sudden shout rang out: “Break!” A thunderous boom followed, dust swirling in the air. When it cleared, both fighters were revealed, staring at each other, both breathing heavily.

The slender youth, Huang Shang, grinned at the woman, Qian Wei, and said, “Junior sister, your bridal dowry-turned-treasure is no match for your senior brother’s Star Sword. You’d best return home to embroider rather than fight here—it’s unbecoming for a woman.” Qian Wei, her hair disheveled and her weapon’s glow diminished, stared at him for a while, mildly angry. “Brother Huang, don’t blame your junior sister for being discourteous, then.”

No sooner had Qian Wei spoken than she transformed into a blur, lunging forward with astonishing speed, aiming a finger at Huang Shang. He sidestepped to the right by three steps. Missing her mark but undeterred, Qian Wei pressed her attack, again pointing at Huang Shang. He darted forward by three steps, spinning to thrust his sword at her back. Qian Wei raised both hands, blocking just in time—there was a metallic clang. The spectators could now see that Qian Wei wore flesh-colored finger guards on all ten fingers, made from unknown material but incredibly sharp.

Huang Shang withdrew his sword slightly and used it as leverage to leap up, then thrust it forward again, the blade flickering with blue light, slashing at her fingers—a seamless combination of thrust, stab, and slash. Qian Wei was startled. “Brother Huang’s swordplay grows ever fiercer. If this continues, I’ll surely lose.”

Seeing Huang Shang lunge again, his blade glowing, she found it difficult to parry and retreated three steps. Huang Shang pressed forward, but suddenly, three bursts of red light shot toward him from left, center, and right, impossible to dodge. Huang Shang leaped high; the three red blurs zipped beneath his feet. But before he landed, three more streaks of red targeted him—the first at his abdomen, the second between his feet, the third aimed at his soles. At that moment, Huang Shang was caught between spent strength and untapped reserves, unable to jump higher. As he descended, the three arrows struck at his head, chest, and belly—an exceedingly clever attack.

Huang Shang panicked, brandishing his sword to deflect the first red light. As he fell, the second and third aimed for his chest and abdomen, impossible to evade. Suddenly, a flash of white light swept upward, intercepting the two red streaks, as someone darted in front of him—Qian Wei had leapt forward, using her pearl-like treasure to block them. Had she missed, the red lights would have struck Huang Shang directly.

Landing, Huang Shang turned pale. Qian Wei smiled, “Thank you for letting me win, senior brother!” With a wave, the red lights flew back to her hands and faded—it turned out they were ten finger guards. Huang Shang, seeing them, slumped and said, “Thank you, junior sister, for showing mercy. Your senior brother owes you an apology.”