Tong Zhishan’s heart grew colder with every exchange. The sword in his hand was a super-alloy Fu Sword, significantly smaller and far lighter than the traditional Han Sword. Logically, this should have given him a distinct advantage in launching quick attacks. But Yang Ying swung his blade as if it were merely a willow branch; the arcs of light were sweeping and unrestrained, fast yet fierce, imbued with immense, heavy power. Furthermore, Yang Ying seemed to possess prescience, with every strike aimed directly at Tong Zhishan’s weaknesses, forcing him into desperate, reactive maneuvers that pushed him backward until his back was nearly against the wall.

“Is this man practicing the Dugu Nine Swords or what? Why does fighting him leave me so utterly exhausted?” Tong Zhishan was already gasping for air, relying solely on the intuition honed by over a decade of sword practice to barely shield his body. His footing was precarious, and he possessed zero capacity for counterattack.

Yang Ying could have defeated Tong Zhishan much faster, but he wished to see if this prospective Sword Master could produce any moves that might genuinely impress him, so he willingly forfeited several clear opportunities to end the fight.

Tong Zhishan, lost in the fog of battle, was dedicating all his concentration just to parry the blows; how could he spare the mental energy to decipher Yang Ying’s motives?

By this point, Yang Ying saw that the man had exhausted his repertoire and was no longer worth pressing for further display. He sighed inwardly and resolved to conclude the bout. With a graceful rotation, his Han Sword met Tong Zhishan’s blade, and then he twisted in a sharp circle.

Tong Zhishan was already at the end of his tether; the sword instantly flew from his grasp, spinning wildly before embedding itself point-first in the ground ten meters away.

Yang Ying stepped back two paces. “I yield.”

Tong Zhishan, sweat beading on his forehead and his face cycling between ashen and flushed, suddenly let out a sharp cry and bolted toward the exit. Several advanced class students tried to block his path, but he swiped his hands apart, shoving them aside onto the floor. He didn't even bother retrieving his sword, abandoning it in the training hall.

“Coach Tong! Coach Tong!” the young woman shouted after him twice, but Tong Zhishan paid her no mind. He burst out of the training hall and vanished.

Yang Ying frowned. This Tong Zhishan possessed remarkably little magnanimity. He spoke of facing death bravely, yet his psychological resilience proved so brittle. Yang Ying suspected the man would harbor deep resentment toward him in the future.

Still, he doubted the man could stir up any real trouble.

At that moment, the advanced students surrounded him, their faces set in expressions of profound hostility.

“You’re here to challenge the hall, aren’t you?” the middle-aged man leading the group declared, his voice thick with anger. When Tong Zhishan first brought Yang Ying in, this man had felt pity for Yang Ying; now, that sentiment had swung violently to the opposite extreme.

“Certainly not,” Yang Ying replied, shaking his head.

The young woman quickly stepped forward, placing herself between Yang Ying and the group, addressing the leader: “Coach Li, Coach Tong was the one who proposed this duel with our guest; this is not the guest’s fault. And now that he has lost, why are you all crowding him? Are you planning to gang up on him? This is not the standard conduct of our academy.”

A seasoned student pointed a finger at her. “Why are you siding with an outsider? This academy is run by your own mother, yet you defend an interloper!”

The young woman’s face flushed crimson as she argued, “I… I am simply trying to appeal to reason. This is to protect the reputation of the academy. Are we admitting that not only is our swordsmanship inferior, but our character is too?”

The crowd exchanged uneasy glances; her argument held a certain logic.

But Coach Li cut in, his face hardening. “The swordsmanship hasn't been settled yet! The Master hasn't made her move. He beats Coach Tong and thinks he can just walk away? Not so easily!”

Someone had already been sent to summon the Master not long ago.

A man standing nearby leaned in and whispered to Li, “Is this really necessary? We all know what Coach Tong is like; he basically walked into a steel plate on his own. This person’s (gesturing toward Yang Ying) sword skill looks extraordinary. Perhaps we should let this matter drop here.”

Coach Li brushed the man aside. “Even so, it isn't for us to decide. We wait for the Master to arrive and let her determine what must be done.”

Yang Ying’s hearing was sharp, and he caught their conversation. He was unconcerned. He handed his long sword to the young woman. “I did not realize you were the Master’s daughter. Please, do not trouble yourself further. I will wait here. If you could place this sword back on the rack for me?”

“Certainly,” the young woman said, taking the blade and carefully returning it to its designated spot.

Yang Ying waited amidst the circle of glaring students until the sound of rapid footsteps echoed from outside the training hall. A middle-aged female sword master strode confidently inside.

The crowd moved forward in unison. “Master!” The young woman also approached. “Mom…”

Yang Ying observed the Master’s lithe figure and piercing gaze, recalling that the young woman had mentioned her name was Xin Tianqing, and that she held the title of Sword Master.

Xin Tianqing nodded to the assembly. “I just heard about this incident. Tell me exactly what transpired, starting from the beginning.”

The crowd began recounting the events, though most only knew that Tong Zhishan had brought Yang Ying in for a spar; the preceding circumstances remained vague to them.

After listening to everyone, Xin Tianqing bowed formally to Yang Ying, clasping her fists together—a centuries-old martial tradition. “May I ask what school or lineage you belong to, and your name? And what business brings you to our humble hall?”

Yang Ying returned the formal salute with clasped fists. “I am Yang Ying. I belong to no school or lineage. I came to Wudang Mountain simply seeking a martial arts dojo to study the Way of the Sword, and I chanced upon your establishment.”

Xin Tianqing nodded slowly. “If that is the case, then you did not intentionally come to challenge the hall. Then why did Coach Tong feel the need to duel you?”

Yang Ying replied, “That is partially my fault. I misspoke without regard for the setting in the coffee shop, and Coach Tong overheard me, which led to this misunderstanding.”

Although he felt he had merely stated a fact at the time, he conceded that facts, even absolute truths, can cause trouble—even death—if spoken at the wrong time and in the wrong place.

Xin Tianqing inquired, “What exactly did you say?”

Yang Ying answered, “I stated that my swordsmanship was far above the standard of the advanced class.”

Xin Tianqing pondered this for a moment, then nodded. “Defeating Coach Tong proves that your sword skill is indeed far above the advanced level. You spoke the truth. We shall let this matter drop, and our academy will not trouble you further.”

The young woman smiled, nodding repeatedly in relief.

Coach Li’s expression soured. “Master, are we just going to let it go like this?”

Xin Tianqing walked over, retrieved the Fu Sword Tong Zhishan had left stuck in the floor, and placed it on the nearby weapon rack. “Coach Tong already fought this young man over this issue. Since he lost, the matter must end here. Must we create an irreconcilable rift over a simple statement of truth? It would only make us a subject of ridicule.”

The Master clearly held undisputed authority within the academy. With her declaration, everyone instinctively took a step back, signifying they would cease their harassment.

Xin Tianqing turned back to Yang Ying. “Young man, allow me to invite you back to the coffee shop for a drink. We can consider it a handshake to seal our accord. What do you say?”

“Your invitation is too gracious to refuse,” Yang Ying replied with a smile.