Chapter 58: The Might of the Stone-Splitting Realm

The Wei River, one of the eight major waterways flowing through Chang’an, is the largest tributary of the Yellow River.

In the deep of summer, the wind already carried a hint of chill. At the appointed hour by the Longmen Crossing, a figure stood with hands clasped behind his back. Moonlight shone on his smooth, pointed head, scattering out cold rays in an eerily strange manner.

Just past the halfway point of the hour of the Dog, a faint fish lantern became visible on the distant waters. The soft yellow light swayed left and right; after another moment, as it drew nearer, it became clear it was only a small sampan, barely two zhangs long.

“Is the one standing on shore Mister Diga D?” The voice of the boatman was that of a young attendant, his face, as always, hidden behind a cloth, his features indiscernible.

“That’s me. Come over quickly…” After being battered by the wind for over two hours, having set out from home at the hour of the Monkey, he thought he was in for another lengthy negotiation. To his surprise, Feng Xiaoman, that dictatorial leader, had actually left home first, but the journey from the city to the banks of the Wei had cost him no small amount of time.

A green donkey was tied to a tree, and within the grove, several ornate carriages stood parked. Their owners, undoubtedly, were also among tonight’s participants. In the distance, Feng Jingzhe could faintly hear the raucous laughter of servants playing leaf cards.

The little boat drifted upriver, and after another half hour, a flat-bottomed fortune barge anchored in midstream came into view. A row of wind lanterns hung high from the mast, flooding the river with light. Around it floated four or five more sampans, now ferrying guests aboard.

From afar, Feng Jingzhe could see each guest wore a mask. Among them, two figures were exceptionally tall, and both glanced his way. Feng Jingzhe felt his hair stand on end—the one in the Zhao Zilong opera mask had eyes so sharp they seemed to pierce straight through his disguise.

“What are you looking at, Captain?” The one beside him, in a Zhang Fei mask, followed his gaze. “Hey, what kind of style is that? Quite unique! Captain, do you know that person?”

The one addressed as Captain shook her head lightly. She had come on a whim and could not possibly know anyone here. Yet, when she had glimpsed that person just now, a feeling she couldn’t describe had flickered through her. Now, try as she might, she could sense nothing more.

“Come on, let’s go up…” They ascended the gangway, passing Feng Jingzhe as they split to either side. But when they reached the deck, he was nowhere to be seen.

On deck, people clustered in small groups, each staking out their own territory. They looked like bodyguards or escorts, all carrying assorted weapons, long and short. Feng Jingzhe had no time to look further before he was led into the main cabin, where two young women stood guard at the entrance. They wore no masks; their task was to search each guest entering the main cabin. By rule, no weapons were allowed inside—not even something as innocuous as a hairpin.

Feng Jingzhe didn’t mind; after a thorough pat-down, he passed through a side passage and entered from another direction. The familiar fighting ring stood in the center, but the surrounding stands were much smaller. Only a handful of seats remained, and judging by the fine clothes of those present, their wealth and status far surpassed the gamblers of the Western Market dens.

The match on stage had just ended. A burly man nearly two meters tall was being carried out of the iron cage by several people. His swollen face bore clear shoe prints. Surprisingly, the victor still left within the cage was, in stature, quite diminutive.

Indeed, “diminutive” was the only word. It had been explained before—those who fought here usually entered bare-chested, except for a rare few women and the oddity that was Feng Jingzhe himself. In other words, the “Stone-Splitting” master spoken of by Mister Fox was, in fact, a petite and exquisite woman.

“Night Rakshasa… fifth match… victory…” As the drawn-out word “victory” echoed, a muted applause filled the hall. Different class, different bearing. No loud cheers, no shrill whistles—just a low hum of private conversation and the soft rustle of attendants tucking silver notes into their sleeves.

With a keen eye, Feng Jingzhe soon spotted the two from before in the second-to-last row. Many here wore dramatic opera masks, but only these two donned Zhao Zilong and Zhang Fei. Sensing Feng Jingzhe’s gaze, Zhao Zilong turned his head. At that moment, Feng Jingzhe felt a hand clap his shoulder—Mister Fox had somehow appeared at his back.

“Brother Diga, you truly keep your word. Whether I win tonight depends entirely on you…” To be crept up on like that, and even patted on the shoulder, was unforgivable. Though Feng Jingzhe did his best to appear oblivious, it was impossible not to be noticed. Of course, whoever noticed now certainly wasn’t Mister Fox. Feng Jingzhe resisted the urge to glance back, knowing that piercing gaze was fixed on him once more.

“Damn it, this feeling is truly unpleasant. If I sensed the slightest malice, I’d already be tempted to jump ship and swim for it…”

Feng Jingzhe forced himself to act natural as Mister Fox led him to a front-row seat. Three others sat there, all masked, each radiating a taut, nervous energy.

“The fifth round has just ended—three more and it’s your turn. Watch closely for their moves and remember: your task is merely to last a quarter of an hour…”

The bronze bell tolled again. Of the three at his side, one leaped up like a spring. Judging by his size and exaggerated muscles, it was obvious Mister Fox had little faith in his own strength. These men were clearly meant as fodder to wear the opponent down, but so far, it hadn’t worked.

The cage opened. The muscle-bound man immediately guarded his front and dropped his center of gravity into a defensive stance—something reminiscent of Western boxing. It seemed that, in the end, all fighting styles converged.

Before the iron gate even closed, the muscleman launched his attack, desperate to deny his opponent any chance to breathe. Attacking from a defensive stance—now that was something.

As the distance closed to within a zhang, Night Rakshasa lashed out with a whip-like kick.

Whoosh—

Like the swing of a battle-axe, Feng Jingzhe could actually hear the rushing wind.

Bang—

A tremendous blow sent the muscleman stumbling several paces to the side, but he managed to stay upright.

“Well done, you took it—just like that!” exclaimed the others, as excited as lottery winners. Yet from Feng Jingzhe’s angle, it was clear that one of the muscleman’s arms had turned entirely purple. Even if the bone hadn’t cracked, it was surely in dire straits.

The power of a “Stone-Splitting” strike—Feng Jingzhe had finally witnessed it firsthand today…