Everyone looked at the figure, slighter and more delicate than a woman’s, and couldn’t help shaking their heads.

Feng Jiu’er, however, leapt onto the stage with an expression of total confidence.

“Kid, you’re not even bringing a weapon?” someone shouted.

The reckless youngster hadn’t brought a weapon. Everyone had assumed she would pick one from the rack beside the ring. Instead, he brought nothing at all and walked straight onto the stage.

“He’s probably scared out of his wits. If he regrets it, he’d better beg Boss Yang—there might still be time.”

“He’s not thinking of sending his own brothers up as his weapon, is he?”

“Maybe that’s really it. Look at him—so small, what weapon could he even hold up?”

“Get down while you still can, or it’ll be too late. Go back and you keep your life. Stay… and it’ll be a waste!”

“Reckless little fool. Boss Yang, teach him a lesson!”

Boss Yang, who had been resting with his great blade over his shoulder and his eyes closed, snapped them open at the sound of his name.

He turned his head to look at the short newcomer approaching him, his thick brows knitting together. He slapped a broad palm against the thick wooden stage and rose to his feet in one powerful motion, his massive frame settling firmly.

“Kid, where’s your weapon?” Boss Yang stared at the figure who had stopped a short distance in front of him, his voice low.

“My surname is Qian. My name is San.” Feng Jiu’er met Boss Yang’s gaze head-on.

Xing Zizhou too—Qian Yi, Qian Er, Qian San. He really had managed to come up with such “fitting” names.

“I don’t care what your name is!” Boss Yang snorted coldly. “The match is about to start. Aren’t you going to hurry up and pick a weapon?”

“If you’re not down by a quarter past the hour, stepping off the stage afterward still counts as your loss.”

“Don’t say I’m bullying you—I just don’t want to waste time. Go on!”

Feng Jiu’er extended a small arm forward. No one could quite make out what had happened, but a short blade now sat in her hand.

Her slender fingers gave a flick, and the dagger’s edge turned downward, settling into her grip.

“This is my weapon. What are the rules of the match? Who’s the referee?”

Boss Yang didn’t want to waste time—but did Feng Jiu’er want to waste it any less?

Since this place wasn’t suitable for her purposes, she had no desire to linger here even a moment longer than necessary.

Even though, during their time at the inn, they hadn’t been able to find her father or get any word of him, once she reached the second floor, Lei Shenbao would naturally agree to see her.

“That’s the kid’s weapon? Don’t make people laugh,” someone below the stage roared with laughter.

Next to Boss Yang’s great blade, Feng Jiu’er’s dagger looked like a puppy next to an ox—it was obvious to anyone who would win.

Before that man’s laughter had even died down, plenty of others joined in.

“A weapon like that—isn’t that just an insult?”

“This kid’s small, but he’s got guts.”

“I’ll referee,” said the captain standing in the crowd, leaping up onto the stage.

Feng Jiu’er was quite pleased to see this man again—after all, he was the one who truly held authority here.

The captain looked at the short blade in Feng Jiu’er’s hand and frowned slightly.

“Before the match, I need to state clearly: although this bout isn’t part of the official tournament, all the same rules apply.”

“No underhanded tricks, and—more importantly—no poison.”

Feng Jiu’er had no martial arts to speak of, was small and thin, and didn’t even hold a proper weapon, yet she still stood with her head held high, utterly confident.

This made the captain begin to suspect that this reckless youth might be plotting something.

“And it’s not just on this stage—anywhere within Lei Teng, poison is strictly forbidden. Everyone here should already know that, right?”

“Captain, are you trying to warn me?” Feng Jiu’er asked softly, lowering the hand holding her dagger.

“Don’t worry. I have a great deal of respect for the old master. Even if I lose, I wouldn’t resort to something like that.”

“Besides, if I really were carrying poison on me, I wouldn’t even have made it into Lei Teng, would I?”

The captain gave a light cough and nodded.

“Since that’s clear, there’s no need for me to waste any more breath.” The captain withdrew his gaze from Feng Jiu’er and turned to address the crowd.

“For this match, whoever remains standing on the stage at the end is the victor; the other side, the loser.”

“If Qian San wins, I’ll make an exception and let all three brothers advance to the next zone. Yang Daqiang will leave Zone Four and return to Zone Five.”

“If Yang Daqiang wins, the three Qian brothers leave Zone Four and return to Zone Five.”

“Do either of you have any objections?” The captain looked at Feng Jiu’er, then at Yang Daqiang.

“No objections!” Feng Jiu’er and Yang Daqiang answered at the same time.

“Good.” The captain raised the long sword in his hand. “Blades have no eyes. If you truly can’t win, surrender is also an option.”

“The match begins now. Both sides, prepare yourselves.”

The captain knew full well that Qian San would lose, but his two older brothers weren’t anyone to trifle with either.

If Qian San could just admit defeat himself, things would be much simpler.

“Match—begin!” The captain raised his sword one final time, then leapt down off the stage.

She wasn’t even a beauty, and she was supposedly a man besides—just some reckless, scrawny kid. Yang Daqiang wasn’t about to show any tenderness toward someone like that.

He gripped his long-handled great blade with both hands, about to advance, when an unexpected gust of wind swept across his face.

The strange wind came fast and fierce. Yang Daqiang’s eyes couldn’t bear it, and he had no choice but to close them.

By the time he forced his eyes open again, he realized his neck had begun to ache.

The youth he had looked down on this whole time was now standing right in front of him.

He stood a full head taller than her, and he still gripped his great blade—but none of it mattered anymore.

The short blade in Qian San’s hand was pressed against Yang Daqiang’s throat.

A thin, shallow line of blood had appeared on his neck.

Had that blade pressed forward just a little more a moment ago, Yang Daqiang would already be lying on the stage in a pool of his own blood, nothing more than a cold corpse.

Not just Yang Daqiang—everyone below the stage, save for Qiao Mu and Jian Yi, was so stunned that for a moment no one could utter a word.

Yang Daqiang let out several ragged breaths before he finally came back to his senses.

“I lost.” For the first time in his life, he said those words.

Feng Jiu’er didn’t press her advantage. She simply withdrew the dagger and stepped back twice.

“Since you admit defeat, today’s match ends here.”

She turned back toward the captain below the stage and waved a hand. “Captain, please announce the result.”

With a thud, Yang Daqiang dropped to his knees on the stage.

“I… lost!”

Yang Daqiang’s grief made everyone realize it at once—this match that should have been an easy win had ended with Boss Yang utterly defeated, without him ever even getting the chance to strike.

“The Qian kid won?”

“How did he even do that?”

“Such speed—I’ve never heard of, let alone seen, anything like it!”

“Heavens, the Qian kid actually beat Big Brother Yang in a single move? How is that even possible?”

“How could it not be possible? Boss Yang himself admitted defeat, didn’t he?”

The captain climbed back onto the stage and declared Qian San the winner.

Yang Daqiang, utterly dejected, rose to his feet and turned away, walking off to the other side.

“Captain, when can we move into the third zone?” Feng Jiu’er asked, looking at the man beside her.

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, I’ll personally escort you there myself.” At this moment, the captain looked at Feng Jiu’er with far more deference than he had shown Yang Daqiang.

It was as though he were looking at a new generation’s Thunder King.