No Fighting Allowed in the Inn-Chapter 110

Who made the move?

The question lingered in everyone’s mind.

The young swordsman gripping his blade suddenly snapped back to reality. Seeing the horrified expression on the Qingyun Peak disciple’s face, he hastily apologized, “I couldn’t rein in my blade’s momentum—my apologies.”

Competitions were different from sparring. In a duel on the stage, injuries were allowed. However, if the opponent surrendered or remained unresponsive after lying on the ground for three breaths, the attacker had to withdraw their offense.

But not every martial artist could perfectly control their techniques, stopping the moment their opponent cried, “I yield!”

Injuries during matches were far from uncommon.

Not only did martial artists struggle to halt their own attacks, but referees also couldn’t always intervene in time—and even if they did, the opponent might already be wounded.

Zhuang Wenqing hadn’t acted earlier. So, which senior had intervened? And why was there no trace of them?

Lu Jianwei asked leisurely, “Were you dozing off, Innkeeper Zhuang? If not for this young hero purchasing our inn’s protection guarantee, he might have lost his life.”

“My apologies—my old eyes failed me, and I couldn’t react in time,” Zhuang Wenqing clasped his hands in acknowledgment. “Many thanks to the senior from the inn for their covert protection.”

The martial artists present felt a surge of warmth in their hearts.

The Eight Directions Inn’s protection guarantee truly worked!

If they could duel on the stage without fear of fatal consequences, wouldn’t it be easier to grasp the essence of their martial techniques?

Some might seek enlightenment in life-or-death moments, but the vast majority of martial artists, when cornered, wouldn’t awaken any hidden potential—only suffer in agony as death loomed.

Rather than pinning hopes on elusive epiphanies, it was better to preserve their lives and continue honing their skills.

Perhaps on the Eight Directions Inn’s dueling stage, they could truly push their limits and deepen their understanding of martial techniques.

Some of the younger martial artists waiting for their matches grew restless, repeatedly asking the inn’s attendants about the price of the protection guarantee. Upon hearing that a single cord cost five hundred taels, some hesitated, while others bought it outright.

The attendants seized the opportunity to promote medical reservations. Though many were eager to purchase, their pockets were nearly empty, leaving them unable to afford it.

Someone remarked, “If you’ve already bought the protection guarantee, why bother with this?”

“Exactly! The guarantee ensures nothing fatal happens, so there’s no need for a physician.”

The attendant smiled and explained, “The protection guarantee only ensures that participants won’t lose their lives—not that they won’t be injured. Didn’t Innkeeper Zhuang just fail to react in time? And he’s an eighth-level Martial King.”

The crowd fell silent.

The senior experts from various sects present all heard the attendant’s “mockery” and turned their gazes toward Zhuang Wenqing on the referee’s platform.

Zhuang Wenqing remained unperturbed, calmly announcing, “First match—Yang Ci wins.”

His words refocused the crowd’s attention on the competition.

Duels between fourth-level Martial Masters were rarely thrilling. Most lacked combat experience, reacted slowly, and hadn’t fully mastered their techniques. Their fights resembled children swinging swords—each match ended swiftly and was utterly dull.

Zhuang Wenqing declared, “The nineteenth match begins: Celestial Vanguard Hall’s Xu Cheng versus Eight Directions Inn’s Xue Guanhe.”

The spectators instantly perked up.

They might not know Xu Cheng, but Xue Guanhe was a familiar name.

The chief disciple of Eight Directions Inn’s proprietor Lu, his martial techniques inherited directly from her. He had only begun training at sixteen, and in just a year and a half, he’d already reached the fourth-level Martial Master realm.

Calling him a prodigy wouldn’t be an exaggeration.

Of course, the key was that he had an exceptional master.

Anyone who received Lu Jianwei’s guidance saw rapid progress in their martial techniques. Take Yan Feicang, for example—after staying at the inn for over a year, he advanced from the early sixth level to the late sixth level, seemingly on the verge of breaking into the seventh-level Martial King realm.

Recalling these feats—along with incidents like the “training ground martial guidance” and “Kong Xin’s overnight breakthrough”—the crowd grew even more intrigued by the inn.

Just which sect did Proprietress Lu hail from?

Xue Guanhe leaped onto the stage, his blade in hand. His lightness skill, “Traces of the Wild Goose,” wasn’t the most refined, but it was still a rare sight.

Lower-level martial artists might not discern its brilliance, but the experts present saw it clearly.

If his lightness skill was already this impressive, how would his blade techniques fare?

“Xue Guanhe of the Eight Directions Inn—I seek your guidance.” He clasped his fists toward Xu Cheng.

His arm bore no cord, while Xu Cheng’s sleeve was tied with a thin green string.

Xu Cheng wielded twin swords, crossing them before his chest as he returned the gesture. “Xu Cheng of the Celestial Vanguard Hall, under the Martial Alliance—I seek your guidance.”

The moment he finished speaking, sword light arced across the stage, striking straight at Xue Guanhe. His technique was agile and fluid, yet the force behind it was fierce and unrelenting.

As a late-stage fourth-level Martial Master, two minor realms above Xue Guanhe, he held nothing back from the first move.

He thought, “This greenhorn only started training recently and has been coddled under the Eight Directions Inn’s wing. How quick could his reactions really be?”

Overwhelming his opponent from the start would secure victory sooner.

But he forgot—Xue Guanhe sparred daily with Yan Feicang, the top blade master in the martial world, and occasionally received pointers from Lu Jianwei himself. No matter how “weak” he seemed, he was far from helpless.

First stance of the Frostfall Blade Art—Enshroud All Life.

The sheer dominance of a top-tier blade technique was on full display.

Endless frost descended soundlessly, blanketing all living things—earth, flora, structures—everything veiled beneath a layer of white rime.

Silent and suffocating.

Xu Cheng’s eyes widened in shock.

His swords could advance no further, as if blocked by an invisible wall. Yet no matter how he looked, it was merely the blade light of a fourth-level Martial Master.

Gleaming, frigid, boundless.

The blade light formed an immense net, dense and impenetrable, barring his path with overwhelming grandeur—as weighty as a mountain, as profound as an abyss.

Before this colossal web, he was nothing but an insignificant insect, powerless to resist.

On the referee’s platform, Zhuang Wenqing’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes betrayed contemplation.

The Frostfall Blade Art was truly formidable.

Few had seen Proprietress Lu wield it personally. Apart from the inn’s attendants, none knew what it looked like.

Now, catching a glimpse through her disciple’s performance, the spectators couldn’t help but marvel inwardly: “As expected.”

With the Eight Directions Inn’s prowess, how could its blade techniques be anything less than extraordinary?

“Superb blade work!” Yan Buyou exclaimed. “The Frostfall Blade Art lives up to its reputation!”

The others snapped out of their daze and offered praises of their own.

Lu Jianwei smiled faintly, unbothered.

Aside from a few sincere admirers, most of these people were merely paying lip service while seething with envy inside.

Who wouldn’t covet a top-tier martial technique?

Even major sects like the Carefree Sect and the Sky Pillar Temple treasured and sought after precious techniques.

This Xue kid had stumbled upon incredible luck.

Xu Cheng desperately resisted the net’s encroachment, his late-stage fourth-level inner force finally giving him an edge.

The sharp tips of his swords pierced a corner of the net, and a whirlwind of intertwined sword rays surged toward Xue Guanhe.

Second stance of the Frostfall Blade Art—Withering Blossoms.

After the frost’s descent, all life withered.

Vitality began fading the moment the frost crystallized. Xu Cheng’s fierce sword rays, swift as thunder, gradually lost their momentum upon meeting the blade light—like lightning cut short midair, leaving only vast emptiness behind.

Xu Cheng: ???

He was a late-stage fourth-level Martial Master!

If he were to be defeated by a mere fourth-level novice on the arena, where would his dignity go?

The sword radiance crumbled inch by inch under the blade’s light, fading into complete darkness.

Silence enveloped the surroundings of the arena.

The Frostwhirl Blade Art was too formidable.

If a fourth-level youth could unleash such overwhelming power, what about Shopkeeper Lu, an eighth-level Martial King?

Rumors said Shopkeeper Lu had already reached mid-eighth-level cultivation. With such a ruthless blade technique added to her prowess, who within the eighth level could possibly rival her?

The minds of the sect elders churned with thoughts.

Just which reclusive sect had spawned this monstrous genius?!

On the stage, Xu Cheng was already considering retreat.

His opponent’s blade technique was too strong. Continuing would only humiliate himself further.

Just as he was about to sheathe his swords and concede, an intense surge of malice suddenly erupted within him.

He couldn’t back down! He had to fight! He had to tear apart the person who dared defeat him and make him lose face!

His twin swords thrust mercilessly toward Xue Guanhe once more.

Xue Guanhe had noticed Xu Cheng retracting his swords and sensed his intent to withdraw, allowing himself a brief moment of relief. But then, without warning, Xu Cheng’s battle spirit flared, and he unleashed a killing move.

The icy sword tip was already at his face!

Instinctively, Xue Guanhe raised his blade to block. The clash of metal sent sparks flying, accompanied by a piercing screech that made the onlookers’ hearts shudder.

Xue Guanhe’s blade, forged by the system, was of exceptional quality, far surpassing ordinary weapons.

Empowered by fourth-level internal energy, Xu Cheng’s sword couldn’t withstand the force—it snapped clean in half.

But Xu Cheng didn’t care. He swung his remaining sword toward Xue Guanhe’s neck.

Xue Guanhe frowned.

The crimson fury in Xu Cheng’s eyes and the overwhelming bloodlust made him uneasy.

Frostwhirl Blade Art, Third Form—Western Gale.

The first two forms emphasized defense, but the third was purely offensive.

A howling wind, as if sweeping in from distant frozen plains, carried a biting chill that lashed like blades against the skin.

The chaotic gale, infused with the world’s frigid solemnity, surged toward Xu Cheng like a raging flood.

The blade wind tore through his robes, slicing his face. Thin trails of blood trickled down his cheeks, staining the arena floor.

Xue Guanhe had gained absolute dominance, yet Xu Cheng fought on like a madman, refusing to yield, still wielding his broken swords in a desperate struggle.

Among the seats of the Martial Alliance, disciples whispered in disapproval.

“What’s wrong with Xu Cheng? Why won’t he just admit defeat?”

“Junior Brother Xu’s pride is too strong. Doesn’t he realize he’s only making himself look worse?”

“If this continues, he’ll die!”

“Something’s off about him. He’s not usually like this.”

Arena rules dictated that as long as a fighter didn’t verbally concede or make a gesture of surrender, no one could interfere.

Xu Cheng might not fear death, but Xue Guanhe had no intention of killing him.

Though his superior technique suppressed Xu Cheng’s attacks, his internal energy was inferior. Prolonging the fight would only harm both of them.

Moreover, being the closest to Xu Cheng, Xue Guanhe sensed something was wrong.

This sudden madness wasn’t natural.

He stole a glance toward the audience.

Shopkeeper Lu’s expression remained unchanged, calm and composed, as if everything was still under her control.

As the senior disciple, he couldn’t embarrass his master. He also had to set a good example for Junior Sister Tiao, who would fight later.

Summoning the last of his energy, Xue Guanhe unleashed another Western Gale, trapping Xu Cheng within the relentless storm of blade light.

Seizing the moment, he pulled out a Restraining Pill from his robes and forced it into Xu Cheng’s mouth.

No rules forbade medicine in the arena.

Many fighters carried hidden weapons, even poisoned ones.

The pill he gave wasn’t meant to harm—it was meant to save.

Of course, using medicine was a last resort.

The purpose of the arena was to hone martial skills. Unless absolutely necessary, medicine shouldn’t be used.

Besides, most warriors carried antidotes and were wary of such tactics, making it difficult to truly suppress an opponent.

The Restraining Pill took effect swiftly.

Xu Cheng’s internal energy was sealed, and his earlier desperate struggle had drained his stamina. He couldn’t even lift his swords, collapsing to his knees, his eyes still fixed hatefully on Xue Guanhe. His lips moved soundlessly, muttering incoherent words.

Three breaths later, Xu Cheng remained unable to rise.

Zhuang Wenqing announced, “Xue Guanhe of the Eight Directions Inn wins.”

Xue Guanhe sheathed his blade and clasped his hands. “I concede the honor.”

Martial Alliance disciples immediately helped Xu Cheng off the stage, clearing the way for the next match.

Back at his seat, Xu Cheng finally regained his senses.

“Junior Brother Xu, what was that about?” Yu Jiansheng asked.

Xu Cheng rubbed his temples, bewildered. “I don’t know. I just looked at Xue Guanhe, and suddenly this… rage took over. I didn’t care about anything else—I just wanted to… kill him.”

The last two words were barely audible, but his lips formed them clearly.

This was the Eight Directions Inn. He couldn’t say such things openly, lest someone overhear and cause trouble.

Yu Jiansheng lowered his voice. “You weren’t holding a grudge and trying to take revenge, were you?”

“How could I?” Xu Cheng shook his head vehemently. “Shopkeeper Lu was watching the match. Do I have a death wish?”

“Then why did you act so recklessly?”

“I don’t know. I just couldn’t stand the sight of him. I wanted to crush him.”

“Junior Brother Xu, if you want payback, at least be subtle about it. Everyone was watching.”

“I swear, it wasn’t intentional!”

Yu Jiansheng sighed. “Forget it. Your energy’s suppressed—go buy an antidote from the inn.”

“Right.”

Over at the Purple Star Hall’s seating, Bian Xingzhou fanned himself lazily. “The Celestial Vanguard Hall never learns. Still a bunch of reckless fools.”

His fellow disciples nodded. “Exactly. Xu Cheng’s got guts, trying to kill Shopkeeper Lu’s disciple right in front of her.”

“Senior Brother Ying,” Bian Xingzhou leaned closer, “do you think they’re still bitter about what happened before and deliberately acted out?”

Ying Wumian chuckled. “Junior Brother Bian, I’d say Xu Cheng’s behavior just now bore a striking resemblance to yours.”

“Impossible!” Bian Xingzhou felt insulted. “I’m nowhere near as stupid as him!”

Ying Wumian: “Rumor has it you once provoked Shopkeeper Lu quite recklessly in Dianzhou.”

“That was because of Xue’er,” Bian Xingzhou defended. “I’m not as brainless as Xu Cheng.”

“Junior Brother Bian, the pot shouldn’t call the kettle black.” Ying Wumian replied with an amused smile.

Bian Xingzhou: “…”

After a long silence, he finally asked, “Senior Brother Ying, how did you know about what happened in Dianzhou?”

At the inn in Dianzhou, he had indeed been forced to the ground by Shopkeeper Lu, but only those present knew. Had Zhao Rui spread the story?

No—Zhao Rui had been pinned down even longer than him. He wouldn’t humiliate himself like that.

Shopkeeper Lu and the inn staff didn’t seem like gossips, and Xue’er would never betray him.

Could it have been the Yi tribesmen locked in the stables?

But even if they had talked, how did Senior Brother Ying, who wasn’t even in Dianzhou at the time, hear about it?

His mind buzzed with questions as he stared intently at Ying Wumian.

The latter remained unfazed, his gaze fixed on the arena, ignoring Bian Xingzhou’s probing look and offering no answers.

Then, in a flash, realization struck Bian Xingzhou—his heart skipped a beat.

"Senior Brother Ying, you didn’t go to Dianzhou as well, did you? You changed your mind about participating in the competition as soon as you heard about ‘Gu Baitou.’ You must be after it too."

Ying Wumian turned to look at him, a faint smile in his eyes. He still appeared as the gentle and refined senior brother, yet Bian Xingzhou inexplicably felt a chill.

"Junior Brother Bian, why did you go to Dianzhou to seize Gu Baitou in the first place?"

"Of course, it was a mission assigned by our sect."

"The sect issued that mission because the alliance needed Gu Baitou. Last time, you brought back a fake one, embarrassing the alliance. Now, the Eight Directions Inn is offering Gu Baitou as a reward. Do you think you and our fellow disciples stand a chance at victory?"

Bian Xingzhou: "..."

He knew he couldn’t and was accustomed to deferring to his senior brother, so he didn’t argue, only muttering under his breath, "But you’ve really changed. You never cared about material things before."

Ying Wumian withdrew his gaze and ignored him.

The competition on the stage continued.

After another dozen or so matches, Zhuang Wenqing announced once more, "Freelancer Jiang Yuan versus Eight Directions Inn’s Yun Shuitao."

Tiao, dressed in a sleek black martial outfit and wielding a long whip, leaped gracefully onto the stage.

A young man in his early twenties, with mid-level fourth-rank cultivation, stood waiting.

Jiang Yuan, a freelancer with no sect backing, didn’t dare underestimate an employee of the Eight Directions Inn—especially after Xu Cheng’s earlier lesson. What good was superior internal energy if the inn’s fighters could still overpower him?

"Miss Yun, I seek your guidance," he said courteously, clasping his fists in salute, a dagger in hand.

The contrast between dagger and whip was stark.

Tiao wasn’t complacent just because Xue Guanhe had won. She knew the techniques, martial skills, and whip her employer had provided were among the finest in the martial world.

She was fortunate to learn them and couldn’t afford to embarrass her employer.

She had to win—and win impressively.

"Brother Jiang, I seek your guidance as well."

Her whip lashed out as she spoke, striking toward Jiang Yuan at the other end. He dodged nimbly, weaving through the flurry of whip shadows until he spotted an opening. His dagger pierced through a gap as he closed in with an unorthodox footwork technique, aiming for Tiao’s back.

The dagger thrust toward her heart.

Tiao’s ears twitched. She executed "Wild Goose Leaves No Trace," vanishing in half a breath and reappearing at the edge of the stage, turning to face her opponent.

A single exchange had revealed each other’s strengths.

Tiao practiced the "One-Inch Whip Technique," not the pinnacle of martial arts but certainly among the finest whip styles—and the one that suited her best.

She had only mastered three of its nine forms.

Jiang Yuan excelled in close combat, while her whip was ill-suited for it. She had to maintain the perfect distance, preventing him from closing in.

Her whip was fierce yet agile, coiling like a dragon in motion and retracting with precision. But Jiang Yuan’s footwork was exquisite, making him a master of evasion. For now, her whip couldn’t ensnare him.

Both were cautious fighters, making the match somewhat dull—but not to the spectators.

Since Xue Guanhe’s match, the martial artists had been paying close attention to the Eight Directions Inn’s fighters.

Their lightness skills were of the same lineage, emphasizing agility and grace—anyone with eyes could see their brilliance.

But what truly stood out were their martial techniques and weapons.

Typically, martial artists joined sects to learn techniques and select weapons—either purchased or chosen from the sect’s armory, though the latter usually offered only ordinary options.

Only those who advanced in rank and contributed significantly could earn the privilege of custom-made weapons.

But the Eight Directions Inn’s employees were different.

Not only did they learn profound techniques, but they also wielded weapons perfectly suited to their styles.

Xue Guanhe’s blade was a treasure, and Tiao’s whip was no less impressive.

Yet they were only fourth-rank martial artists—novices by any measure. How did they deserve such priceless weapons?

What kind of sect stood behind the Eight Directions Inn?

Some struggling martial artists felt a burning envy.

If they could join the inn, would they also have a chance to become Lu Jianwei’s disciples?

After ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‍all, Xue Guanhe and Yun Shuitao had once been mere employees, only recently formally apprenticed.

Had their loyalty moved Lu Jianwei to take them in?

They should have applied when the inn was hiring.

Now, the opportunity to join a sect had slipped through their fingers, handed to those already working there.

The elders of various sects had deeper concerns.

Cultivation, medicine, techniques, and weapons were the foundations of any sect.

They had already witnessed Lu Jianwei’s prowess in cultivation and medicine, and rumors of her peerless forging skills had reached them before.

Now, seeing her employees’ techniques, they were stunned once more.

By hosting this competition and having her employees participate, Lu Jianwei was flaunting her strength to the entire martial world.

Perhaps this was just the tip of the iceberg.

The promise of expert guidance at the training grounds left them both awed and unnerved.

No one could identify the flaws in every technique—not even the Luzhou Academy.

Lu Jianwei’s bold declaration wasn’t recklessness—it was confidence.

She was luring martial artists from across the land, unafraid of the covetous eyes of major sects.

On the stage, Tiao poured the last of her energy into her whip, tightening it around Jiang Yuan’s neck.

Jiang Yuan gasped, "I yield!"

Zhuang Wenqing, jolted from his thoughts, announced, "Yun Shuitao of the Eight Directions Inn wins."

He added meaningfully, "Lu Jianwei’s guidance is impeccable. Both her disciples are exceptional."

"You flatter me, Sect Leader Zhuang," Lu Jianwei replied lightly. "Next match."

There were 148 fourth-rank competitors in total.

Pairing off into 74 matches, the winners would advance through random draws.

Matches with clear disparities ended quickly, as did those between weaker fighters. The majority of time was consumed by evenly matched, skilled opponents.

By the end of the first day, the fourth-rank matches had concluded.

The final victor was a peak fourth-rank martial artist from the Carefree Sect—the same one who had defeated Xue Guanhe.

Neither Xue Guanhe nor Tiao was disheartened by their losses. They knew their limits and were satisfied with the lessons learned.

They had gained much from the competition and retreated to the main courtyard to meditate in seclusion.

Before doing so, Xue Guanhe prepared a feast to apologize to Lu Jianwei.

"Employer, I don’t know how long I’ll be in seclusion. What will you eat in the meantime?"

Lu Jianwei was about to say the inn had other cooks when Wen Zhuzhi interjected, "A'Nai’s cooking is quite good."

"A'Nai?" Xue Guanhe hesitated.

A'Nai raised an eyebrow. "What, you doubt my skills?"

"No, I just worry it might not suit the employer’s taste."

"I've studied cooking with you and know Innkeeper Lu's tastes inside out, so there's no need to worry." A'Nai lifted her chin proudly. "Besides, I've said it before—I'll take good care of the Young Master and Madam—"

"A'Nai," Wen Zhuzhi interrupted gently. "Let's eat."

"Oh."

After dinner, Lu Jianwei leaned against the corridor to rest.

The April breeze carried the first whispers of spring, though traces of winter's chill still lingered.

"Everything was quiet today—they didn't make a move." She picked up the hand of the person beside her, idly tracing its lines with her fingers. "But that Xu Cheng is rather interesting."

Due to his health, Wen Zhuzhi's hands always ran cold. They were elegantly shaped—long bones, perfectly proportioned joints, with just a hint of calluses on his palms and fingertips that did nothing to diminish their refined beauty.

"Hmm. Xu Cheng was testing the waters." Wen Zhuzhi lowered his gaze, lingering on their intertwined fingers with a faint smile.

Soon, his hand grew warm under her touch.

Lu Jianwei switched to the other one.

Her eyes sparkled with quiet amusement as she gazed at the vast sky.

"If today was just a probe... what comes tomorrow?"

She was already looking forward to it—wondering what tricks the shadowy figure hiding in the dark would pull next.

Would it be a Martial King of the eighth rank?

Her little Wuji was practically itching for a fight.