Chapter 5: Guidance from a Senior

Dugu Bieli moved.

When still, he was as calm as a maiden; in motion, as swift as a startled hare.

His right foot slid horizontally across the arena, his left foot stepping back in a diagonal glide, his body following suit. In the blink of an eye, he had shifted to the side, neatly evading the sharp edge of the attack. No matter how fierce, domineering, or deadly Zhou Tong’s onslaught was, it all amounted to nothing.

“He actually… resolved it?”

A single thought of astonishment flashed across everyone’s mind.

Boom!

Before that thought had even faded, change struck again. Zhou Tong launched another punch, like thunder crashing from the heavens, mountains crumbling, rocks shattering—the very air exploded, sending forceful shockwaves in all directions.

The entire crowd was shaken.

Only now did they recall: before Zhou Tong struck, he had used both fists. There was more to his “Meteor Firestorm” technique—there were changes yet unseen. Even if this fledgling soldier had managed to evade the first strike by sheer luck, he would inevitably be caught by the next.

“In the end, it’s still not enough. Too inexperienced.” Someone shook his head in regret, though he hadn’t realized himself that Zhou Tong’s technique was never finished with one attack.

“This strike might just blast him apart,” another speculated about Zhou Tong’s destructive power. In the Storm Arena, no one held back—the fights weren’t to the death, after all, and participants could always be revived, full of life as ever.

“Ah—!”

Someone with keen eyes noticed in that split second that the soldier was moving again, once more shifting to the side, narrowly dodging. In that instant, Dugu Bieli found himself on Zhou Tong’s right. At this moment, Zhou Tong’s attack had lost its edge, his body suspended in midair, his waist and abdomen exposed—a glaring opening.

In an instant, the tide turned.

Everyone’s eyes were wide, inexplicably expectant, wondering if the soldier would seize the opportunity. Yet Dugu Bieli defied their hopes; he seemed not to notice the opening, or perhaps saw it late, his body swaying as though to advance.

Pop!

Just then, a crisp crack rang out in the air—sharp as a rattlesnake’s snap. The crowd’s suspicions were confirmed.

Zhou Tong’s “Meteor Firestorm” did not end with the second transformation; there was a third.

His leg.

Like a whip, it lashed out with sudden force.

This was the true killing move!

The timing was perfect.

It was just as Dugu Bieli’s momentum from his sidestep was still carrying him forward, at the very moment he intended to advance. It looked as though Dugu Bieli had walked straight into the blow, almost inviting it.

Even Zhou Tong was surprised by his own sequence of three changes—this was the limit of what he could do. To add further variations was beyond his ability. As the whip-like leg struck, the arena seemed to thunder, wind and clouds roiling, mountains trembling and evil spirits fleeing.

“Arrogant, aren’t you?” Zhou Tong cursed inwardly, his attack relentless and merciless. He already imagined his opponent’s skull bursting under the blow, his body sprawled across the arena. This combination—flames, twin meteors, thunderous break—was a secret family technique. In real combat, when forced to reveal the third variation, its lethality would surpass his current level, allowing him to overcome stronger foes.

Swish—

The whip leg swept through the air, smooth and unimpeded. Like fire blazing, like wind sweeping, all so natural.

“What’s going on?” Zhou Tong was taken aback.

Down below, chaos erupted among the onlookers.

Zhou Tong hadn’t seen it, but the spectators had: as the soldier feinted forward, he shifted back again, his movements light and uncanny, like a leaf fluttering in the wind stirred by the whip leg, drifting and swaying back to his original spot!

He made his move—not to attack, but to pull.

He grabbed Zhou Tong’s arm, and with quick, backward steps, dragged him to the edge of the arena. Then he let go.

Whoosh—lost in the clouds and mist, Zhou Tong drifted out, dazed and bewildered.

The arena fell silent.

Then, a wave of thunderous applause broke out.

In just a short time, the fight had taken so many twists and turns—it was a spectacle for the heroes watching. They even forgot Zhou Tong’s status and strength, cheering with abandon. No one mocked the soldier’s record of three victories any longer.

In battle, strength is the only standard.

They saw openings, but only the soldier could perceive the traps within them, demonstrating a superb mastery of movement, each step worthy of praise.

This was true strength.

Rank no longer mattered.

The third match was over.

Zhou Tong stood beneath the platform, gazing up at Dugu Bieli, full of frustration and shame. He had just been lecturing the other moments before, boasting and blustering—only to be defeated quickly after. He didn’t even bother to tidy his disheveled appearance, nor maintain his composure, but covered his face and left.

“Next,” Dugu Bieli said woodenly.

No one responded.

Each hero compared himself to Zhou Tong and felt a pang of insecurity.

Dugu Bieli waited a moment. No one came forward. Seeing that he was still far from a hundred victories, he frowned and goaded them, “Are there truly no heroes here with courage?”

Everyone felt embarrassed.

One hero stepped forth, striding up onto the arena. “You’re going too far. Even if you have some skill, there’s no need to flaunt it here. Who knows—maybe your true rank isn’t even that of a soldier. Why make fools of us? I may not be much, but I still want to fight you.”

In the Storm Arena, one’s rank and realm didn’t necessarily match those in the real world. A person might be a general in the arena but only a commander in reality, or vice versa.

“Make your move.”

Amidst the cheers and encouragement, Dugu Bieli replied calmly.

“Watch this!” the hero declared, striking a pose before launching into a display of “battle techniques,” his fists and feet flying with tigerish vigor, the wind from his punches whistling—so vigorous that even the spectators broke into a sweat on his behalf.

“Hah!” The hero finished, facing Dugu Bieli with fists clasped, his expression neither humble nor arrogant, but his words stunned everyone: “Please, instruct me, senior. I will be grateful for life.”

Hundreds of people were nearly moved to tears. To think there existed such a shameless fellow in the world—it was a disgrace to all heroes, leaving people to wonder how he had ever grasped the essence of heroism.

Dugu Bieli, having expected an attack, was left speechless by this request. Regaining his composure, he replied, “Your moves are flashy, but mostly feints. Too few could bring you victory. Your problem lies in the direction of your creativity. Don’t shut yourself away to ponder—fight more, and insight will come naturally.”

“Oh, so my direction is off,” the hero mused, then asked, “Any other advice?”

Dugu Bieli was at a loss, his mouth twitching. “The main purpose of battle techniques is to defeat the enemy. When fighting at the same level, you must pay attention to your output—use your strength at the crucial moment, don’t squander it.”

“Thank you.” Suddenly, the hero charged like a rhinoceros, head lowered, rushing straight at Dugu Bieli.