Chapter 3

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The Chen family had a training ground, each side measuring over two hundred meters, which was quite large.

On a regular day, the family's young members would come to the training ground to practice, as the atmosphere was good and there were elders to guide them. Chen Zong used to come often, but he was often mocked and bullied, which greatly affected his training. He was also injured several times by Chen Zhongjie, which cost him a lot of time, so he stopped coming and trained on his own.

The weapons room was located at one corner of the training ground, and there were currently over a dozen family members training there.

"Look, isn't that Chen Zong?" Someone with keen eyes immediately exclaimed upon seeing Chen Zong.

"That's right, it's him. He was training on his own, why is he back?"

"Probably because he made no progress on his own and decided to come back to the training ground."

"He can't possibly think Chen Zhongjie has forgotten about him, can he?"

"Poor guy, I heard his energy pills were given to Chen Zhigang yesterday."

"I think that's the right thing to do. Big Brother Gang is the top martial disciple in the family. Not to mention comparing with Big Brother Gang, even compared to us, Chen Zong is just a waste. Giving him energy pills would be a waste."

Ignoring the gazes and comments of the dozen or so family members, Chen Zong walked through the training ground and entered the weapons room.

The weapons room was about ten meters long and wide, with wooden racks placed along the four walls. The racks held various weapons: swords, spears, sabers, staffs, bows, and daggers.

An old man was in charge of the weapons room. Perhaps due to his age, he was easily fatigued and was dozing off. Chen Zong did not disturb him and walked directly to the weapon rack with swords.

There were about a dozen swords on the rack, the longest being over a meter and the shortest less than half a meter. Chen Zong first ruled out the longest and shortest, leaving five that were more suitable in length.

Chen Zong picked up each sword, drew it, and swung it casually, carefully feeling it.

People are different, and so are swords. The length, thickness, and weight that suit you are the best.

Finally, Chen Zong held two swords in his hands, carefully comparing them. They looked the same in length and thickness, but there was a slight difference in weight. After a few minutes of comparison, Chen Zong put down the sword in his left hand and chose the one in his right.

The sword was gray-black with some mottled marks. The hilt was wooden, entirely black, with grooves to prevent slipping. The entire sword looked very ordinary and was not worth much in jade coins. After all, the Chen family in Xiaohu Town was just a branch, and their resources were limited. The weapons available for free were naturally not of high quality.

Chen Zong did not mind; on the contrary, he was somewhat excited. This was the first time he held a sword, and for some reason, it felt familiar, as if he had been holding a sword for years. He held the sword in his right hand and gently ran his left fingers over the blade, the cold sensation making him shiver involuntarily.

The sword was 62 centimeters long, the hilt 20 centimeters long, the blade 3.5 centimeters wide and 1 centimeter thick at the junction with the guard, and 2.5 centimeters wide and 0.6 centimeters thick at the tip. The sword weighed 5.8 catties without the scabbard.

He was quite fond of it, so he sheathed the sword, woke up the dozing old man, registered, and then walked out of the weapons room with the sword in his left hand, only to see over a dozen family members staring at him.

"He's out."

"He's even holding an iron sword."

"Unable to practice the Tiger Force Fist, he's planning to practice sword techniques? But our family's foundational martial arts don't include sword techniques."

"You're overthinking it. Even if the family had foundational sword techniques, the difficulty would be higher than the fist techniques. He can't even practice the fist techniques, so what sword techniques? I think he's planning to sell the iron sword to get some jade coins to spend." One person said confidently, as such things had happened before.

"Hey, Chen Zong, remember to give me half of the money from selling the sword." Another person shouted at Chen Zong, then clenched his fist threateningly: "Or you know the consequences."

Chen Zong frowned, about to speak, when he suddenly caught sight of a familiar black figure walking into the training ground.

"Chen Zhongjie..." He gritted his teeth, his voice like a tiger's low growl, and anger burned in his heart.

Since his father lost his cultivation, Chen Zong had suffered much bullying, most of it from Chen Zhongjie, who was a lackey of Chen Zhigang. Chen Zhigang's father had a conflict with Chen Zhengtang.

"Chen Zong!" Chen Zhongjie also saw Chen Zong, looking surprised, then sneered: "Little waste, it's been a while, haven't you forgotten my words?"

Half a year ago, Chen Zhigang said Chen Zong was affecting his training in the training ground. Chen Zhongjie immediately blocked Chen Zong and threatened him not to come back to the training ground, or he would be beaten every time he showed up. Chen Zong did not yield and was immediately beaten by Chen Zhongjie, requiring five to six days of rest and unable to train, which added to his father's burden.

Chen Zhigang's father was the top martial artist in the family, arrogant and overbearing, not even respecting the clan leader. However, he was the strongest and had a group of supporters, leaving the powerless Chen Zhengtang with no choice.

To avoid adding to his father's burden and to focus on his training, Chen Zong stopped coming to the training ground. Now, hearing Chen Zhongjie's words, his anger flared, like a volcano about to erupt.

"Hey, holding a sword, what for? Do you know you're a waste, planning to go chop trees with your waste of a father?" Chen Zhongjie's eyes fell on the sword in Chen Zong's left hand, and he sneered.

"Chen Zhongjie, take back your words and apologize to me." The words 'waste' and 'waste of a father' brought back many unpleasant memories for Chen Zong. His face darkened, and he spoke each word clearly.

"Father is a waste, son is a waste, did I say anything wrong?" Chen Zhongjie laughed with disdain.

"You're asking for it!" His eyes blazed with anger, and Chen Zong roared, stepping forward like a tiger, charging at Chen Zhongjie.

Chen Zhongjie's hair stood on end. For a moment, he felt as if a tiger was roaring in front of him. He shook his head to dispel the absurd feeling, his eyes filled with ferocity, and he grinned maliciously. He stepped forward like a wolf stalking its prey, leaning forward, his left hand bent and claw-like, thumb pointing to his chin, and his right hand clenched into a fist at his waist, with the middle and index fingers protruding like fangs.

"It seems Chen Zhongjie's Wolf Fang Fist has improved."

"Chen Zong is in trouble. This time, he'll probably be bedridden for days."

As the crowd gloated, Chen Zhongjie and Chen Zong approached each other.

"Wolf Rush!" Chen Zhongjie roared, his speed increasing. As he closed in on Chen Zong, his right hand seemed to pierce the air, striking Chen Zong's stomach like a wolf's fangs, mercilessly.

Chen Zong's eyes focused, seeing Chen Zhongjie clearly. His face was ferocious, his eyes cold, and his pupils glinted with a fierce light. His left hand, raised, moved slightly, and the trajectory of his right hand, like a wolf's fangs piercing the air, was clear.

"Tiger Charge!"

His right hand clenched, he roared, and the peak-level Tiger Force Fist was unleashed, breaking through like bamboo, the wind roaring.

The Wolf Fang Fist and the Tiger Force Fist were of the same level. The Wolf Fang Fist emphasized speed and opportunistic strikes, while the Tiger Force Fist emphasized power and direct attacks.

The two fists collided, and a sound like bones breaking echoed. Chen Zhongjie's ferocious grin turned to terror as Chen Zong's punch broke through his Wolf Rush and struck his stomach with great force.

A loud thud, like a drum, echoed as the force of the punch made Chen Zhongjie's martial attire ripple. His stomach caved in, and the terrifying force seemed to shatter his internal organs. His back arched, his face filled with terror, his eyes wide and bloodshot, his mouth open, and saliva dripping.

Chen Zong retracted his fist, and Chen Zhongjie fell to his knees, clutching his stomach, trembling from the pain, and spitting out a mouthful of blood, red and shocking.

That punch was heavy, a release of Chen Zong's anger. Chen Zhongjie was injured internally and would need at least seven to eight days of rest.

"Chen Zhongjie, remember this. If you insult my father or me again, you'll bear the consequences. Pass my words to Chen Dali and Chen Zhigang." Chen Zong glared at Chen Zhongjie, his voice cold, then turned and walked away, his steps more determined, his back straighter.

As a fellow Chen family member, injuring Chen Zhongjie was enough; he had no intention of killing, or he would face clan rules.

The surroundings were silent, everyone's eyes wide and mouths open, as if they were seeing Chen Zong for the first time, their hearts surging with shock.

As Chen Zong walked out of the training ground, two people were just coming in.

"Brother Zong." One of them was Chen Yiming, who ran up to Chen Zong: "Why are you at the training ground?"

"To get a sword." Chen Zong indicated the iron sword in his left hand and smiled.

"Is Brother Zong planning to practice sword techniques? We don't have any sword techniques in our clan." Chen Yiming was puzzled.

"Just playing around." Chen Zong felt that last night's events were important and that no one else should know, so he smiled. Chen Yiming did not press the issue but stared at Chen Zong's face, puzzled: "Brother Zong, why do you seem different from yesterday?"

"Because my cultivation has reached the second level of the Blood Qi realm." Chen Zong smiled.

"That's great." Chen Yiming was very excited, more so than if he had broken through himself.

"Yiming, come here." A delicate but cold voice called out.

"Yurao, it's been a while." Chen Zong looked over and greeted her with a smile.

Wearing a tight red martial uniform, her figure was well-developed, especially her long, straight, and shapely legs, which were even more attractive in deer leather shoes, making her heart-stoppingly beautiful.

Chen Yurao, the clan leader's daughter, was the same age as Chen Zong and had been a childhood playmate with Chen Yiming. However, after starting martial arts training, Chen Yiming remained close to Chen Zong, while Chen Yurao gradually distanced herself.

"Chen Zong, effort is good, but you must also face reality. Your Uncle Zhengtang has lost his cultivation and is not as strong as before. Do you plan to have him chop wood and split firewood to support you, who has achieved nothing?" Chen Yurao glanced at the iron sword and asked coldly: "Out of respect for Uncle Zhengtang's contributions to the clan, I can ask my father to arrange a lighter job for you in the clan."

"Thank you for your kindness, but it's not necessary." Chen Zong's brows furrowed, feeling an indescribable discomfort. As childhood sweethearts, it was impossible to say he had no feelings for Chen Yurao. Sometimes, he couldn't help but think of their childhood, when Chen Yurao, with her braids, would call him 'Brother Zong,' a beautiful memory.

But now, with Chen Yurao's words, that memory seemed to fade.

People change, Chen Zong reminded himself.

"Suit yourself, but I must advise you to know your limits. Overestimating yourself will only make your loved ones suffer." Chen Yurao's brows furrowed, clearly dissatisfied with Chen Zong's attitude but restraining herself. "Also, Yiming has a talent for martial arts. Don't seek him out in the future, or you might affect him."

"Cousin, my affairs are none of your business." Chen Yiming was angry, pulling Chen Zong: "Brother Zong, let's go, don't pay attention to her."

"Goodbye." Chen Zong said to Chen Yurao in a calm tone, then left with Chen Yiming, leaving Chen Yurao with a displeased expression.

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