Chief Judge of the martial world, Cui Fujun, having finished speaking, turned to the Judge of the Pen, Li Yan, and the Judge of the Blade, Sun Tian, nodding in signal. The two nodded in return, cupped their fists, and said courteously, "Please!" With their right hands, they gestured toward the positions prepared for Lord of the True God Palace, Tuoba Xingge, and Divine Lord of the Nine Heavens Palace, Long Zhentian, to take their places for combat.
Once both men had stepped into position, Cui Fujun raised his voice like a thunderclap:"Let the duel begin!"
Truly:
Judgment is fair in the martial court,Who can tell the heroes of the world?Duels are sworn by words of honor,Enmities are settled clear and just.
Such is the rule of the Jianghu: the strong are kings, every duel has its cause. This is the way of the martial world—victory decides rank, and grudges are ended in combat. For years these two men had schemed to dominate the Central Plains, locked in bitter rivalry. Each calculated that if today he could defeat the other, supremacy would be within reach.
Ten years ago, their martial skills had been evenly matched. Since then, each had gained his own opportunities and fortunes. Now, on the dueling ground of Huangshan Palace, they met for a second time. Tuoba Xingge set his stance, his palms sweeping arcs as he suddenly charged forward. His strike was lightning-quick—before the crowd could even breathe, his palm had already reached Long Zhentian's chest. The move was as swift as an arrow, without warning; any ordinary man would already be a corpse, beyond any hope of rescue.
Long Zhentian countered sharply, clawing upward: one hand aimed at Tuoba's Baihui acupoint atop the head, the other toward his Shangxing acupoint on the forehead. Either was fatal—if struck, death was certain. Tuoba's face darkened, crying out, "A vicious move!" At once he bent his knees, twisted his wrists, drew one palm back, and thrust the other with gathered force. With swift exchanges of attack and defense, he managed to neutralize the deadly strikes.
Long Zhentian unleashed a flurry of palms—piercing, chopping, slashing toward Tuoba's vital points. Yet Tuoba defended tightly, parrying each one. Then, inhaling deeply, Tuoba soared upward, hands and feet together, body floating as if upon clouds. Suddenly he launched "Falling Flowers, Flowing Water", his palms drifting like petals, his body surging like a torrent. The rushing palm wind roared like waves, fierce beyond compare.
Long Zhentian showed no fear. Stepping forward, his body swayed; with a shout, he fused voice and power, channeling inner strength, and hurled his right palm. The collision thundered—palms crashing, energies surging. The sound of their strikes resounded like drums; their movements rose and fell, swift and precise, attacking and defending in perfect rhythm. The watching crowd erupted with cheers, marveling at the brilliance of these two unmatched masters.
After dozens of exchanges, both men grew inwardly impressed. Then, face to face, they suddenly unleashed full power. With a resounding boom, they were blasted apart, each retreating several steps—neither gaining advantage.
Both laughed aloud. Long Zhentian sneered coldly:"Palace Lord Tuoba, truly a peerless master of our time! Since taking my Tibetan snow lotus, your skill is remarkable indeed. Today, neither of us can yield—let us strike with all we have!"
Tuoba Xingge, unfazed, replied sternly:"Divine Lord Long, your martial arts are famous throughout the land. Yet do not pretend to moral greatness. To steal another's secret manuals—such is the act of vermin. To dream of ruling the martial world—you'll have to pass through me first!"
Long Zhentian laughed skyward: "Enough talk! Today's duel will decide the master of the Jianghu!" In an instant he surged forward, feet tapping the ground, body vaulting through the air. Before his form arrived, his palm winds crashed down like raging seas.
Tuoba's gaze sharpened. With a step and spin, his sleeves flared, and he unleashed "Heavenly River Pouring Down". His palms churned like the surging Yangtze, layer upon layer, unstoppable in might.
Their powers clashed, palm winds howling. Rocks on the ground shattered and flew; the audience staggered back, fearing the storm of force. With a cold laugh, Long Zhentian shifted his footwork, body rising and falling like a leaf in a gale. In a blur he was upon Tuoba, hurling the fearsome "Nine Heavens Thunderstrike Palm"!
Tuoba's eyes flashed. His left hand turned claw, seizing with "Divine Dragon Seizes the Pearl" toward Long's wrist, while his right palm roared forth with "Cloud Dragon Turns the Tide". Their energies collided—shadows flashing like meteors, roaring like storm waves.
Bang! Palms slammed together, the shockwave cracking like thunder. The watchers' ears rang, banners of Huangshan Palace snapped and whipped in the violent gust. Both men staggered back, faces tense, sweat glistening—each had just used nearly seventy percent of his strength.
"Ha ha! Splendid!" Long Zhentian roared, flipping once more, unleashing "Heavenly Thunder Splits the Mountain". Tuoba, unwilling to concede, drew his qi; robes billowed as he struck with "Dragon's Claw Rends the Sky". Their strikes met again, palm winds crossing, energies surging like tempest and lightning.
The arena shook with each blow. The crowd held their breath, awe-stricken, knowing this battle would decide the fate of the martial world.
Meanwhile, chaos engulfed the realm. An Lushan rose in rebellion from Fanyang, claiming to purge the corrupt minister Yang Guozhong and to "cleanse the court." With Shi Siming, commander of Pinglu, he gathered the armies of three garrisons, marching on Luoyang. This revolt sparked the rise of warlords—regional powers who defied imperial command, eroding Tang authority.
And within the Jianghu, ambitious men also surged. Bandit chiefs rose as kings of the mountains; heroes carved their own domains. Tuoba Xingge and Long Zhentian, each already lords of vast followings, sought to extend their sway. Both dreamed of uniting the martial world, of crowning themselves emperor of Jianghu—ascending the pinnacle of power.
For what greater intoxication is there than power itself? Many of the famed figures of the martial realm, dazzled by ambition, rushed madly toward it, heedless of all else.
The ambition of Lord Tuoba Xingge of the True God Palace and Divine Lord Long Zhentian of the Nine Heavens Palace to contend for mastery of the Central Plains martial world was known throughout the land.
It called to mind the days of old—when Cao Cao had unified the north of China and led his armies southward, intending to strike into the lands of Wu. The allied forces of Wu and Shu kept their weapons at the ready, awaiting his advance.
On the eve of the Battle of Red Cliffs, Cao Cao held a grand banquet aboard his warships, music and wine flowing in abundance. By midnight he was drunk. Raising his eyes, he beheld the moon above the river; looking around, he saw only boundless mountains and waters. His chest swelled with heroic ambition, and in that moment he composed the poem famed throughout the ages—"Short Song Style."
Short Song Style (Duan Ge Xing)
by Cao Cao
Facing the wine, I sing—how long is life?
Like morning dew, the days slip away, too many already gone.
With passion I lift my voice, my heart weighed by grief.
What can dispel these cares? Only Du Kang's wine.
Green are your robes, so long have you filled my thoughts.
For your sake alone, I linger on in yearning.
The deer cry "you-you" as they graze on wild plants.
I have noble guests before me, zithers and flutes resound.
Bright, bright is the moon—when shall I grasp it?
Sorrow rises within, never to be severed.
Across fields and paths you came, though in vain, to see me.
Through hardships we sat together, remembering old bonds.
The moon shines, stars are few, crows fly southward.
They circle the trees three times—on which branch can they rest?
The mountain is never too high, the sea never too deep.
Duke Zhou bent low to serve—thus all hearts turned to him.