Chapter 14: Then Let’s Have a Contest Fit for Real Men

“Do you, Zining, not wish to die alongside Zhong?” Huang Zhong asked, displeased.

Chen Cong spat in disdain.

This brute—earlier, he was calling me benefactor at every turn, but as soon as his trousers were fastened, he turned his back on me.

“With my own strength, I alone am enough to protect my father-in-law. If I cannot, then having you would make no difference.”

“Oh? Then I’d like to see what you can do.”

Chen Cong gave a cold laugh. “Just as well. My hands have been itching for a while!”

It wasn’t just Chen Cong—Cao Cao was also eager to witness the prowess of Huang Zhong, whom Chen Cong claimed was no less brave than Lü Bu.

After all, hearing is nothing compared to seeing with your own eyes.

…

At the martial arena.

After driving away the attendants, only Cao Cao and his son Cao Ang remained as spectators.

“Father, is Zining really that man’s match?”

“He… should be,” Cao Cao replied uncertainly.

In his heart, if someone told him that Chen Cong—who could lift two lions—was invincible in the world, he’d believe it. But by Chen Cong’s own account, Huang Zhong could go toe-to-toe with Lü Bu.

And that was Lü Bu! Nearly ten feet tall, broad as a tiger, thick as a bear, a man who could single-handedly thrash all the fierce generals of Xiliang.

“But Zining couldn’t even dodge Rong’er’s punch,” Cao Ang protested.

“Enough of that nonsense.”

“It’s true, Father. The other day, Rong’er bruised Zining’s eye with a single punch.”

Cao Cao: ….

He wanted to slap his foolish son and ask, “What did you expect?”

If Cao Rong bruised Chen Cong’s eye with a punch, that was private playfulness between siblings. If Chen Cong retaliated, it would be a tragedy!

Can’t you wish your sister well for once?

In the arena.

The two combatants were ready.

Huang Zhong carried a carved bow on his back, a quiver at his waist, and wielded a nine-foot phoenix-blade.

The moment the blade’s tip touched the ground, his entire bearing turned fierce and sharp.

Chen Cong, after much deliberation among his three legendary weapons, finally chose the Crouching Tiger Saber.

He didn’t even consider the Flying Tiger Halberd—he had no idea how to use it.

Originally, Chen Cong had wanted to use a spear, simply because it looked impressive.

But his opponent was Huang Zhong in his prime—a man whom later generations speculated could rival Lü Bu at his peak.

Strategically, one may look down on an enemy; tactically, to do so is a grave mistake.

So, in the end, Chen Cong chose the weapon he was most proficient with: the long saber.

Unlike Huang Zhong’s standard opening stance, Chen Cong carried his saber single-handedly over his shoulder—not practical, but stylish!

“Zining, be careful,” Huang Zhong warned.

“You’re the one who should be careful,” Chen Cong retorted.

As they hesitated, Huang Zhong struck first.

Holding his saber behind him with both hands, the blade trailing along the ground, he dashed forward, sending a spray of sparks and a piercing metallic screech into the air.

Within a single stride, their weapons were already at their peak.

Huang Zhong, body leaning forward, let the momentum carry his saber as he leapt up and brought it down with all his might.

A shout split the air!

The speed of his slash left a lingering afterimage in the sky, surging forward with unstoppable force, aimed straight at Chen Cong’s face.

Chen Cong, still holding his saber single-handedly, swung it with full strength to meet the phoenix-blade head-on.

Spears value technique, sabers value force; once momentum is lost, defeat follows instantly.

He’d always practiced this way—there was no reason to back down or switch to defense just because his opponent was Huang Zhong.

Clang!

The two long sabers collided violently.

Sparks flew; a shockwave of force swept outward.

Before Cao Cao and his son could recover their hearing, their faces stung from the wind.

Cao Cao, first shocked then overjoyed, slapped Cao Ang hard on the back.

“Excellent! Excellent! Zining is a god of war, Han Sheng a master of battle—both are tigers among generals!”

Cao Ang turned, aggrieved, and muttered, “Father, if you’re so happy, why not slap your own thigh?”

“Watch your tongue! You spend all day with Zining, yet your martial prowess is not a fraction of his, and your studies are even further behind! From today, you are confined to the house and will copy the Six Strategies fifty times. You may not leave until you’re done!”

Cao Ang: ???

Wasn’t Father just happy a moment ago?

He was, wasn’t he?

Back in the arena.

The flagstones were shattered; Chen Cong’s feet were sunk deep into the earth, his stance unbroken.

Huang Zhong had retreated seventeen or eighteen steps; the web of his thumb was split, blood dripping down his saber, his arms trembling as if he could barely hold the blade.

Yet his gaze burned even brighter.

After catching his breath with a few slow steps, he held his blade before him and spoke:

“Huang Zhong, a veteran since the Xiping era, served two years garrisoning Youzhou against the Xianbei. In the Guanghe era, I campaigned against the Banshield tribes under Commander Xiao for five years. In the first year of Zhongping, I served under General Zhu to suppress the Yellow Turbans. Over a hundred battles, until His Late Majesty established the Eight Schools of the Western Garden, and by merit rose to Marshal of the Right Army. Zining, your strength is the greatest I have ever seen.”

Others might not grasp what it meant to “rise by merit to Marshal of the Right Army.”

Cao Cao, hearing this, felt his blood surge with pride!

During the reign of Emperor Ling, decadence reigned, offices were bought and sold, and corruption was everywhere.

Those who schemed and bribed rose high; those who fought and bled were left to rot in the wilds.

Marshal of the Right Army, a post with a thousand-bushel salary.

When generals were rarely appointed, this was the pinnacle a warrior could reach without family connections or buying his way in.

To say one “rose by merit to Marshal of the Right Army” was both a condemnation of the court’s rot and a declaration of unbending manly integrity!

Huang Zhong exhaled deeply, gently wiping the nicks from his blade, judging Chen Cong’s strength by the damage.

He continued, “Yet, though I have fought half a lifetime and never surrendered, I am stubborn by nature. I ask for your understanding, Zining.”

Chen Cong laughed. “Old Huang Zhong, times have changed. The waves behind drive on those before, and the old are left dying on the shore. Understand?”

“Haha! Arrogant youth—face my blade!”

Before Chen Cong could reply, Huang Zhong’s long saber was already upon him.

Gone was the earlier heavy, forceful style; now his blade flipped and danced, nimble and unpredictable as a butterfly, elegant yet full of cunning.

Chen Cong was different.

He had no master’s guidance, no family secrets—only the practical techniques of battlefield slaughter.

Not pretty, but effective.

What’s more, his eyes were sharp, his hands quick, his strength immense, and his momentum unstoppable.

In an instant, the two clashed in a storm of flying sparks, the clamor of steel ringing out incessantly.

Those outside the arena couldn’t even see how they fought—only the constant crash of weapons proved they were still at it.

The sun shifted west; dusk approached.

They fought on.

For nearly three hours and over two hundred bouts, attack and defense shifted countless times, and the difference in their weapons became apparent.

Chen Cong’s Crouching Tiger Saber remained gleaming as new.

In contrast, Huang Zhong’s phoenix-blade was nicked and jagged, looking more like a saw.

And that was with Huang Zhong skillfully redirecting much of Chen Cong’s power—had he taken the full force, three strikes would have snapped his blade.

In skill, whether technique or experience, Huang Zhong completely outmatched Chen Cong.

But in raw strength, Chen Cong utterly overwhelmed Huang Zhong. He was like a wild ox that never tired—his first blow as powerful as his last, no sign of fatigue at all.

After ten more bouts.

Huang Zhong was gasping like an ox, sweat soaking his body, arms so numb they nearly dropped the blade.

Relying on skill to counter strength had its limits—even with his mighty arms, he was now on the defensive.

Knowing defeat was near but unwilling to yield, Huang Zhong used the force of Chen Cong’s sweeping attack to withdraw seven or eight steps.

He threw aside his blade and took up his bow.

With a shout—“Watch out!”—he drew the bow to the full, loosing three arrows at once toward Chen Cong’s left eye, throat, and chest.

Chen Cong grinned at the sight.

Never mind that Huang Zhong’s arrows were unheaded; even if they were sharp, he would not have flinched.

When it came to blade technique, he had a long way to go.

But for archery—if speed of sight and hand could reach their peak, let Yang Youji himself come and compete!

With agile steps, Chen Cong dodged all three arrows, leapt to the weapon rack, and grabbed a bow, removing the arrowheads.

He nocked nine arrows at once and drew the bow to a full moon!