It was not really glorious that the prince of Western Xia, nephew and disciple of Li Qianzhen failed in the battle, however, because the man over him was the King of Dali, causing it not that disgraceful. At least he had an excuse: his opponent was not over merely in title, but in both age and status. It was like a good medicine to cure himself. But as any other medicine, if taking it too often, the effect would not work anymore.

　　When Li Yingling saw Li Yuanzhe’s hand wrapped in thick white bandages stained with red, she silently vowed: “Your Highness, I will avenge you.” She and Li Yuanzhe had grown up together as childhood companions, but she could not marry him. Their countries had arranged other fates for them, and for that, she was filled with rage. She hated Duan Xiaojing, the girl he was destined to marry, but she didn’t even know what Xiaojing looked like. Prettier than her? Uglier? It didn’t matter. Her hate had no target, so it landed instead on Duan Xiaojing’s father, Duan Zhengyan.

　　Now, watching Duan Zhengyan’s back, she felt an overwhelming disgust. She wanted nothing more than to drive her sword through it. So, she started, without warning or honor.

　　Duan Zhengyan sensed the attack from behind, but he didn’t even turn back, because Hu Wenchang had already leapt into action, his spiked mace swinging through the air with a roar. Sword and mace collided with a sharp crack, and while Duan Zhengyan calmly returned to his seat, the two on the floor clashed in a violent storm of blows.

　　Li Yingling was in such a rage that would hate anyone who started a battle. Her sword gleamed with fury, every strike fueled by deep resentment. Hu Wenchang’s mace tore through the air with brute strength. Had she been calm, her blade might have danced lightly, deflecting strength with skill, softness against hardness. But she fought with emotion, reckless and fierce. Her strikes were savage but lost their grace, her sword too short, her anger too raw, against the heavy, brutal mace.

　　Before thirty moves had passed, Hu Wenchang suddenly swept his mace sideways. The massive, spiked head grazed over her scalp, tearing away her hairpin and a large swath of hair. A hot, searing pain flared on her head. She reached up and then her hand came back red with blood.

　　Her pupils shrank. Horror flooded her face.

　　As she touched her scalp, her eyes caught a glimpse of herself in a bronze mirror lying on the floor. What she saw was a wild-haired figure, half her hair was gone, her scalp torn and bleeding. She didn’t move as the mace came hurtling toward her back.

　　Then suddenly, she did. She turned.

　　And raised her sword.

　　But not to fight.

　　Gripping the blade in reverse, she drove it into her own abdomen, the steel piercing clean through. Her body trembled, but her eyes searched only for Li Yuanzhe.

　　Hu Wenchang had already pulled back his mace, retreating before her blade struck, not out of mercy, but out of caution. He had feared some last trick after so many vicious fights. He never expected she would end it this way.

　　He stood frozen, watching her collapse, then slowly returned to his seat, his face clouded with confusion.

　　Zhang Wentong felt a brief moment of relief. Though Li Jinghua had helped Li Zhaoyun kill Shi Shutong, her death and the loss of her mirror had made Hu Wenchang’s fight easier. That mirror had once made things dangerous. Without it, the threat lessened. Zhang might have had the upper hand, but battles are never truly decided until the final moment, and sometimes not in the way one expects. A suicide was better with less uncertainty.

　　Li Yuanzhe, however, was filled with frustration, not at Li Yingling’s death, but because her side had just lost the advantage. The fight was now even.

　　But the mirror cared nothing for justice or emotion. It merely reflected profile.

　　Just as Li Yuanzhe never truly understood Li Yingling’s heart, Li Yingling never understood someone else’s. She had failed to avenge him with her sword, but someone else was about to avenge her. It was Li Shaowen. A name like that usually belonged to a handsome man, and he was no exception. Compared to Li Yuanzhe, his charm was extremely elegant, refined, dazzling. And yet, why had Li Yingling fallen for Li Yuanzhe instead of him?

　　Perhaps it was childhood companionship. Perhaps it was the allure of the “Prince of Western Xia.” Who could say?

　　With a graceful flick of his folding fan, Li Shaowen stepped forward like a man from a picture. his fan or the fan of Ming Wenzhang was better? A battle of using fans as weapon would have been quite spectacle. But the world rarely offers the matchups we wish for.

　　Li Shaowen’s fan was made of wood. Ming Wenzhang’s had been made of iron. Which was stronger, the wooden fan or the iron one? No one would ever know. And now, instead of a poetic battle between duel of folding fans, the wooden fan was up against Cui Shiqing’s butcher’s knife, a blade made not for elegance but for slicing meat.

　　This was a clash between the scholar and the butcher, though neither was truly either.

　　Li Shaowen’s choice of weapon implied he was equally skilled than Ming Wenzhang. As for Cui Shiqing, the blade he wielded was thick with grease, stained with more pig’s blood than human. He loved meat, but he didn’t particularly enjoy killing. Today, however, his blade had blood in mind.

　　It quickly ended. This was the shortest battle yet.

　　Li Shaowen, brought down in under ten moves, lost all the battle. Obviously, a man would not be judged by his looks.

　　Nor by his fan.

　　Li Shaowen might be a powerful warrior in front of Western Xia army, but he could not win Cui Shiqing. The butcher wiped his blade on the edge of his armor with a long, shrill rasp, then returned to his seat and resumed tearing into his meat with gusto.

　　When a "scholar" meets a "soldier," they could not understand each other, even worse the scholar might lose his life. And perhaps, in this case, he deserved to. His death, at least, was justified.

　　On the other side, Li Yuanzhe’s face twitched in silent pain. Dali people almost win the battle.

　　The floor of the hall was beginning to feel crowded with the fallen, so the battle was paused. Servants entered to carry away the bodies and clean the hall. Soon, there were no corpses. No bloodstains. But the smell of blood still lingered.

　　Seven matches had passed out of thirteen. It had been entertaining, but now, even excitement began to dull. Still, after a short break, the contest would continue.

　　Wang Wenqing, whose delicate fingers had been endlessly grooming nails that could be mistaken for polished scallion tips, finally stopped his dainty fussing. With nothing left to file, he stepped into the ring.

　　His ten fingers glittered, his nails glowing as though inlaid with pearls. A slender dagger swung from his pinky, gleaming as it swayed.

　　Across from him stood Li Yanwen, who greeted him with a flirtatious smile before stepping forward.

　　Don’t misunderstand! This wasn’t revenge for Li Shaowen. Though someone like him could easily stir up romantic speculation, not everything in life is tangled and complex. Sometimes, things were just what they seem. Li Yanwen and Li Shaowen shared a surname, yes. They were just both members of the “Thirteen Protectors.” But beyond that, there was nothing relationship between them.

　　Li Yanwen walked all the way from her seat to where Wang Wenqing stood. For every step she took, her face shifted into a new expression; each smile more seductive than the last, each enough to stir desire in even the most disciplined of men.

　　Would that kind of smile work on someone like Wang Wenqing? Apparently, more or less. His faint, dreamy grin suggested he didn’t mind the attention. In fact, he looked almost eager to flirt. Just as she had hoped.

　　Li Yanwen turned up the charm even more, her voice honey-sweet, "You were always staring at me... What were you thinking about?"

　　Wang Wenqing only smiled back in a daze, saying nothing. Clearly, he wasn’t ready to reveal too much.

　　But others like Zhao Ziren, Sima Qing, and a few more knew exactly what kind of man he was. They started shouting, "Hey! Stop. Leave her!" "Wang, remember? Nothing’s more dangerous than a woman’s heart!"

　　"Deadly Swallow Scissors!" Zhang Wentong cursed silently. He had seen Li Yanwen’s hand slowly reaching for Wang Wenqing’s lower body, and within her sleeve, there hidden the glint of a blood-red pair of scissors.

　　Wang Wenqing probably hadn’t noticed. If he had, he wouldn’t still be standing there like a lovesick fool. But it didn’t matter he could not see it, as long as he could sense it. If not by instinct, then by experience.

　　Could he?

　　Only Zhang Wentong seemed nervous. Sweat had begun to bead on his brow as the question gnawed at him. Why only him? Was it because observers see more clearly?

　　Among all the spectators present, Zhang was hardly the most powerful, nor the most keen-eyed. His seat wasn’t special either, he wasn’t an emperor or some honored guest, perched at a perfect angle for the action.

　　And yet, he saw it.

　　Why?

　　Because of his Judge’s Brush.

　　The brush now pointed downward, so low it nearly touched the floor, below anyone else’s line of sight. Ironically, it was this low vantage that offered him a higher clarity. Eyes looking forward too high, you might miss what’s right beneath you.

　　There, reflected on the tip of his brush, was the hidden truth—Li Yanwen’s sleeve, and the weapon concealed inside. He seemed to be looking at the floor. But what he was really watching… was the brush tip.

　　Now that he knew the truth, should he tell everyone?

　　But even a subtle warning might give Western Xia to dispute the match’s outcome. Given their nature, they’d never let such a thing go, they’d claim the match was unfair, and use it as leverage for a "victory." So, unless things turned truly dire, it was better to keep quiet. The outcome could still change within a heartbeat.

　　Wait, then act.

　　Even if Wang Wenqing was… different, the area being targeted was still flesh. Still sensitive. Still capable of pain and definitely, blood. Zhang Wentong understood that all too well.

　　As a result, when he saw Wang Wenqing’s left hand reaching, rather idiotically toward Li Yanwen’s prominent chest, he finally broke his silence:

　　“Wang Wenqing! Her master is your enemy!”

　　Finally, Zhang called out.

　　Better to lose the match than lose one's honor. That was principle.

　　And the wording of his warning? Clever enough to avoid suspicion. After all, in contests like this, fighters were expected to state their names and backgrounds. If one failed to be forthcoming, an observer would fill in the gaps. It was like a narrator offering exposition, perfectly fair.

　　No one on the Western Xia side objected. They were too busy watching.

　　The freshly cleaned hall gleamed with unnatural brightness, as if it had been prepared specially for just these two.

　　And yet, crimson droplets began to appear on the pristine marble floor. One, then another, then many.

　　One of them was bleeding.

　　But who was that?