Li Yanwen’s shears were still an inch from Wang Wenqing, yet it was she who bled. She hadn't been frozen by Zhang Wentong’s shout; rather, Wang Wenqing’s strike had been too fast. He had struck with a smile, his movement a seamless extension of a tender caress. She thought she had lured him in, but she was wrong—totally wrong. A pair of daggers buried into her alluring breast. Though the daggers had flicked from Wang Wenqing’s sleeves, they appeared so suddenly as if they had sprouted from her own chest: one piercing the heart, the other puncturing a lung.

　　Finally, Wang Wenqing spoke in his peculiar cadence. "Do you know who I am?" He extended his right hand, holding a dagger steady before her eyes so she could read the inscription.

　　"So... it is Great-Uncle 'Sleeve-Blade'..." Li Yanwen gasped, her voice fading.

　　At the word "Great-Uncle", Wang’s heart jolted. He sighed. "Your master, the ‘In-Sleeve Shears’, was older than me, and I... I was always a restless man."

　　"That is why," Li Yanwen whispered, "after she gave you that heart-stealing blade at her bedside... she gave you a heart-breaking, fatal shear in return."

　　As she collapsed, Wang Wenqing caught her slender waist. "You cannot die!"

　　"A person with ruined lungs and a pierced heart," she rasped, "how to survive?"

　　"Pass a message to your master," Wang urged.

　　"I will... Let me know."

　　"This dagger she gave me—I have never used it to kill people. Never before, and never again, even though she left me with a lifetime of regret."

　　The light in Li Yanwen’s eyes dimmed. Delirious, she murmured, "Don't worry. I’ll... I’ll tell... my mother."

　　"What! Your mother? You—!" Wang’s pupils constricted. His heart felt as if it were being crushed in a vice. He shook her strongly, but a dead person could not wake up anymore. Staring at the two daggers perfectly placed in her chest, his mind went blank. He let out a gut-wrenching scream at the corpse: "Who are you? Who are you actually! WHO ARE YOU?!"

　　The shriek echoed through the hall, chilling everyone to the bone. History rarely records a father killing his own daughter with such precision; it was a tragedy rarer than the finest jade. No—a hundred times rarer.

　　This "monster" began to weep in pure despair. The dagger he always kept looped to his finger fell to the floor unnoticed. He retrieved the bloodless blade and lunged at his own throat. A man with a pierced throat dies as surely as one with a ruined heart.

　　But as the cold steel flashed, the dagger was struck from his hand by Zhang Wentong’s blunt-tipped scholar’s pen, hitting his wrist at the Taiyuan pressure point. Hu Wenchang picked up the blade and hooked it back onto Wang’s finger.

　　"Smell!" Wang screamed at Hu. "Smell! Is she my daughter or not?" If a man’s nose could detect blood relations, the modern world would be a much simpler place. Hu Wenchang remained silent. His silence wasn't an admission—it was a denial of his own power to help.

　　Wang Wenqing moved to slap himself, but Zhang Wentong caught his hands. "How many tricks of Xixia have you fallen in?" Zhang barked.

　　It was like a bucket of cold water. "Zhang, what are you saying?"

　　"She knew she was dying and couldn't kill you with her hands," Zhang said grimly, "so she used her words to goad you into joining her in the grave!"

　　Wang understood, though he remained confused about something. He no longer sought death, only the truth. Supported by his comrades, he returned to his seat, physically unharmed but utterly drained. Sometimes, the exhaustion of the soul is far heavier than the toll on the body.

　　Dali people had now won two more matches than Western Xia. The tide was turning. Desperate to regain ground, Li Zhuangwei gave an order. A massive wolfhound was brought out. Its eyes were pitch black, gleaming with menace. It was twice the size of a Tibetan mastiff.

　　Had it been overfed on supplements since birth? Or just the wrong kind of garbage?

　　Whatever the cause, it now stood proudly at Li Zhuangwei’s side in the center of the arena, tongue lolling, panting “hah-hah” sounds as it stretched its neck, preening like it owned the place. Only truth be told this time, it was the man relying on the dog for the battle, not the other way around.

　　The dog wasn’t interested in meat at all. Its gaze never strayed. This was no ordinary mutt; it was a trained killer.

　　A good cat hunts rats. A good dog hunts men.

　　Sima Qing saw fear flicker in the faces of his companions. He called out loudly, “OMG, a dog is joining the battle today?” Li Zhuangwei answered plainly, “Yes.” He immediately realized the mistake. The burst of laughter from both sides confirmed it. His face flushed red. He barked back: “Are you scared?”

　　Sima Qing replied coolly, “I’m not stepping into the ring because I fear the dog, because it’s a shame to battle a dog.” From his waist, he pulled a cloth pouch and tossed it into the arena. Then added, “A dog deserves only to fight another dog.”

　　He began clapping the ground rhythmically.

　　Li Zhuangwei, though annoyed at the insult, turned wary as the cloth bag began to twitch. But it was the dog who reacted first. It shivered. The hairs on its back stood on end. The dog’s nose knew. Then the pouch opened.

　　A snake, green with flower like patterns, slithered out, tongue flickering red. It wasn’t thick. But the dog was already losing control of its bladder. Then, it turned to flee.

　　But the snake was faster. It struck like lightning, landing squarely on the wolfdog’s back. The dog barely made it two steps before collapsing in a heap. Blood spurted from two deep puncture wounds on its neck. The snake opened its gaping jaws, ready to feast.

　　Greedy, as all snakes are. Big dog or not, it was going down. Then the rhythm of Sima Qing’s ground-slapping changed.

　　Everyone heard it.

　　The snake had already swallowed the dog’s head, and half its body was disappearing down its throat. But then it stopped. And spat it all back out. It reared upward, taller than a man’s chest.

　　And that was just the top half. The rest was still coiled on the ground.

　　Li Zhuangwei had drawn his blade. But he was stepping backward. Suddenly, the snake opened its mouth. A twin stream of venom shot out. Li Zhuangwei twisted sideways to dodge.

　　The venom hit the wall, sizzling violently, eating holes into the stone. He was still gasping with relief—when pain exploded in his eyes. His scream was short, then he collapsed.

　　Dead.

　　Shock rippled through the crowd. Then Sima Qing said, calm and cold, “Recognize it? The Snow Spotted Viper?” Li Yaonan’s expression didn’t change. He must have recognized it long ago. Sima Qing added, “The poison on your bone-piercing nails? A cheap imitation. Mine’s the real thing—undiluted and pure.”

　　All eyes turned back to the snake. It had finished half the dog.

　　No one dared step into the arena. No one challenged the next round.

　　Sima Qing waited until the Snow Variegated Snake had devoured the entire dog, then clapped the ground. The snake obediently slithered back into the cloth pouch. Zang Wengong leapt out, still cautious, lifted the pouch with his wolf-hair brush, and tossed it back to Sima Qing before turning to challenge the Western Xia warriors.

　　The Western Xia team not only admired but also resented his painting skills. One of them stepped forward and asked, "Other than splashing ink, what else can you do?" Zang Wengong saw it was the Sixth Warrior, Li Chaozheng, and replied, "I can paint opera masks."

　　With a flick of his wolf-hair brush, a few swift strokes formed a cursive “Wind” character that flew straight toward Li Chaozheng’s face. Li, nimble as a monkey, dodged it easily. Zang Wengong’s brush twisted in midair, producing a word of “Flower”, then enveloped his opponent in a word of “Snow”. The true lethality of the “Snow” stroke lay in its four dots by Chinese writing style, each striking like a vital. Finally, Li escaped from the ink martial arts with much sweat, he was in panic.

　　Li realized he was facing a master of "Calligraphy Combat." Knowing that a seventh loss would mean total defeat for the Xixia mission, he struck a classic pose: palms clapped, arms spread, one leg extended in a bow.

　　"The Great Sage Dance?" Zang Wengong mused. He wrote the character for Moon, but Li spun behind him with uncanny speed. Zang smiled, feeling Li’s hands reaching for his ribs. He didn't dodge. Li thought he had him, only to realize Zang’s brush was already counter-attacking. Li retreated, and as he hit a pillar, he realized his white shirt was now adorned with the four characters—Wind, Flower, Snow, Moon—written in perfect running script.

　　Zang wasn't ready to end it. He tucked his brush behind his ear and pulled out two inkstones. "Why did you try to steal the inkstones?"

　　Li realized that his "fatal" strike to Zang's ribs had been blocked by the hidden inkstones. Li forced a grin. "Every stroke of yours could have laid me low, yet you chose to show off your 'elegance' instead. Don't regret it now."

　　Li lunged like an ape, scaling the pillar and disappearing into the rafters.

　　"Shameless!" Zang shouted.

　　"If you cannot win the seventh round, you lose the day," Li taunted from above.

　　Zang grunted and hurled the inkstones upward, shattering a "Great and Bright" plaque into three pieces. The stones fell and cracked the marble floor. Realizing he was at a disadvantage fighting in the rafters, Zang threw up his sleeves. "This round is a draw!"

　　As he turned to leave, he heard the rush of wind. He spun, brush raised, but Li was in mid-air, bringing down a golden staff. Zang blocked it, but a secondary impact struck the back of his head. He collapsed.

　　"How do you like my 'Heaven-Equalizing Staff'?" Li chuckled. His staff, like the chain-spears of his kin, had a hidden mechanism that allowed it to bend and strike from impossible angles.

　　As Zhao Ziren carried the unconscious Zang back, Prince Duan Zhengyan sighed. "A heavy blow to the Baihui point. Even if he lives, he may be a broken man."

　　Sima Qing began to wail loudly—loud enough for the Xixia to hear.

　　"Why are you crying?" Cui Shiqing barked, pointing at the enemy. "Finish these curs off first, then you can cry!"

　　Even the Prince was confused. These were twelve hardened men; why was Sima Qing crying in the sight of Xixia people? From the Xixia, the female warrior Li Xuting drew her sword, emboldened by the sound of the enemy’s tears. Zhao Ziren met her, blade in hand.