Chapter 118: Golden Dragon-Locking Ring (Part 6): As Long as I Can See You Once, I’m Willing to Wait a Year Part 1

As a role designed to test the villain’s patience, this pitiful character came with equally pitiful intelligence. He existed solely to hype up the atmosphere before trading his death for that satisfying payoff—the most basic kind of cannon fodder in the book.

So, Mu Qian Tan had long known that this Whitehead Madman was brainless and had a temper more explosive than most, but she still hadn’t expected him to court death quite so blatantly by mocking an immortal far superior to him right to her face.

Even knowing the Whitehead Madman’s tragic end in the original story, Mu Qian Tan couldn’t afford to go easy on him anymore. After all, she wasn’t the one who made him suffer in the end, so it wouldn’t hit the same, and revenge that could be settled on the spot shouldn’t be dragged out, lest it fester and backfire on her.

Just as she gathered spiritual power, a black shadow shot out from beside her like lightning, leaped onto the horse, and landed a punch on the Whitehead Madman. Blood sprayed from the youth’s nose like a fountain as he flipped backward and crashed flat on his back.

The strike was lightning-fast and brutal. Everyone heard the crack of bones as the fist smashed into his cheek. The crowd turned in shock toward the attacker.

It was a girl with long, dark curly hair beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Her clothes were plain and shabby, almost beggar-like, but her face was stunning enough to take one’s breath away. Right now, she glared furiously at the man on the ground and snarled, “What did you say!”

Fu Chi lay half-reclined, spitting out two broken teeth as he clutched his face in a daze. Blood poured nonstop from his nose, splattering his chest armor before dripping off. He wiped his face with his hand—the red stark against the white—and his eyes trembled as he clenched his fist, the pain swiftly morphing into rage.

The attack’s speed outpaced Fu Gang’s reaction; he froze for a moment before realizing his son had been struck. He shoved aside the attendants at his side to rush over, but then Fu Chi let out a sharp scream, scrambled to his feet, and swung a fist crackling with white spiritual power at the girl.

Shang Shan twisted aside to dodge the punch. She grabbed his elbow with both hands and used his momentum to flip him over her shoulder in a back throw. Fu Chi’s world spun wildly; he crashed down in a daze. When he staggered up again, blood oozed from the corner of his eye. He yanked the sword from his waist and charged with a roar.

The sword demanded a two-handed grip, its blade long and razor-sharp. A hit would mean serious injury. For Fu Chi to use such a weapon against a bare-handed girl who was smaller than him was utterly graceless. Many of the attendants injured by the horses squeezed their eyes shut.

Shang Shan planted her foot on the tile and slid back a step. She clasped her hands together, channeling a palm-blade technique to form a spirit staff, then thrust it forward to jab at Fu Chi’s chest. He flailed wildly with his sword, but the staff outranged it by far—even at full extension, his blade couldn’t touch her.

Seizing his moment of stunned hesitation, Shang Shan slapped the end of the staff with her palm. The shaft shuddered as rings of light surged from base to tip, building massive force that hurled Fu Chi flying backward. His neck hit the ground first, and he tumbled like a roly-poly bug for several rolls before stopping.

This impact was vicious; he couldn’t scramble up so easily.

Fu Li called out loudly, “Beautiful!”

Shang Shan swung the spirit staff and strode to his side. “Apologize to my master!”

Fu Chi gave no response. His eyes rolled back under his lids, and he passed out.

His son had cultivated for years on premium supplements and tonics—a prodigy among his peers—yet he’d lost to this ragged beggar girl. Fu Gang’s face twitched.

He stormed over in a fury, hauled Fu Chi up, and brushed off the blood. No matter how useless the boy seemed, the sight of him covered in gore still tugged at his heart. He pulled out a thumb-sized diamond-shaped vial and waved it twice under the youth’s nose. Fu Chi sucked in a deep gasp that nearly burst his lungs, then blinked his eyes open.

Seeing him awake, Shang Shan lunged forward again. “Apologize to me right now!”

Fu Gang wiped the blood from his son’s face and snapped his head up. “Whose slave are you? So brazen! Bullying your master to his face?”

“I’m the disciple of Yao’e Immortal,” Mu Qian Tan said, half-seriously reining her in now that the fight was over. “Shang Shan, how could you hit someone like that.”

In the heat of the moment, Fu Gang had overlooked the word “master.” Now calmer, and seeing the woman approach, he pieced together their relationship—and why the girl had lashed out. His own son had provoked her first.

Used to throwing his weight around in Fu Clan territory unchallenged, he couldn’t stomach the humiliation. Even without right on his side, he had to vent. “Just kids messing around. Your disciple strikes like a viper. Like master, like disciple.”

Shang Shan clenched her teeth, itching to charge again, but the woman clamped a hand on her shoulder. The tension and spiritual power drained from her body at that touch, and the spirit staff dissolved into drifting beams of spiritual power light that burrowed back into her palm.

Master had touched her on her own initiative.

Bliss.

Even after getting thrashed, they wanted to score some verbal points. Since she couldn’t let the certain dragon loose, Mu Qian Tan held her back and said, “Joking about a hall master immortal who oversees an entire region—do you father and son not take Tianyu Sect seriously?”

They were guests from the First Immortal Gate and had to be treated as honored visitors anywhere. For a junior to hurl insults right in their faces? The matter could be blown big or small, serious or trivial—perfect leverage.

Elevating it to sect-level politics worked; Fu Gang deflated a little. “Kids spouting nonsense. What does it have to do with Tianyu Sect?”

Mu Qian Tan replied, “Kids lashing out blindly too. Please don’t hold it against my disciple. By looks alone, he’s the older one—bullying the young isn’t exactly honorable.”

Qin He’s eyelids fluttered. She never imagined hearing “honorable” from this woman’s mouth.

Fu Chi, catching his breath, yelled, “I’m only fourteen this year!”

Mu Qian Tan lifted her tone just enough to convey the perfect mix of surprise and realization. She glanced back and forth between father and son before saying to Fu Gang, “He looks pretty mature for his age. Just like you. Must be your real son.”

Low chuckles rippled around them, cut short by Fu Gang’s glare. Continuing would yield no advantage and only stir more trouble. He swallowed his rage until his face flushed red, helped his son up, and figured that was the end of it.

But after a few steps, his foot skidded out from under him. Father and son thudded to the ground, then slipped again trying to rise—like they’d been cursed, suddenly unable to stand steady.

The onlookers, who’d been holding back chuckles before, now burst into open laughter. Dignity shattered like scattering snowflakes.

Fu Gang’s face twisted as if he’d swallowed something vile and poisonous, but he couldn’t lash out until he stood. Pushing up from the floor, he realized it was freezing cold, coated in a thin layer of ice—that was why they kept slipping. The culprit was obvious.

He barked, “Yao’e Immortal!”

Mu Qian Tan, of course, didn’t answer. “The Fu Clan Head just warned you the floor was slippery. Be careful—sometimes you should actually listen to the clan head.”

Fu Yuzhu, who hadn’t made a peep since the fight started, now seemed to notice the commotion. She turned to her attendant. “Hear that? Don’t scrub the floors so diligently next time. What if someone slips and breaks their neck?”

The back-and-forth stung like salt in a wound, especially with those oblivious servants gawking. Fu Gang endured it, his face turning purplish as he forced the breath down. He’d settle the score later—this wasn’t the moment to clash.

Fresh blood dripped from his nose, his eyes red as well. Fu Chi fixed Mu Qian Tan with eyes burning for murder, his teeth grinding audibly. “This woman…”

“Women are the best,” Shang Shan cut in, puffing out her chest. “My master—a real woman!”

Now the embarrassment was on their side. Mu Qian Tan dispersed the spiritual power she’d quietly infused into the floor and lost interest in the pair. She grabbed the stupid dragon by the back of her collar and yanked her away to shut her up.

The farce dispersed in that manner.

They’d wasted some time, but the event had to go on. With the lesson fresh, the father-son duo behaved themselves and caused no more waves. Fu Li beamed with pride, praising Shang Shan’s ruthless strikes, but the girl just rubbed her shoulder with a goofy, spaced-out grin, as if her soul had flown off somewhere.

Fu Li had no idea what had her so thrilled. She waved a hand in front of her face, puzzled, when the group entered the Beast Arena. Light briefly faded, then blazed down in brilliant daylight.

She heard Shang Shan’s soft “wow.” Following her gaze, Fu Li said flatly, “How’s that—impressive, right?”

The sky had been washed clean, crisp and piercingly blue, framed in a perfect oval like a cutout. The arena inside, the seating outside, and the sky above all shared the same shape. At the center lay the sand-covered beast-fighting ground, ringed by tiered seats rising higher outward. Few spectators sat there now, but all were Seton City’s elite, each flanked by slaves and attendants—making the crowd seem larger than expected.

Farther up at the edge loomed the highest platform, distinct from the rest with railings, a canopy, and rows of chairs inlaid with gems. Its grandeur and extravagance were impossible to miss.

Those prime seats were naturally prepared for them. Fu Yuzhu, Fu Gang, Jiang Zhouyao, and the others took the top row for elders, while the juniors settled a few tiers down.

Mu Qian Tan had no desire to sit with the stuffy elders or the bratty kids. Playing the reclusive Yao’e Immortal was perfect excuse; she picked a row and sat alone for some peace.