Chapter Twenty-Three: The First Day of the Grand Tournament

Yu Lang was a thoughtful man by nature, but he possessed one virtue: when calamity struck like Mount Tai collapsing overhead, he was always the calmest among them. On the eve before the grand competition, after reviewing his meticulously compiled notes, he retired early and slept with uncommon tranquility.

The gentle chatter of a few cloud larks outside the window roused Yu Lang from his slumber. He stretched luxuriously, embracing the morning light pouring through the cracked window, his heart serene.

Qingqing took a bowl of sesame porridge, a bowl of noodle soup, and a small dish of pickles from the tray.

Yu Lang couldn’t help but feel his appetite stir. “Why are you treating me so well today? These three dishes look simple, but must have cost you considerable effort.”

Qingqing smiled. “Today is your day to compete in the grand tournament. You must eat well for strength. This is also your last breakfast at home before the competition begins. Once it starts, unless you're eliminated, you won't be able to leave the gates of Lunar Wash Academy.”

Yu Lang washed up before eating. He was unaccustomed to the Tang people's habit of using their fingers or chewing willow branches to clean their teeth, so he fashioned his own wooden-handled boar bristle toothbrush. He tried to sell his toothbrush to Qingqing and Obaba, but neither was interested. Qingqing thought boar bristles were disgusting, preferring willow twigs, and Obaba never brushed his teeth—who knew how he kept them so white? It was Du Fu who absconded with a boar bristle toothbrush.

Yu Lang swiftly finished the sesame porridge in three gulps, dumped the pickles into the large bowl of noodle soup, and ate everything clean, not leaving a drop.

“Slow down! I spent all morning preparing these three dishes—how can you savor anything when you eat like that?”

Yu Lang burped contentedly. “I believe the greatest tribute to good food is to devour it as quickly as possible. Those who chew slowly must not love it enough—not with real passion, anyway.”

Such talk of love was considered taboo, but Qingqing, accustomed to Yu Lang’s influence, only laughed. “You always have a reason for everything. Give it time, and you’ll have your own argument for eating slowly too.”

“I envy you—not having to compete in the tournament. When will you enroll?”

“When the tournament ends and 159 finalists are chosen, the entrance ceremony will be held. After that comes the final round, where one spot for cleansing and marrow refinement will be awarded.”

Yu Lang calculated silently: they said they’d recruit 200 students, so there must be 41 directly admitted. Why not make it an even number? Perhaps Li Dahuo, who crossed the red line yesterday so abruptly, wasn’t eliminated, but admitted directly. Ah, I should have guessed—Li Dahuo’s eccentricity fits the Academy’s style perfectly. On the surface, he was eliminated, but behind the scenes, he was admitted. Quite clever, really.

Qingqing could not have guessed Yu Lang would read so much into a few numbers. She helped him into his robe and brought his book chest.

Yu Lang dressed, slung the book chest over his back, and prepared to leave.

Qingqing was a little disappointed. She had spent a long time sewing the robe, but Yu Lang, ever careless, hadn’t even asked about it.

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At the threshold, Yu Lang paused, not turning around. “Thank you for the robe. It’s beautiful and fits perfectly. Bandage the cut on your hand, or it might become infected.” With that, he strode out.

Qingqing was stunned. She didn’t understand what “infected” meant, but was delighted by Yu Lang’s attentive observation.

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The first round of the entrance tournament: physiognomy.

Anyone whose face suggested a short life or whose features were ugly was eliminated.

Three thousand students gathered in the small courtyard of Lunar Wash Academy, buzzing in astonishment. This round had never existed in previous years.

Especially the older men—they slapped their thighs in outrage. Wasn’t this bullying?

A second notice soon followed, bringing joy to the elders: “Anyone over fifty automatically advances!”

Yu Lang pondered: was this new criterion related to the coming chaos? If the Academy’s dean could foresee the great disaster ten years hence in Tang, he’d be nearly divine. If someone here truly knew the art of physiognomy, he must be an extraordinary adept.

Yu Lang reflected on his own features, anxious: with a broad, full forehead, surely he didn’t have the face of a short life.

Soon, a teacher arrived, carrying a small stool, donning glass spectacles, and holding a tea cup—he looked just like a street charlatan.

It was Du Fu himself—able to see five hundred years into the past and future, yet still the same Du Fu.

When Yu Lang’s turn came, Du Fu was solemn, none of his usual wildness showing.

He scrutinized Yu Lang, then sighed. “You are blessed with great fortune, but disaster shadows your life. Whether you’re short-lived, I cannot see. Very well—you may pass.”

Yu Lang moved to the advancement area, uncertain if this trickster was genuine or just pretending. Soon, he believed nothing, for Du Fu said almost the same thing to every student. The final line varied: either, “Very well, you may pass,” or, “You’d best focus on staying alive; go home.”

This round eliminated more than four hundred students. About two thousand five hundred remained in the courtyard.

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The real examination had only just begun.

The second round: archery.

Archery best tests strength, focus, and intuition, so it had its own round.

At two hundred paces, students drew bows and shot arrows; anyone missing the target was eliminated.

The two thousand five hundred students were divided into forty groups of sixty or seventy, each supervised by two senior students.

Geniuses emerged in every group—students boasted freely. Some stepped back five hundred paces before hitting the bullseye with flair; some blindfolded themselves, only to miss entirely; a prodigy supposedly shot nine arrows in succession, each striking the bullseye.

Archery was Yu Lang’s forte, but he did not wish to stand out too soon. He casually loosed an arrow, striking the border between bullseye and center.

One mentor whispered, “Brother, your archery is remarkable: a single arrow placed with perfect precision on the semicircle.”

Yu Lang smiled lightly. “Brother, your eyesight is good.” He spoke with ease, but only he knew how many bows he’d worn out to master the archery passed down from Liang Chaoran, how his hands swelled with pain yet he refused to rest. Though not related by blood, Yu Lang felt that inheriting Liang Chaoran’s archery was as if a trace of Liang Chaoran’s life continued in himself.

Generations come and go without end; what persists is but a trace.

A senior student struck the gong and announced the end of the second round. “This round eliminated eight hundred forty-six students. One thousand six hundred fifty-one remain.”

By then, the sun hung high; it was noon. The senior struck the gong again: “Eliminated students, please leave. Those advancing, go to the ‘Thoughtful Dining Hall’ for your meal. Wishing all success in the next stage!”