The Path No One Saw

Chapter 23: When Pride Bleeds

The next morning, Wu Yuan once again did not appear at the duel ring. But a different kind of storm brewed in the city.

Rumors began circulating—loudly and deliberately—that a group of Jiang Clan juniors had come to challenge Wu Yuan. When he didn't show up, they extended the challenge to the rest of the Wu Clan's younger generation. 

None accepted—and the Jiang juniors made sure everyone knew it.

"What kind of turtle clan is this Wu Clan? Not even one junior dares step into the ring?"

"Cowards—every single one of them. This is the family that rules Wu City?"

"A bunch of rats hiding in holes. Is this the legacy of our so-called city lord?"

Their words were crude, but their intent was sharp: stir public opinion, humiliate the Wu Clan, and paint them as unworthy of leadership. Though their taunts were aimed at the younger generation, it was clear—they were questioning the Wu Clan's authority over the city itself.

When Wu Yuan was specifically named, the insults grew bolder.

"That brat who beat some weak juniors dares not show himself now?"

"He must've known real talent arrived today—and tucked tail to hide."

Though meant as provocation, the effect was clear. A growing crowd gathered, whispers swelling like a tide.

Inside the Wu Clan estate, frustration simmered. Some of the younger members clenched their fists, faces darkening with shame.

Among them, Wu Lu who was continuously defeated by WU Yuan previously—stood up.

A Level 4 Body Tempering cultivator, proud and hot-blooded.

"Enough of this crap," he muttered. "If no one else will respond, then I will."

Wu Lu didn't wait for permission.

As a Level 4 Body Tempering cultivator, he was free to come and go from the Wu Clan estate without formal clearance. And today, he wasn't going to sit idly while his clan's name was dragged through the mud.

His fists clenched. His pride wouldn't allow it.

Alone, but walking tall, Wu Lu stepped out from the Wu Clan gate and made his way to the city duel ring.

The crowd was still there—larger now. Gossip and jeering had only grown with time. And when they saw only a single Wu Clan youth arrive, the mockery came crashing down like waves.

"Only one? That's it?"

"They really don't have any warriors left, do they?"

"Truly a clan of herb farmers. Good for picking flowers, not throwing punches!"

Laughter broke out from the onlookers. Even some of the neutral merchants and cultivators who had no stake in the power struggle couldn't hide their amusement.

But Wu Lu's fury boiled over.

His eyes swept the crowd, then locked onto the smirking Jiang juniors standing atop the duel platform.

"I accept your challenge," Wu Lu growled, stepping into the ring. "Enough barking. Let's see what your so-called talent amounts to."

A Jiang Clan youth stepped forward—also Level 4, dressed in violet-trimmed robes. He sneered as he descended into the ring.

It was the same junior Wu Yuan had defeated with a single punch not long ago.

The Jiang youth's lips curled into a mocking grin. "You? They sent you?"

He cracked his knuckles.

"If you can't even beat me, then don't even dream of challenging our real talents. You're not even worth dirtying my fists for."

The crowd murmured with anticipation. The memory of Wu Yuan's overwhelming victory still lingered in the city's collective memory. Now, they'd see if the Wu Clan's other juniors were just as monstrous—or merely pretenders.

Wu Lu's jaw tightened. He knew what was at stake.

This wasn't just about his pride.

It was about the entire Wu Clan's honor.

"I know I'm not as talented as Junior Brother Yuan," Wu Lu told himself, taking a steadying breath as he faced his opponent, "but I can't let anyone destroy the Wu Clan's image. No matter what… I have to win this fight."

The duel began.

As both cultivators were in the Body Tempering Realm, there was no qi, no flashy techniques—only raw strength, speed, and endurance. A true test of body and will.

Fist to fist. Muscle to muscle.

The Jiang Clan youth came out fast, his movements sharp and honed. Wu Lu, having only recently broken through to Level 4, was quickly placed on the back foot. His opponent's strikes were heavier, faster, more precise.

The crowd watched with bated breath as the Jiang youth pressed the advantage.

Wu Lu's ribs ached. A punch to the gut made him stagger. A blow to the shoulder nearly spun him around.

But even as blood welled at the corner of his lips, Wu Lu's eyes remained calm.

I've fought Wu Yuan so many times… I've learned more from losing to him than this brat could ever understand.

He couldn't match the Jiang youth in power, but he could think—improvise.

Feigning disorientation, he deliberately allowed a few more punches to land, staggering back. His opponent, convinced of his impending victory, began to relax. The arrogance returned to his face.

And in that instant—when the distance between them shrank, when the smug grin crept onto the Jiang youth's face—

Wu Lu struck.

He gathered every ounce of strength into his right wrist, twisted his hips, and launched an uppercut from below. His fist connected solidly with the underside of the Jiang youth's jaw, sending a ripple through the crowd.

The Jiang junior's head snapped back. His legs faltered.

Before he could recover, Wu Lu surged forward with a flurry of strikes—each one fast, furious, and fueled by resolve.

One.

Two.

Three.

The Jiang youth crashed to the ground.

Silence fell over the square.

Wu Lu stood bloodied but upright, his chest heaving, one eye already swelling shut. But there was no fear in his stance—only pride.

He had won.

He had answered the call when no one else would.

And he had defended the Wu Clan's name.

But even in defeat, mockery came.

From the rear of the Jiang group, a cold voice cut through the silence like the crack of a whip.

"Trash."

The single word landed with a weight far heavier than its length. It wasn't aimed at Wu Lu, bloodied and standing proudly —it was meant for the Jiang junior sprawled across the dueling stage, groaning and clutching his jaw in humiliation.

The crowd stirred, eyes narrowing, whispers rising like smoke from dry kindling.

That voice hadn't come from the frontline of Jiang juniors—the ones who had participated in the taunts and witnessed their comrade fall. No, it came from the second row—a quiet, separate cluster of youths in identical violet-trimmed robes, but with distinctly different demeanors.

They stood slightly apart. Crossed arms. Unamused expressions. Eyes like knives.

Cold.

Detached.

"Did you hear that?"

"That came from the back group..."

"Wait... who are they? They don't act like Jiang Clan disciples at all."

A few sharp-eyed onlookers exchanged uneasy glances.

"Their clothes are right… but something's off."

"Why are they standing so far from the others?"

"Did the Jiang Clan suddenly grow a new batch of monsters?"

The unease spread like ripples through the crowd.

But the Jiang juniors at the front already knew what had happened—even if they couldn't say it aloud.

Shame burned in their eyes.

They couldn't respond to the insult. Couldn't retaliate. Couldn't even frown too visibly.

Their elders had made it clear—do not speak back, do not offend, do not question.

And so they stood in silence, their pride swallowed by the bitter bile of political necessity.

Because those youths behind them—they weren't Jiang at all.

They were members of the Lei Clan, hidden in borrowed names and rented robes.

A covert alliance had been struck just days ago, when the Lei Clan's Fifth and Second Elders paid a quiet visit to the Jiang estate. Behind sealed doors, terms were agreed. Objectives aligned. And the first moves were set in motion like stones dropped into a pond.

Now, the ripples were reaching the surface.

The disguised Lei juniors had not joined this spectacle to protect Jiang pride. They were here to witness, measure, and manipulate. Every gesture was calculated. Every insult was aimed like a blade.

And this time, it struck home.

The fallen Jiang youth groaned. The others stared at him with tight jaws and clenched fists—but none stepped forward to defend him.

They couldn't.

They didn't dare.

None of them knew who these newcomers truly were—only that their elders had said one thing:

"Do not cross them."

Even more frustrating was the confusion beneath their shame. The Jiang juniors had not been informed who these powerful "peers" really were. All they had been told was to treat them as equals, or better, and to never question their actions.

And now, in full view of Wu City, one of their own had been labeled trash—and they had to accept it.

That insult lingered in the air like rot, eating into their pride.

And though most held back, one of the Jiang juniors—face flushed and pride stung—finally stepped forward. A Level 4 Body Tempering youth, fists tight at his sides, stepped toward the dueling platform, his gaze locked on Wu Lu.

He was ready to challenge again.

Ready to prove that the Jiang Clan had not fallen so low.

But before he could speak—

"You can sit down now. You're already too weak to handle some trash."

A second voice rang out—this one louder, sharper, and unmistakably mocking.

The source was clear.

One of the Lei juniors had stepped forward.

He moved with easy confidence, his expression curled into a lazy smirk. He was clearly younger than most of the others—perhaps fifteen or sixteen—but his steps were measured, his posture proud.

Despite only being a Level 3 Body Tempering cultivator, he looked down at Wu Lu as though measuring a child with a stick.

"Name's not important," he said casually, "but you must be Wu Lu, right? I'll be your next opponent."

The crowd buzzed.

"He's only Level 3…"

"Is he mocking him?"

"That's just cruel."

Wu Lu, bruised and still catching his breath from the last fight, scowled. "You're weaker than me. Send someone worthy."

But the Lei youth just laughed.

"Weaker? For someone like you? Please. I'm not like that fool who lost to a weaker opponent. I'll show you what real power looks like."

He cracked his knuckles and gestured casually toward the arena.

"And since you're already injured from fighting that other piece of trash, it'd be rude of us to send a Level 4, right? Come. I'll even let you strike first."

The arrogance was blinding.

The insult struck both Wu and Jiang Clans this time.

Wu Lu, burning with fury, leapt into action.

And thus began a new fight—one that would change the tone of the day entirely.

Wu Lu, body aching and pride burning, didn't wait. With a roar, he launched himself forward.

Fists flew.

But it was a different kind of fight.

The Lei junior moved like living thunder—shadows trailing each step, every motion coiled with lethal grace. Wu Lu's punches, once fierce and sure, struck only air. To the crowd, it was like watching a beast claw at a phantom.

And then the counterattack came.

A sharp fist drove deep into Wu Lu's stomach, stealing the breath from his lungs.

A swift kick struck his right knee—a crack echoed faintly—and Wu Lu collapsed, groaning. His vision blurred. The pain was sharp, searing.

Then—darkness.

The crowd froze.

The Lei junior stood above Wu Lu's fallen body, shaking his head.

"This is the best the Wu Clan has to offer?" he scoffed, turning to the crowd. "And they call themselves talents. Laughable."

The silence was deafening. Even the onlookers, stirred up by the morning's drama, were stunned.

Another monster had appeared.

Someone who defeated a higher realm opponent with ease.

And not just anyone—but a Wu Clan cultivator who had just defended his clan's name.

As the Lei junior turned to scoff at the crowd—A burst of killing intent surged. Wu Cheng was already mid-leap. His eyes were blazing as he descended toward the platform, hand already raised to strike.

Before his palm could fall—

Another hand intercepted it—calm, powerful. A Jiang Clan elder, placid in expression but sharp in tone.

"Steward Wu. I seem to recall a rule—you yourself declared it, in fact. No elders interfering in duels between juniors. Whoever loses… is simply weaker. Surely you remember?"

Wu Cheng's jaw tightened.

He did remember.

He was the one who had said exactly that, just days ago, when Wu Yuan nearly crippled a Jiang junior in front of the crowd.

Now, those very words returned like a slap to the face—cold, justified, and impossible to argue.

Without another word, Wu Cheng stepped back, fists clenched. He bent down, gently lifting the unconscious Wu Lu, and walked away.

The crowd parted.

And for the first time that day, no one laughed. No one cheered.

Something had changed.

The Wu Clan had been shamed. But the Jiang Clan hadn't triumphed.

Instead, all eyes slowly turned to the quiet youths in violet robes—The ones who hadn't spoken much. The ones who had never been seen before.