It’s no wonder they’re eager for chaos—the fight between the two in the arena was truly spectacular. Although Henry Carter was only seventeen, he already stood nearly eight feet tall, with great strength and long legs, his every move whistling through the air. The out-of-town guest was half a foot shorter and three inches narrower than Henry Carter, but his build was extremely well-proportioned. Realizing his opponent was powerful and his moves heavy, he immediately adopted a strategy of dodging strength and attacking weakness. Every gesture was light and ethereal, like a wild crane contending with a fierce tiger—not only did he not fall behind, but he even appeared more graceful. (Note 2)

This clever strategy won him even more cheers; the onlookers, unaware of the truth, instinctively gave their praise to the one whose moves were more pleasing to the eye. Edward Bennett and his companions, unwilling to let their side’s momentum be overshadowed, could only shout themselves hoarse. But not only did this fail to turn the tide, it actually made the cheers for the out-of-towner grow even louder. The ever-increasing cheers quickly drew more spectators. As more people joined the crowd, the applause grew even more intense, even drowning out the evening bell of Cien Temple.

After a long stalemate, both fighters’ foreheads began to sweat. Henry Carter was anxious, while his out-of-town opponent, being older, could no longer rely on brute strength. With a few sharp shouts, both changed tactics at the same time. Henry Carter used his strength and long arms to open up his stance and press forward, preparing to use the close-grappling and throwing techniques of the Turks to win. The out-of-towner switched from fists to claws, targeting Henry Carter’s joints, and actually used the ruthless joint-locking moves favored by martial artists.

Henry Carter, angered by these dirty tricks, stopped holding back. He placed both palms on his opponent’s shoulders and swept his leg toward the man’s shin. If this sweep landed, the out-of-towner’s leg would be at least dislocated, if not broken, leaving him bedridden for months. But in a flash, the man suddenly twisted his arms upward, using Henry Carter’s own force to lift himself up and avoid the deadly sweep to his lower body. Then, moving like a shadow, he circled halfway around Henry Carter like a butterfly and swung his elbow at the back of Henry Carter’s neck.

“Ah!” The surrounding spectators gasped. This was no longer an ordinary brawl, but a fight to the death. The timid closed their eyes and turned away, not wanting to be called as witnesses by the authorities and get themselves into trouble. The bold held their breath, eyes wide, watching to see whether the local ruffian or the out-of-towner would prevail.

“Hey!” Henry Carter suddenly lunged forward, dodging the lethal blow, then spun to attack the out-of-towner’s abdomen. The out-of-towner raised his palm to meet him, wrapped around his fist, and with a pull and a push, actually neutralized Henry Carter’s attack and launched a fierce counterattack.

Now the crowd grew much quieter, and only the heavy sounds of fists and feet colliding could be heard. In the blink of an eye, they exchanged another dozen moves. Henry Carter seized on a flaw, whipped his leg like a lash in a powerful sweep. The out-of-towner nimbly leapt away, then kicked at Henry Carter’s knee. Henry Carter didn’t dodge—instead, he stepped forward half a foot. Their thighs collided in midair with a loud “bang.” Henry Carter retreated, gathering his strength for a counterattack. The out-of-towner staggered several steps, unable to steady himself to strike back, so he shouted and rammed forward with his shoulder.

It was like a tiger and a leopard colliding—another dull thud as they crashed together. Then four arms flailed, fists pounding each other’s backs like drums. If this kept up, the out-of-towner would surely be beaten until he coughed blood, but Henry Carter wouldn’t come out unscathed either. Their companions couldn’t bear to see their own side injured, so with a shout, they all rushed forward. Several spectators also stepped out from the crowd, trying to separate the two locked in combat to prevent mutual destruction.

Edward Bennett’s mind was entirely on his good friend Henry Carter, so he didn’t notice anyone else’s intentions. Seeing the out-of-towner’s companion approaching quickly, and knowing he was no match, he gritted his teeth, picked up a brick from the ground, and swung it at the nearest man in his forties, some Mr. Harris.

That Mr. Harris, caught off guard, took the brick square on his forehead and fell backward. “Someone’s dead!” someone shouted, and the rest of the onlookers immediately panicked, scattering in all directions, afraid of being caught up in the trouble.

The out-of-towner following behind Mr. Harris was the one called Seventh Son Evans. Seeing Mr. Harris’s face covered in blood, he thought he’d really been killed by the brick. Enraged, he drew his sword from his waist and lunged at Edward Bennett.

In the Tang Dynasty, it was fashionable for scholars to wear swords at their waists. Usually, the blades weren’t even sharpened, to avoid accidental injury. But Seventh Son Evans’s sword was clearly not one of these—no sooner was it drawn than it flashed with a dazzling cold light. Though Edward Bennett usually swaggered about the streets, he had never actually killed anyone. Seeing his opponent desperate and out for blood, he screamed in terror and ran for his life.

“Where do you think you’re going!” Seventh Son Evans would not let the “real culprit” who killed his friend escape, so he chased after him with sword in hand. As luck would have it, Edward Bennett had only run a dozen steps when a sudden cry came from up the street, and several carriages plated with white copper came barreling straight toward him.