Regaining his footing, Li Fan countered almost on instinct: he swung his own hand toward Zhao's face. It wasn't elegant—more of a desperate reflex than a technique. But at that exact moment, Zhao had stepped forward too hard, and his foot landed on a slick patch of mud (courtesy of early morning dew). He skidded slightly, and instead of his face, Li Fan's slap landed on Zhao's ear with a resounding
SMACK.
Zhao Da yelped as the unexpected ear-slap threw off his balance. Laughter erupted from the spectators. "Good form!" someone yelled helpfully. Zhao's cheeks flushed red with anger and embarrassment. "You'll pay for that," he growled.
They circled each other. Li Fan was now oddly calm, adrenaline focusing his mind. If there was one thing he knew, it was timing—be it for a punchline or a stir-fry. And Zhao, for all his training, had a pattern: he telegraphed his slaps with a twitch of his left eye.
Sure enough, Zhao's left eye twitched; he lunged for a fierce backhand slap with his opposite hand. Li Fan ducked, narrowly avoiding it. Zhao's momentum spun him around, and Li Fan saw an opening. Sorry, friend. Li Fan swung upward with a classic kitchen disciplinary slap—the kind he'd seen his mother deliver to misbehaving apprentices. His hand met Zhao's other cheek with a crack.
Zhao staggered, now sporting matching red imprints on both sides of his face. The crowd roared with approval at the symmetry. Even the dignitaries on their clouds were leaning forward with keen interest.
"He's got spirit, I'll give him that," a celestial lady remarked while nibbling on grapes.
"Ten jade coins on the mortal!" shouted a laughing deity, slapping the sharp-nosed bureaucrat's back. The bureaucrat scribbled furiously, adjusting betting odds.
Zhao Da, humiliated and fuming, decided to go all out. He centered himself, drawing deep on his Qi. A green aura flared around him dramatically, swirling leaves appearing out of nowhere. "Nature's Wrath: Palm of Ten Thousand Willow Leaves!" he cried, launching into a flurry of rapid-fire slaps, each hand a blur. It was an impressive technique—if one ignored that its grandiose name essentially boiled down to "a lot of slaps really fast."
Li Fan's eyes widened. There was no dodging this barrage completely. Slaps rained toward him like a monsoon of hands. He raised his arms in a guard, blocking his face as best he could, but Zhao was fast. A slap got through—whack!—across Li Fan's jaw. Another stung his shoulder.
At the edges of the ring, the janitor-ref winced in sympathy, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. "That's gotta sting," he muttered.
Stung and desperate, Li Fan's survival instincts took over. As Zhao drew back for one mighty finishing slap, Li Fan did the only thing he could think of: he counter-slapped at full force with both hands at once. One hand met Zhao's incoming palm mid-air with a thunderous clap of flesh—like a high-five gone wrong—while Li Fan's other hand found purchase on Zhao's face yet again.
The double impact created a shockwave. For a moment, Zhao Da's eyes crossed comically. He stood, swaying, a perfect red handprint now adorning his forehead where Li Fan's hand had landed.
Silence. Zhao Da's fan had flown out of his hand, landing outside the circle with a soft thud. Li Fan was panting, one cheek red from the hit he took, but otherwise still standing. Zhao's aura flickered, then dissipated.
Slowly, the tall cultivator's knees gave out and he crumpled to the ground, dizziness and the cumulative humiliation finally overwhelming him. His last conscious sight was the janitor-ref leaning over him, waving smelling salts under his nose with a grin.
The crowd erupted in cheers and incredulous laughter. "The mortal won!" someone hollered. Coins exchanged hands rapidly among the bettors. A poetically inclined spectator shouted, "Thus falls Zhao of the Verdant Face!" causing a ripple of laughter.
Li Fan stood there, half disbelieving. His hand smarted from the impact, and his heart was pounding, but he had somehow won a duel with nothing but sheer dumb luck and perhaps the element of surprise. He offered a hand to the dazed Zhao Da in a gesture of sportsmanship. Zhao, coming back to his senses, slapped Li Fan's hand away weakly and stumbled up on his own, shooting Li Fan a venomous glare. "This isn't over, cook," he hissed under his breath before slinking away to nurse his wounds (both physical and prideful).
The ref/janitor hobbled to Li Fan's side and raised his arm high (or as high as the short old man could reach) and announced, "Winner: Li Fan, by a palmslide victory!" He wheezed a laugh at his pun. Li Fan had to bite his lip to keep from laughing too—palmslide sounded like a dish he once made.
Li Fan retrieved his wok and chef's hat, giving a polite bow to the cheering audience and a special nod to the grinning janitor. The old man gave him a thumbs-up and a wink as if to say, I knew you had it in you. Li Fan wasn't sure if he should be grateful or concerned that the janitor kept popping up.
The trial official with the conch blustered back into the center. "Well! That was certainly invigorating! Now that we're all warmed up—perhaps a bit too warmed up for some—" he shot a sympathetic look at Zhao Da's retreating form, "it's time to officially commence the trial!"
He pointed the conch at the looming Scion Mountain, its peaks shrouded in mist and mystery. "All participants, please proceed through the gate into the trial grounds. You have seven days from this moment to survive, thrive, and seek the Jade Lotus. Reminder: the Jade Lotus is the only key to concluding the trial, so don't forget to pick it once you're at the top, eh?" He chuckled as if envisioning someone surviving all that only to forget the prize.
The great bronze gate at the mountain's base creaked open, revealing a shimmering portal beyond which lay the wilds of the Crucible. One by one, cultivators steeled themselves and stepped through, disappearing into the haze.
Li Fan took a deep breath, adjusting the straps of his satchel and gripping his wok. He felt a light tap on his shoulder—Yuechan! She must have been nearby watching. She pressed a small item into his hand: a neatly wrapped bundle. "Dumplings," she whispered quickly, eyes darting to ensure no official saw this tiny assist. "For energy. And… congratulations." Her lips curved in a smile. "You were amazing."
Li Fan's heart lifted at her praise. He realized his face probably still had a red mark, and he tried to appear heroic despite that. "It was nothing," he joked quietly, "just a normal morning slap exchange." They shared a grin.
Behind them, the official coughed pointedly; time to move. Yuechan stepped back, formal once more. "Be careful in there," she said, softly enough that only he heard.
"I will," he promised, pocketing the dumplings carefully. With one last nod to her, Li Fan stepped forward and through the gate, into the unknown.
The world swirled and a new landscape formed around him—lush, ancient, and brimming with both wonder and peril. As the portal closed behind the last entrant, a celestial judge marked the time on a huge jade clock, and somewhere high above, immortal spectators settled in to watch the week-long spectacle of survival.
Li Fan exhaled slowly, steadying himself in the silence of towering trees. The trial had truly begun, and if the prelude was any indication, it was going to be a journey as ridiculous as it was dangerous.
He muttered to himself, "Survive a week in a deadly mystic mountain... piece of cake, right?" A nearby bush rustled ominously in response, and Li Fan couldn't help but chuckle nervously. If it's a piece of cake, I hope it's not fruitcake—those last forever. With gallows humor and a faithful wok, Li Fan ventured deeper into the wilderness, ready or not.