Chapter Five: Perhaps She Is Not the Real Heroine

After finishing her mischief, Chi Xiaoxiao timed her escape perfectly, slipping away just as the previous group’s match ended.

“The sixth group of disciples, please take the stage.”

Ling Qiqi moved forward with calm composure, the new disciples naturally parting to make way for her. Upon the arena stood Chi Xiaoxiao, smiling brightly as she watched Ling Qiqi enter, surrounded by admiration like stars encircling the moon.

Cheng Yu took out a handkerchief to wipe the spit from his face, his instincts telling him this suddenly-appearing brat was anything but simple. After all, there were few who would dare spit on the author’s self-insert.

Doubts about Chi Xiaoxiao’s identity lingered elsewhere, too, particularly with Ming Shuang up on the high platform. Perhaps the previous rounds, filled with nothing but fistfights and bruised faces, had lacked aesthetic appeal—he hadn’t wanted to watch the matches at all, instead gazing at his uncle and waiting for Chi Xiaoxiao to appear.

What surprised him was that Chi Xiaoxiao would be facing Ling Qiqi—a mysterious newcomer against the story’s protagonist, one with an aura of fate. This duel promised to be thrilling no matter how one looked at it...

Ming Shuang glanced at his little uncle and saw even he was stroking his chin, eyes fixed on the children in the ring, so Ming Shuang sat up straight and watched intently.

The two on stage bowed to each other, then began their bout. They started cautiously, exchanging tentative blows—one punch here, one kick there. But soon Ling Qiqi realized that Chi Xiaoxiao possessed extraordinary strength; continuing in this manner would only be to her disadvantage. Anxious, she frowned, her expression growing frustrated. In contrast, Chi Xiaoxiao still smiled with ease, entirely at home.

Ling Qiqi drew back, knitting her brows, and began forming seals with her hands, chanting an incantation. The air quivered as water essence swiftly gathered, coalescing into a dragon that wound itself around her. The moment the water dragon took shape, it let out a thunderous roar that echoed across the arena.

The less experienced new disciples below were directly injured by the roar, spitting blood as internal energy surged out of control. Senior brothers and sisters, caught off-guard, hastily concentrated their spiritual power to shield themselves.

The sect master, Daoist Pingxu, rose to his feet in excitement, eyes fixed on the water dragon. Ming Shuang, not understanding, looked to his little uncle for help. The latter leaned over to whisper, “That’s the Water Dragon’s Chant—a technique lost for a hundred years.”

So that was it: your father will always be your father, and the protagonist will always be the protagonist. A casual move from her was a lost secret art. Ming Shuang reflected silently, lighting a candle in his heart for the original Ling Xiaozhi—devotion to the heroine was truly high risk and low reward.

The Water Dragon’s Chant was overwhelming against those of equal cultivation; at best it would shake their minds, at worst, damage their organs. There were even cases where those without spiritual power died instantly.

In this world, cultivators are divided into eight ranks: Qi Refining, Foundation Building, Core Formation, Nascent Soul, Spiritual Ascension, Unification, Tribulation Crossing, and Perfection. Classic and cliché, as the original author had lazily borrowed the entire system wholesale from the internet.

Ling Qiqi had recently broken into Foundation Building—many seniors with mediocre talent spent years reaching late Foundation Building, so she was confident of her absolute advantage among the newcomers.

If the return of the Water Dragon’s Chant was already stunning, Chi Xiaoxiao’s response was downright jaw-dropping. He stood his ground, his smile unwavering—not forced, nor embarrassed in the least.

Ling Qiqi’s face grew pale; the Water Dragon’s Chant had already drained most of her spiritual power, and seeing Chi Xiaoxiao unharmed by the dragon’s roar, she knew that without a decisive strike, she would be in real danger.

“You nearly scared me to death just now. Sister, won’t your dragon roar anymore?” Chi Xiaoxiao patted his chest in mock fright. “Since your performance is over, is it my turn now?”

Dancing flames burst to life around him, forming red lotuses that spun and circled in a dazzling display.

“First, a flower for my brother—he was so frightened by your dragon he fainted.” Chi Xiaoxiao pointed, and a lotus of flame flew towards the unconscious Cheng Yu below, settling on him and gently infusing into his body to repair the damage caused by the dragon’s roar.

Ling Qiqi seized the moment, releasing her water dragon as the last of the lotuses left Chi Xiaoxiao’s side, hoping to knock her opponent from the stage in one blow.

Ming Shuang quietly munched on his melon seeds in the stands, thinking that single spiritual roots really were different—these flashy spells were far more pleasing than brutish brawls.

The water dragon lunged at Chi Xiaoxiao, but in a flash, Chi Xiaoxiao shifted four feet to the right. Ling Qiqi refused to yield, quickly directing the dragon to give chase.

Yet Chi Xiaoxiao dodged unhurriedly, his footwork so strange and unpredictable that only afterimages were ever caught. The water dragon repeatedly missed, making Ling Qiqi ever more agitated, until she abandoned caution and tried to intercept Chi Xiaoxiao herself.

One person and one dragon chased after their quarry, but their target slipped through their grasp like a fish—neither pursuer could so much as touch a hair on him.

“Ling Xiaozhi, focus your spiritual power in your eyes and watch where that child steps,” Yun Ting, seeing Ming Shuang’s confusion, couldn’t help but offer a hint.

Ming Shuang, suddenly enlightened, followed his uncle’s advice. At once, everyone around him appeared as orbs of colored spiritual energy. On the stage, aside from the three pursuing each other, the ground was peppered with countless red dots.

At first glance, the dots seemed random; on closer inspection, they were familiar. Ming Shuang recalled his uncle’s notebook, which described special spellcasting methods—one of which replaced hand seals with step patterns.

It seemed Chi Xiaoxiao’s setup was nearly complete. Ming Shuang was curious to ask his uncle what kind of big move this mysterious child was plotting, but he feared looking foolish and exposing himself—after all, Ling Xiaozhi was supposed to be a prodigy.

The chase on stage was winding down; both spiritual and physical exhaustion slowed Ling Qiqi, her water dragon’s speed waning as well. Chi Xiaoxiao remained at ease, sometimes even pausing to let the others catch up.

Finally, the water dragon’s form unraveled, dissolving into a faint blue mist. Ling Qiqi was forced to stop and catch her breath, spent and powerless. With his abundant energy, Chi Xiaoxiao now had an easy victory within reach.

“I... I won’t concede,” Ling Qiqi said through gritted teeth. Even in defeat, she would keep her dignity.

“Your choice suits me well, sister.” Chi Xiaoxiao smiled, spun, and stamped the final step—spell complete.

In an instant, searing flames erupted, and a massive fire serpent materialized, flicking its tongue with a menacing hiss. The snake swiftly encircled Ling Qiqi, who was so terrified she nearly collapsed before it even tightened its coils. The fiery serpent gazed down at her, awaiting its master’s command to devour her.

“Don’t be afraid, little snake has a gentle temper,” Chi Xiaoxiao tried to comfort her, only succeeding in giving her goosebumps.

Ling Qiqi, unversed in spiritual sight, had no idea how Chi Xiaoxiao had cast his spell. Faced with the sudden, ferocious serpent, she could only tremble, paralyzed with fear.

Ming Shuang, from his vantage, saw only the red dots linking into a line—a moving band of red light. It was just spiritual energy in a different shape, nothing terrifying at all.

The outcome was clear. Ling Qiqi, refusing to surrender, was unceremoniously tossed from the stage by the fire serpent, which in the process singed her clothes—what was once a fine white robe was now a tattered, scorched mess.

Ming Shuang couldn’t help but laugh. Why did Ling Qiqi always end her appearances so disgracefully? Last time, she’d been struck by lightning and reduced to a beggar; this time, burned to rags by Chi Xiaoxiao. She simply couldn’t escape a charred, blackened fate.

“You’re grinning like a fool,” his little uncle muttered into his teacup.

Ming Shuang quickly straightened his expression. “Uncle, doesn’t she look like a roast chicken that’s been left on the spit too long?”

Truth be told, Ming Shuang found it hard to believe the heroine had lost so easily. Events had deviated wildly from the original storyline: first, his uncle had struck her with lightning; now, a brat had burned her with fire. Was Ling Qiqi reading the wrong script? Since when did leading ladies of romance and wish-fulfillment tales suffer such misfortune?

Yun Ting’s mouth twitched, but his face remained cold. Ming Shuang could see his uncle was struggling not to laugh. He sympathized—he, as Ling Xiaozhi, couldn’t let himself act too casually, and his uncle, bound by his seniority, couldn’t easily break his aloof persona. All of it, in the end, was the burden of their public images.

After his victory, Chi Xiaoxiao dismissed the fire serpent and sauntered off to find the still-groggy Cheng Yu.

The day’s matches had been both exciting and full of surprises. The sect master decided to tidy up and postpone the remaining bouts to another day. The sisters busied themselves carrying the injured off for healing, while the brothers cleaned and repaired the damaged arena.

“Ling Xiaozhi, will you return with me, or stay with Kong Mingzi?” asked Daoist Pingxu.

“I… I’d like to discuss academic matters with my uncle…” Ming Shuang stammered.

Daoist Pingxu glanced at Kong Mingzi, noticing the spark in his younger brother’s eyes. He shook his head with a sigh. “Fine, go with your uncle—it seems you’ve forgotten your master altogether.”

Hearing this, Ming Shuang detected a hint of dejection in his master’s voice. Perhaps the solemn head of the sect wasn’t as rigid as he appeared after all.

Having entrusted his beloved disciple to Kong Mingzi, the sect master departed, leaving nephew and uncle to share a meaningful glance. Pleased with Ming Shuang’s performance, the little uncle decided to treat him to an extra chicken drumstick at dinner.

“Let’s go home,” Ming Shuang said, taking his uncle’s pale hand as the arena emptied, waiting for him to fly them back.

Yun Ting glanced down at their joined hands, coughed lightly, and said, “A month has passed and you still can’t fly—should we switch to sword-riding?”

Ming Shuang imagined himself swinging a sword and spilling blood everywhere; he shook his head like a rattle drum and quickly refused, “No, I’m afraid of blood, and heights too.”

“You really are like a pig spirit possessed,” his uncle retorted, but his grip remained gentle as he took Ming Shuang flying home, little piglet and all.

Elsewhere, Ling Qiqi was taken by her senior sister for a checkup. Though her injuries were minor, her clothes were in tatters. The diligent medical cultivator found no external wounds, but peering deeper, she saw that Ling Qiqi’s meridians were nearly depleted—a clear case of overexertion.

Told to rest well, Ling Qiqi lay quietly in bed, her mind wandering back to the sweet memories of meeting her senior brother down the mountain. The happier she had once been, the more dejected she felt now. She wondered why he’d grown so distant since their arrival at the sect. It must be, she reflected, because her repeated humiliations had made her an object of his disdain.