Chapter 8: Practical Combat Exam

Yang Tong had no idea that his extremely surprising results had caught the attention of the school’s higher-ups. However, Yang Tong could clearly feel the changes in himself—his neural reactions were now three times faster than before!

Making such rapid progress in such a short time could only have one explanation: the mysterious Copper Coin still within his consciousness sea.

“Could it be that this Copper Coin, while absorbing energy, can also improve my neural reactions?” Yang Tong said to himself, his voice very low.

Whether it was or not, he would see by trying it after obtaining the first prize from this exam.

Yang Tong got his number plate from his homeroom teacher. Generally, as long as one had passed the earlier data exams and performed decently in the practical combat exam, graduation was possible. However, if someone’s exam data was excellent but their practical combat skills too poor, they would need a retake. Alternatively, if the exam data was subpar but combat skills were strong, they could also graduate!

The reasoning was simple: data was hard criteria, with plenty of room for growth. Moreover, the broader societal context dictated that if one couldn’t pass practical combat, how could they ever leave the county town? So the school emphasized cultivating combat ability from a young age, and placed great importance on practical combat—otherwise it wouldn’t have offered heavy rewards.

This time, over a thousand students from the entire grade were participating in the practical combat exam, bound to take a long time to complete.

A tournament format was used. The field had been set up with sixteen large platforms, each surrounded by eight smaller platforms. Each large platform was a square twenty meters long, the smaller ones only ten meters across.

One large platform involved forty-eight people, who were divided into eight groups using a points system: win earned one point, draw zero points, loss deducted one point. The highest scorer in each group took first place, then the eight group winners went through elimination rounds. After determining winners and losers, the top became the platform champion. The sixteen champion winners then entered an elimination tournament.

After hearing the rules, Yang Tong calculated—he’d have to fight at least ten matches or more! Apart from the frequent matches in the points-based group stage, the subsequent few matches offered plenty of rest time.

The teacher in charge of refereeing began distributing protective leather armor, saying while handing them out, “Matches are to stop at the point. Surrender is allowed. Excessive force is forbidden, and intentionally harming others is prohibited, otherwise school rules will be strictly enforced.”

Everyone received a set of leather armor and a leather helmet. Wearing them wasn’t heavy; they were made from a special Savage Beast hide, able to protect vital areas well.

“Yang Tong, Tong Zhengbin. You two go first. Feng Xiaobo, Ge Lu, get ready,” a teacher specifically managing the match records called out loudly.

Yang Tong and a boy his age jumped onto the platform. The referee spoke, “Head and groin are off-limits. Understood?”

Yang Tong suddenly felt a sense of deja vu like mixed martial arts, but comparing it to his previous life’s MMA boxing, it was different here. Could you imagine a twelve or thirteen-year-old boy throwing a punch with over two hundred kilograms of force? This was a high-martial world where people could fly and move through earth on their own—nothing like Earth’s age of dwindling magic.

“You’re Yang Tong from Class Five? I’ve long heard you’re now a third-level novice Warrior. I want to see just how strong you are,” Tong Zhengbin said, looking at Yang Tong.

“Begin!” the referee announced.

Tong Zhengbin dashed forward, getting in front of Yang Tong in the blink of an eye, fiercely sweeping a leg at him.

Yang Tong’s neural reactions were now three times faster. Though this leg was quick, the moment Tong Zhengbin started the kick, Yang Tong calculated its angle, force, and the best evasion angle and method. He could even give a direct response, but while Yang Tong’s neural reactions were fast, his body couldn’t meet the same standard.

To put it simply, Yang Tong’s body wasn’t fully accustomed to the sudden doubling of neural reactions.

Yang Tong took a step back to the side, easily dodging this leg.

However, Tong Zhengbin clearly had very rich combat experience, unleashing a combination of attacks, each move aimed at vital spots and joints.

Yang Tong furrowed his brow, constantly dodging. He wasn’t lacking in combat experience either—with a highly skilled father at home who often sparred with him. The reason he didn’t counterattack yet was because he needed time to adjust his own state.

“Hmph, let’s see how long you keep dodging,” Tong Zhengbin grunted angrily, his fist and leg speeds starting to increase.

Yang Tong began blocking, because his body could no longer dodge. This was different from the virtual body during the neural reaction test, where movement was as fast as thought. Now, his consciousness was fast, but his body couldn’t keep up.

A competent fighter learns to take hits before delivering them—a principle Yang Tong understood from childhood. His dad had trained him since he was young, and through being hit, Yang Tong learned how to block.

They exchanged blows for over ten minutes, with Tong Zhengbin always attacking and Yang Tong defending.

Tong Zhengbin gradually grew a bit impatient, shouting loudly, “Are you a turtle? Annoying, take this! Whirlwind Sweep Leg!” Tong Zhengbin spun rapidly once, sweeping out a leg.

This leg was extremely fast, twice as fast as his previous moves.

The moment this leg swept out, Yang Tong caught its trajectory, but dodging was a bit slow now. He simply stepped forward instead, using a knee strike to intercept Tong Zhengbin’s signature move, then sidestepped and delivered a shoulder slam that sent the whole person flying back.

Tong Zhengbin, his signature move interrupted mid-execution, felt very uncomfortable. Before he could steady himself, a great force sent him flying.

“Respect,” Yang Tong said.

Tong Zhengbin stood up, patted his own chest, and replied, “You’re strong. I lose.”

“Yang Tong wins. Next match,” the referee announced with a nod, glancing at Yang Tong, somewhat uncertain about this boy. It was clear the boy’s foundational skills were very solid, his blocking ability deep, his defensive awareness excellent, comparable to many young experts in their twenties.

“Wow, Yang Tong! I didn’t expect your defense to be so good. You even blocked Storm Bin’s fierce attacks. Impressive!” Feng Xiaobo was much more outgoing than Yang Tong and well-informed; he had heard of Tong Zhengbin’s nickname, known for strong combat ability.

“Hehe, your turn. Go on, do your best,” Yang Tong smiled slightly, quite fond of this desk-mate.

This fight left Yang Tong very passive. He had only exerted twenty to thirty percent of his strength—his consciousness was too fast, but his body couldn’t keep up. What to do?

Recalling the match carefully, a spark of inspiration flashed in Yang Tong’s mind, as if grasping something.

“Body speed can’t catch up in a short time. Only by slowing the rhythm can I adapt to my own body. Slow down…” A sudden inspiration hit Yang Tong. “Taiji Fist!”

Right, how could I forget? The old man at the mountain temple taught me Taiji Fist. What I learned wasn’t the external health-promoting style, but the genuine Taoist Taiji—only thirteen forms, yet the core principles of Taiji Fist were etched clearly in memory.