Chapter 114: Hanz Martial Arts Arena
The Martial Arts Arena of the Hanz Clan lay nestled in the shallow valley of Twin Peak Hill, a short distance from Hanz Stronghold according to the map, yet the journey felt deceptively long. The winding path descended gently through rolling hills, flanked by once elegant now weathered stone corridors and sprawling courtyards. These open spaces, once vibrant with clan activity, now bore the scars of past conflicts.
The buildings, courtyards stood intact, their sturdy forms preserved by the Mountain Estate’s grand defensive array, a fading bulwark of the Hanz Clan’s former glory. Yet, the ground told a different story. Shattered flower pots lay scattered across the earth, their cracked clay spilling withered roots and dried petals. Splintered wooden fences, scarred by blade and flame, leaned haphazardly, their broken remains entangled with the desiccated remnants of once-vibrant blooms, painting a scene of neglect and past violence.
Ancient wooden fences, splintered and charred, carried the etched marks of sword strikes and errant spells, testaments to battles long faded. The air hung heavy with the weight of neglect, as if the valley itself mourned the clan’s decline.
Within, vast martial arenas sprawled—rugged platforms, training dummies, and stone floors scarred by countless blades and fists, with the training dummy’s straw guts spilled across the stone, the marks of the Hanz Clan’s rigorous heir training still etched into the stone.
Jorge Blue, leader of the Thirst Bull Squad, paused frequently along the winding path to the Hanz Clan’s martial arts arena, his keen eyes scanning the remnants of past conflicts etched into the surroundings. Shattered bricks dusted the ground, and splintered fences bore the scars of sword strikes and faded spells. He crouched to examine a broken railing, its edges charred black by long-extinguished flames, then traced his fingers along the chipped eaves of a crumbling courtyard pavilion. "Our sect comrades came through here," he muttered, voice low and measured. "These scars are theirs. The traps they triggered are crude—barely a challenge for mid-phase Qi Refiners." Though his tone was dismissive, his cautious steps betrayed a wariness, each movement deliberate as he scanned for hidden threats.
Using intricate footwork arts, Jorge Blue and Rodney Luther guided the Thirst Bull down a towering ladder woven from shimmering gold hover vines, descending one by one into a shadowed mountain valley. The air grew heavy with the scent of damp moss and decay, a stark contrast to the crisp breeze above. As they reached the valley floor, the rustling wind fell silent, as if the valley itself held its breath. An unnatural chill settled over them, the temperature dropping sharply, and a faint, whispering breeze carried the ghostly echo of distant cries, slithering through the air like a warning.
Ahead downhills, under a dense canopy of gnarled mountain trees, a cluster of wooden buildings emerged from the gloom, their weathered frames half-consumed by creeping vines and shrouded in shadow. Despite the midday sun, the thick foliage above strangled the light, casting the area into near-darkness. The first building loomed ominously, its corners littered with open coffins, their lids splintered and interiors gaping like silent, hungry voids. A narrow passage wound downward from the structure, leading into a dim, cavernous natural cave that seemed to pulse with an eerie stillness.
As the squad neared the martial arts arena’s threshold, Jorge raised a hand to halt their advance. From a leather pouch at his waist, he produced a stack of intricately folded artifact paper figures. With a deft flick of his wrist, he summoned a dozen Dao Puppets, their translucent forms shimmering faintly as they drifted into the arena like wraiths. The squad stood in tense silence, watching the puppets glide through the still air. Moments passed without incident—no traps triggered, no damage marred the delicate figures. Satisfied, Jorge signaled the Thirst Bull Squad to move forward, their steps cautious but resolute, as they crossed into the desolate expanse of the arena.
The martial arts arena sprawled before the Th thirst Bull Squad, a vast, desolate expanse carved into the heart of the valley. Encircled by weathered stone pillars and low walls, their surfaces marred with pits and scars from long-forgotten battles, the arena exuded an air of abandonment. Along its edges, weapons racks stood laden with blades and spears, each cloaked in decades of dust, untouched and forgotten. Tattered training dummies, their straw insides spilling from deep gashes, loomed like silent ghosts in the oppressive stillness, their forms barely discernible in the dim light filtering through the valley’s dense canopy.