Transmigrated as the fake young master, I'll beat up the scumbags and b*tches

Ling Chuan prided himself on his speed. He had thought that his sudden strike would be enough to intimidate his opponent. Yet, to his astonishment, the other party deflected his thrust with a single hand—

Effortlessly.

It was a casual movement, almost dismissive. And yet, Ling Chuan knew that he himself wouldn’t have been able to pull it off so smoothly.

His opponent was far too at ease.

Slowly, he straightened his posture, his gaze locking onto the boy in front of him.

To his surprise, the other party was also sizing him up—examining him with the same scrutinizing eyes.

“You’re strong,” Ling Chuan stated his conclusion.

The moment the words left his mouth, an uproar broke out among the spectators.

None of them had expected their ace to say something like that. And it wasn’t just their side—students from JingDu III were equally shocked.

After all, no one understood Ling Chuan’s strength better than his own teammates. Yet he had been able to gauge his opponent’s skill level from a single exchange. If that assessment was accurate, then this person might truly be on a whole different level.

HuMing, however, paid no attention to the murmurs. He remained composed as he spoke.

“I don’t understand the rules of kendo, I only know how to use a sword. So? Want to have a match?”

“Sure.”

HuMing stood still, waiting for Ling Chuan to prepare. However, Ling Chuan furrowed his brows as he observed his stance and asked,

“You’re not wearing protective gear?”

“Too restrictive. It’d only get in the way. Protective gear exists to prevent injury, but I don’t need it.”

It wasn’t arrogance—just a simple statement of fact.

Anyone who had been struck by a bamboo sword knew how painful it could be. Protective gear was there to minimize that pain.

Yet, HuMing didn’t even care.

Seeing this, Ling Chuan silently removed his own protective gear.

This match—he didn’t want to take even the slightest advantage. His opponent’s strength was beyond ordinary, perhaps even surpassing that girl from earlier.

If he had a chance to witness an even higher level of swordsmanship, what did taking a hit matter?

Ling Chuan took his stance, his toes pressing against the floor. His sharp gaze locked onto the bamboo sword in HuMing’s hands, carefully measuring his distance to avoid stepping into his attack range.

“Need a deep breath first?”

HuMing’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Ling Chuan blinked in surprise before quickly refocusing, his body tensing like a drawn bow.

But the anticipated strike never came.

HuMing remained where he stood, gripping the sword with one hand, his other palm resting flat against the back of the blade.

A strange way to hold a sword.

The unusual grip soon drew the crowd’s attention.

“YunQin, have you ever seen someone hold a sword like that?” Gu YunZhou asked his sister.

Gu YunQin shook her head. 

How was that any different from wielding the sword one-handed?

Wouldn’t it be slower and weaker compared to a proper two-handed grip?

She bit her lip, unable to guess what HuMing was planning.

Back on the field, Ling Chuan took a deep breath. A flicker of light flashed in his eyes.

“HuMing—please guide me!”

With that, he lunged forward.

A sliding step, a sharp thrust—his sword shot straight for HuMing’s face, swift as lightning, fierce as a tiger.

Yet the moment it was about to land, he abruptly halted.

A feint.

A sudden shift in speed, meant to trick his opponent into drawing his sword prematurely.

But HuMing remained completely motionless.

He didn’t fall for it.

The audience gasped. That thrust just now—if it had landed, HuMing would have lost on the spot!

That’s what the untrained eye would think.

But those with experience knew the deeper battle at play.

HuMing already held the advantage.

In swordsmanship, physical ability mattered, but so did the mind.

A reckless attack would only lead to self-destruction. In a duel where everything was decided within fractions of a second, a single mistake meant utter defeat.

And then—HuMing moved.

His sword flickered forward, stabbing repeatedly at Ling Chuan with motions resembling a Western-style rapier.

The sight was bizarre.

This was kendo—what was he doing?

But the real problem lay elsewhere.

Despite using a bamboo sword, his speed wasn’t hindered in the slightest. If anything, he was only getting faster.

Ling Chuan dodged, searching for an opening to counterattack.

But no matter what move he tried, HuMing’s next thrust always interrupted him.

He had already seen through Ling Chuan’s every action!

[I can’t just sit here and take it!]

Ling Chuan deliberately left an opening, extending his arm to bait HuMing into attacking.

But HuMing didn’t even look at it.

He was fully immersed in his own rhythm.

At this moment, Ling Chuan felt as though he was fighting a machine—one with no openings, no weaknesses.

[I can’t keep retreating. I have to take the initiative!]

He charged forward, catching HuMing’s final thrust with his own sword.

This was his chance!

Like an enraged tiger, he let out a roar, unleashing his pent-up momentum like a volcanic eruption. His blade swung straight for HuMing’s face—

A decisive strike.

If it landed, HuMing would be severely injured, maybe even knocked unconscious.

But then—

A tremor ran through Ling Chuan’s body.

A deep, primal instinct of fear.

His vision refocused, and in that instant, he saw them—

HuMing’s eyes.

Dark as the abyss. Cold, indifferent. As if they could swallow him whole.

And then—he realized.

Somehow, at some point, he had fallen to one knee.

His body was already tilting forward.

HuMing’s hands gripped his sword, positioning it like he was about to meet Ling Chuan’s strike head-on.

Time slowed to a crawl.

Everyone held their breath.

For a moment, only the two fighters knew the outcome of this final clash.

“Die.”

HuMing’s bamboo sword struck Ling Chuan’s stomach in a sweeping arc.

Ling Chuan’s blade—

Stopped halfway through its descent.

The entire dojo fell silent.

No one spoke.

As if afraid to disturb this frozen moment in time.

HuMing slowly straightened himself.

A second later, Ling Chuan’s bamboo sword slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the floor.

He remained kneeling, one hand pressed against the ground, the other clutching his stomach.

A sliver of golden light filtered through the dojo’s windows, casting long shadows on the polished floor.

Two figures, standing and kneeling—divided by the outcome of their duel.

HuMing planted the tip of his sword against the ground, his gaze drifting forward—

To the large character for “sword” hanging on the dojo wall.

And then—

The students of JingDu II erupted into cheers, their stunned silence breaking into a deafening celebration.

Meanwhile, the students of JingDu III stood frozen, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

Their ace—

Had lost.

Gu YunZhou and Xia Chen clenched their fists, unable to contain their excitement.

Gu YunQin’s mouth hung slightly open, at a loss for words.

Only Gu ZhaoChuan remained calm, watching the scene unfold with quiet understanding.

Now he knew.

Why HuMing had come here.

Because today—

Huming had stolen all his glory…

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