The stench of copper and sweat hung thick in the air of the laundry shed, a grim perfume that Lu Qingshan detested. He stood amidst mountains of soiled silks and torn tunics piled high from the 'Inner Court Selection Tournament' he had heard the guards discussing. His brow was furrowed not in fear, but in profound irritation. The red dyes of the Vermilion-Eaves disciples’ uniforms were notoriously unstable when mixed with fresh arterial spray, and the sheer mountain of cloth was overwhelming. This was an entirely unnecessary inconvenience. “Look at this,” he grumbled, holding up a robe that had once been pristine white, now decorated with a rust-colored splash resembling a botched landscape painting. “The woven fibers are almost completely ruined. Do these cultivation fanatics not understand the concept of proper wound care? Or, I don't know, avoiding getting stabbed in the first place?” Ding Bo, still pale from Elder Kuang Shi’s pronouncement, nervously stacked a pile of clean, folded pants. He flinched at every roar from the distant arena, the sound carrying even into their humble, steaming sanctuary. “Master, shouldn't I… prepare for the ring? Elder Kuang Shi said matches begin in three days.” Lu Qingshan grunted, his gaze fixed on a particularly obstinate bloodstain. “Prepare? You’ve only just started mastering the three-stage wash cycle. And look at those creases!” He snatched a folded tunic from Ding Bo’s pile, holding it up for inspection. A network of fine wrinkles marred the weave, like rivers on an ancient map. “Untidy. Disgraceful. Do you know how much raw Qi these minor imperfections absorb over time? They leach the vitality from the garment, leaving it limp and lifeless. And think of the impression it makes on the wearer. Sloppy work reflects a sloppy mind.” Lu Qingshan sighed, a sound of deep disappointment. “No, before you go anywhere, we must address this deficiency. You need the ‘Wrinkle-Smoothing Palm’ method.” Ding Bo perked up, jaw slackening. A new secret method! Just what he needed for the deadly tournament. He straightened, eager to learn. Lu Qingshan picked up a heavily creased ceremonial robe, its fine cloud-silk bunched and distorted. He took a deep, measured breath. Then, with a fluid motion, he brought his open palm down upon the weave. There was no forceful impact, no explosive Qi release. Instead, his hand pressed, glided, and rotated across the silk. A faint, almost imperceptible warmth radiated from his skin, coaxing the fibers. He leaned his weight into specific points, his fingers kneading, his thumb sweeping, his palm a broad, firm iron. He moved with a dancer’s grace, yet with a blacksmith’s precision, each movement calculated to coax the threads into perfect alignment. In less than a breath, the robe lay flat, smooth, every ripple vanished as if it had never existed. “Observe,” Lu Qingshan instructed, his voice low and intense. “The key is precise leverage. Not too much, or you scorch the weave. Not too little, or the creases laugh at your efforts. You must channel the internal heat, yes, but temper it. Think of the spiritual threads of the garment as meridians. Guide the warmth. Smooth the stubborn knots out. And always, *always* finish with a firm lateral sweep to lock in the smoothness.” Ding Bo watched, mesmerized. He saw the subtle ripple of Qi beneath his master’s skin, the focused intensity in his eyes. This was no mere folding. This was an ancient art, a profound mastery of manipulation, a defensive discipline that could nullify incoming attacks by compressing their spiritual weight. The lateral sweep, he mused, must be for dispersing residual Qi. A truly peerless counter-attack! “Now, your turn,” Lu Qingshan said, pushing a basket of crumpled uniform shirts towards Ding Bo. “Don’t leave a single crease. You have two hours. Then, and only then, may you go and get yourself dismembered.” Two hours later, Ding Bo left the laundry shed, his palms tingling with the phantom sensation of pressed fabric. He walked towards the Grand Obsidian Arena, a structure of black stone that dwarfed the entire Vermilion-Eaves complex, its stands already packed with a roaring multitude. His mind, however, was not on mortal combat, but on the subtle art of removing stubborn creases. The arena floor was a vast, circular expanse of compacted earth, scarred with the marks of countless battles. Ding Bo stepped onto it, feeling dwarfed by the towering walls and the thunderous cheers. His opponent, a burly disciple named Jiao Ren, stood across from him, flexing formidable muscles. Jiao Ren wielded twin broadswords, their edges glinting ominously under the arena’s arcane illumination. He was a known 'Crimson Flurry' specialist, famous for his relentless, sweeping attacks. “A cripple from the outer courts, eh?” Jiao Ren sneered, spinning his swords. “This will be quick. Perhaps I’ll use my ‘Heaven-Rending Cleave’ just to impress the Elder.” Ding Bo swallowed hard. He clutched his worn tunic, the memory of Lu Qingshan’s stern laundry lessons echoing in his mind. *“Smooth the stubborn knots out. Finish with a firm lateral sweep.”* Jiao Ren roared, his cultivation flaring. He launched himself forward, a whirlwind of steel and power. Both broadswords arced high, converging into a single, devastating strike. A blood-red wave of sword Qi, sharp enough to cleave stone, erupted from his blades, screaming towards Ding Bo. The very air shrieked, threatening to tear apart. In the VIP section, high above the roaring crowd, Yao Qinglan gripped the railing, her elegant fingers white. Her usual haughty composure had vanished, replaced by a raw, naked concern. “Ding Bo, no!” Elder Kuang Shi watched, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. This was it. The 'Heaven-Rending Cleave' was Jiao Ren’s ultimate move, inescapable and lethal. The troublesome chore boy was about to be obliterated. Ding Bo stood his ground, a strange calm settling over him. The blood-red sword wave bore down, immense and unstoppable. He closed his eyes for a split second, envisioning a crumpled, unyielding shirt. Then, he moved. His hands shot out, not to block, but to *press*. He brought his palms together, then swept them apart, mimicking the ‘Wrinkle-Smoothing Palm’. He imagined the sword wave as an obstinate crease, a chaotic fold in the matter of reality itself. A ripple, invisible to most, spread from his hands. The screaming sword wave, instead of impacting him, seemed to… compress. It lost its three-dimensional destructive force, becoming a mere two-dimensional sheet of energy, harmlessly dissipating as it passed around him. Ding Bo followed through, his palms snapping forward in a firm lateral sweep. The concentrated force shot out. It struck Jiao Ren mid-leap, mid-roar. The Crimson Flurry specialist, along with his twin broadswords, was suddenly and inexplicably pressed flat against the arena floor. He didn’t just fall; he stuck fast, as if a giant, invisible iron had just squashed him into the earth, leaving a Jiao Ren-shaped impression in the stone. His swords clattered uselessly beside his head, which was now cheek-to-arena-floor, eyes wide with disbelief and the distinct lack of oxygen. The arena went utterly silent. Then, a single, piercing shriek broke the hush. Yao Qinglan, cheeks blazing scarlet, was on her feet, leaping up and down like a common street urchin. “He did it! He really did it! My little iron-fisted darling!” she cried, completely abandoning all pretense of decorum. Elder Kuang Shi stared, his jaw hanging slack. He saw Jiao Ren, completely crushed into the flagstones. It defied every law of Qi manipulation, every principle of martial arts. That was no standard art; it was an abomination. A violation. And then, a chilling realization dawned on him, sharp as a blade. Ding Bo was merely a puppet. The true master, the one who taught such impossible, reality-bending arts, was the insolent washerman. A cold, murderous rage bloomed in Kuang Shi’s chest. This was no longer about a troublesome disciple; it was about eradicating a threat to the very foundations of cultivation. He would personally see Lu Qingshan executed.

The Wrinkle-Smoothing Palm