Dimensional Storekeeper

Chapter 227: Elder Bai vs Sect Master Jiang 5 Finale

Sect Master Jiang Xianwei watched it happen, then let out a quiet breath through his nose.

A smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth.

Monstrous.

There really was no better word to describe Elder Bai Qingshui when he played like this. Not wild, not overwhelming, but relentless in precision. Controlled, thoughtful, and deeply refined. Every strike had intent. Every step forward, earned.

If he ended up losing this match without even getting a chance to strike, it would sting. Not in the prideful way of a sore loser, but in the quiet ache of a missed opportunity. A match without a proper clash was not a match. It was just watching fate do what it pleased.

But he wasn’t about to blame anything unfair.

If luck placed Elder Bai Qingshui as the one to take the break shot, then so be it. That was the draw. And it was playing out beautifully.

Still… that wasn’t the full story.

It wasn’t just luck.

Even if Sect Master Jiang Xianwei had taken the break, would he have managed to set up the table like this?

Maybe.

But maybe not.

Maybe his spin would’ve sent the cue ball just an inch too far. Maybe one ball would’ve stayed frozen near the rail. Maybe the layout would’ve turned into a struggle, instead of this seamless flow.

That was the truth of battling someone close to your ceiling.

When both players stand high on the mountain, the difference is never loud.

It’s small things.

A single good shot.

A tiny miscalculation.

Momentum gained, or lost, in a moment that could never be taken back.

And in this game where each shot chained into the next, that momentum was everything.

The shots kept coming.

Click. Thunk. Drop.

One after another, the balls vanished into the pockets without resistance. The sound echoed with quiet finality, but it wasn’t loud or dramatic.

It was steady. Flowing. Almost peaceful.

Xiao Lianfeng leaned forward, brows drawn.

“Wait… again? That angle shouldn’t even be possible.”

Old Tiger Zhao shook his head, arms crossed, eyes squinting.

“He’s not just clearing the table. He’s bending it to his will.”

From the side, Dou Xinshi whispered in disbelief. “Why does it look so easy when that old respected senior does it?”

Because it did.

Elder Bai Qingshui made the game look like it was folding itself neatly before him. Each shot seemed to glide across a silk path that hadn’t been visible until his cue tapped it into existence.

Balls split from each other then curled back around, falling into place, leaving the next ball already lined up.

“This is one of those moments, huh?”

“What moments?”

“You know. When you watch someone do something and you go ’bet I could do that.’ And then you try… and end up nearly crying in frustration.”

There was a quiet pause.

Not from awe, but from understanding. That bitter, shared understanding.

Elder Bai Qingshui was playing a different kind of game. Not just billiards, but something that felt closer to a martial art.

Every move was so smooth, so coordinated, that it tricked the eyes into thinking it could be replicated.

That’s the trap.

It’s the same feeling someone gets after watching a blacksmith hammer out a perfect sword on the first try, then thinking. “Oh yeah, I could probably do that if I had the right hammer.”

Only to burn their gloves, break the blade, and warp the table.

Or seeing someone brew tea with perfect temperature control and saying. “Looks easy enough.”

Then promptly turning their teapot into a bubbling soup of disaster and self-loathing.

But the one that most people could relate to? maybe change this because like u know its not most u know

Building a PC.

You watch a ten-minute video.

It all seems so clean, so guided, so logical.

The parts slot in, snapping together as easily as bricks, matching tiles, or a sword sliding into its sheath.

The cables vanish. The case closes gently.

Then you try it.

Eight hours later, your graphics card is upside down, the motherboard is missing a screw, and the wiring looks like a spirit beast tried to weave a nest out of rainbow noodles.

You are sweaty. Your back hurts.

You have questioned your life choices.

And the computer does not turn on.

That was the exact energy Elder Bai Qingshui’s gameplay radiated.

Not just expertise.

But humble-you-to-your-core level of skill.

And the table obeyed.

Not because it had to.

But because it knew better than to fight back.

The cue ball rolled to a stop.

Nothing dramatic. No sudden halt.

Just a quiet brush against the rail, as if it were politely excusing itself from the game.

The final ball was gone.

Clean. Inevitable.

A perfect game.

No errors.

No missed angles.

No second chances needed.

And as gently as it had started, it ended.

Elder Bai Qingshui did not raise his arms.

He didn’t bask in applause, didn’t seek it.

He didn’t smile or boast or show even a flicker of triumph.

He just stood there, cue stick resting loosely between his fingers.

His eyes, which had been wide and focused the entire match, slowly returned to their familiar state.

Half-lidded. Calm.

Quiet again.

His aura, once as sharp as a blade held to the throat, faded back into silk.

Soft. Sleepy. Almost forgettable.

For many in the room, it was disorienting.

Blink once, and Elder Bai Qingshui was gone again.

Not literally. But it felt that way.

Because when he played like that, it almost didn’t seem real.

The game had flowed with such precision that it was easy to imagine the balls moving on their own.

As if gravity had been rewritten just for him.

As if each pocket had politely opened wide and said. “This way, Senior.”

The crowd had no words. Some opened their mouths to speak but closed them again.

Some scratched their eyes.

Others simply stared.

Still processing.

But one man had already stepped forward.

Sect Master Jiang Xianwei walked with the ease of someone who had accepted everything, but refused to walk away quietly.

Not out of pride, but because some moments demanded acknowledgment.

And this one?

It wasn’t just a win. It was a performance.

A mark in time.

Elder Bai Qingshui turned as his old friend approached, his face as unreadable as ever.

No smirk. No nod. Just a patient, steady gaze.

He said nothing.

Sect Master Jiang Xianwei lifted his hand.

Bent the elbow.

Palm turned inward at a familiar angle.

It wasn’t a martial salute.

It wasn’t a handshake.

It was the storekeeper’s sacred dap.

A gesture passed down through casual chaos, respected by emperors and elders alike in this strange little place.

Elder Bai Qingshui tilted his head slightly.

Observed it.

Paused.

And then, without a word, mirrored the gesture exactly.

The same tilt. The same angle. The same posture.

CLAP!

The dap connected clean and strong.

Their hands met, gripped, pulled in with the unspoken rhythm of practiced reverence.

They held it for a second.

Sect Master Jiang Xianwei gave a light tap to Elder Bai Qingshui’s shoulder afterward.

“Well played, brother.”

Elder Bai Qingshui gave the smallest of nods.

He opened his mouth, as if about to say something apologetic. But Sect Master Jiang Xianwei cut him off with a shake of his head.

“And don’t say sorry,” he said, voice easy but firm. “You did exactly what I hoped for.”

That gave Elder Bai pause.

“Anything less.” Sect Master Jiang Xianwei added, cracking a grin. “and I’d have been disappointed.”

Sect Master Jiang Xianwei didn’t need a response.

He already knew what Elder Bai Qingshui might be feeling.

They had walked side by side for decades. Fought shoulder to shoulder. Sat under the same roofs, drank the same wines, endured the same silences.

A glance, a pause, a subtle shift of posture – he could read all of it.

And he knew that Elder Bai Qingshui was the kind of man who never enjoyed taking something too completely. Not even a win. Especially not from someone he respected.

That kind of victory didn’t taste sweet.

It felt heavy. Unbalanced. A little lonely.

But Sect Master Jiang Xianwei had never wanted mercy from him.

What he wanted – what he had always wanted – was for the people close to him to live without restraint. Without apology. Even if it meant he lost. Especially if it meant he lost to their best.

So he gave the smile, said the words, made sure his old friend wouldn’t have to carry any guilt after walking off that table.

Elder Bai Qingshui held his gaze on Sect Master Jiang Xianwei for a moment longer.

He smiled.

Barely there. But real.

A very rare one.

Second in this decade?

The first had been for Hao. This was the second.

A small crinkle near his eyes. A gentle ease to the corners of his lips.

Not the polite kind offered to juniors or the silent nod given in passing. This was a smile shared only with someone who knew the full weight behind it.

It lasted no more than a breath before vanishing again.

But that breath was enough.

The stillness that had blanketed the store cracked.

Suddenly, a single sharp clap echoed through the air.

Then another.

Then another.

All from the same person.

Rhythmic.

Hao, of course.

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