Dimensional Storekeeper

Chapter 232: Billiard Tournament Final Game! 3

Feels the same as getting assigned night duty counting flying sword rentals at the outer disciple hall.

’So you’re saying all that enthusiastic clapping, cheering, leaning forward with sparkles in your eyes… was for us, boss?’ Mo Xixi asked.

’Exactly.’ Hao nodded sagely. ’I suffer so others may feel the thrill of competition, Little Xixi.’

’Suffer?!’

’Suffer?!’ Mo Xixi snapped, her hair bristling.

’You were shouting and stomping your feet, boss!’

’Passion comes in many forms.’ Hao replied. ’My suffering is internal, Little Xixi.’

Mo Xixi was about to launch into her next complaint when –

Ji Yunzhi took his place before the table.

The cue ball settled on the table.

Conversation died.

Just like that, everyone leaned forward. Shoulders squared. Even the black kittens, Yoru and Tsuki in the corner, stopped wrestling each other in silence.

All eyes were on the break.

This was it.

It can be final game.

One clean break could decide it all.

Would Ji Yunzhi scatter the table wide open? Drop two, three balls at once?

Or… would he misfire, letting Elder Bai Qingshui seize control again?

Nobody knew.

But everyone waited to see it happen.

Ji Yunzhi narrowed his gaze, adjusted his footing.

Crack!

The break shot struck clean and sharp. The balls flew.

Click! Thunk! Roll…

One striped ball slipped into a side pocket. Another rattled near the corner, but didn’t drop.

The table spread… awkwardly.

It wasn’t terrible.

But it wasn’t perfect either.

The balls were scattered, yes – but too many hovered near the rails, and several key positions were awkwardly tight. Not enough momentum to open up a flawless flow.

Not enough chaos to force a safety play.

A mixed result.

A breath held across the room.

’That’s… a little messy.’

’He got one in, so it’s his turn. But that spread…’

’Can he make it work?’

’It’s Bai Chen. After what he did last game? He could probably spin the cue ball off the ceiling and still pocket something.’

It was time to see if the brilliance of the last match had been nothing more than a flash of fortune… or something far more dangerous.

Ji Yunzhi took a moment.

The cue chalked. Grip adjusted. Cue stick aligned.

Didn’t glance at the crowd. Didn’t crack a smile.

The cue chalked. Grip adjusted. Cue stick aligned.

He didn’t glance at the crowd. He didn’t crack a smile.

He pushed the cue forward with smooth force, arms taut with control but without tension. It was the motion of someone who had already measured the outcome and simply needed to set it in motion.

Clack.

The cue ball dashed across the felt.

A striped ball flew off the rail, fast and wide, crashing into another.

Then it bounced, spun, and landed with an almost violent thunk into the side pocket.

The speed. The lack of hesitation. The force.

Someone blinked hard.

“Wait a minute…”

“Wasn’t that Old Tiger Zhao’s style?”

“You mean the one where it’s all brute power and zero planning but still somehow works?”

“Yeah. Hit hard and let fate figure out the angles.”

Another gasped as Ji Yunzhi lined up his next shot, this one just as bold, sending the cue ball off at a narrow angle that clipped two balls before landing perfectly into a corner pocket.

“That’s him, alright. But cleaner.”

“Cleaner? That was terrifying.”

What made it unsettling wasn’t just the mimicry.

It was the fact that Ji Yunzhi took Old Tiger Zhao’s reckless, chaotic smash-first-think-later technique… and somehow tamed it.

Sharpened it. Reforged it into something deliberate.

A wild animal transformed into a weapon.

Hao’s eyebrows raised. ’He’s not just copying the style. He’s refining them.’

Then came the next shot.

Ji Yunzhi slid into position, movements smooth and relaxed. No rigid alignment this time, no coiled power waiting to explode. It was a kind of grace that flowed through his body, as if the cue stick was moving on its own.

The cue ball glided across the table in a gentle arc, curving around a cluster of solids without touching a single one.

It wasn’t brute force. It wasn’t intimidation.

It was elegance.

A brush of the ball’s edge. A whisper of collision. And the target ball slipped into the far corner pocket so naturally, so cleanly, it felt inevitable.

“…”

“W-what?!”

“That’s Sect Master Jiang’s style, isn’t it?!”

“The curved motion, the weight shift, the way the cue ball keeps dancing after each shot… yes.”

“…Another one?”

“Wait, don’t tell me – Bai Chen already studied all our playstyles just from watching a few matches”

“That’s – ”

“Absurd. That’s straight-up monstrous.”

“Who does that? That’s not something you just learn on the fly!”

If someone in the crowd had said Ji Yunzhi spent weeks training in secret with each expert here, it would’ve made more sense. But no – he had only watched their matches.

No verbal teachings, no pointers, no correction. Just quiet observation from the side of the room, arms crossed, eyes fixed, saying nothing.

And let’s not forget – this wasn’t some ancient game passed down through sects.

The billiards table had only arrived in the store this week.

It hadn’t even been eight full days since Hao introduced it.

“Wait.” someone whispered suddenly. “Didn’t Bai Chen only show up today?”

A pause.

“…Yeah. I think so. I’ve been here every day since the tournament was announced.”

“Never seen him before.”

…

This wasn’t just prodigious talent anymore. This was unnatural!

What Ji Yunzhi was doing now felt akin to a junior cultivator watching a single sword dance from an elder and then stepping onto the platform to mirror it stroke for stroke.

No, worse than that.

It wasn’t just swordplay.

It was different disciplines.

As if someone had copied the fluidity of a water sect, the brute strikes of a fire sect, the evasive maneuvers of wind-based techniques, and then stitched them together without a single seam showing.

And that was the part that shouldn’t be possible.

Because yes, cultivators could imitate.

A disciple could watch, pick up the broad strokes, maybe even borrow the tempo or posture – but not like this.

Not this clean.

Not this outrageously well-matched.

There were always flaws in imitation. A shift of rhythm. A moment of hesitation. A telltale twitch that said, “This isn’t yours.”

But Ji Yunzhi? His movements didn’t just reflect what he saw.

They felt owned.

It was like watching someone walk into a karaoke booth for the first time, bust out a perfect opera rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, moonwalk out of the chorus, then end with a flawless K-pop dance break – while eating instant noodles.

Even Sect Master Jiang Xianwei, seated near the back with arms crossed and a can of Peach Oolong Tea in hand, gave a small, approving nod. The gleam in his eyes didn’t hide his amusement.

“Still rough around the edges.” Sect Master Jiang Xianwei said, his voice reaching just enough ears to ripple down the rows.

“But that’s the closest anyone’s gotten without standing at my table.”

It wasn’t just imitation.

It was dissection. Reconstruction. Precision.

Ji Yunzhi wasn’t merely copying techniques from those he observed – he was internalizing them, testing them, and weaving them into his own language of motion.

For those who knew the game well, it was unnerving. The blend of styles wasn’t chaotic. It was intentional. Balanced. Unnaturally fluid.

And for the rest of the crowd, it felt like watching someone paint with a brush they’d only just discovered, yet they already knew how to control every stroke.

Ji Yunzhi wasn’t just playing anymore. He was aura farming.

Each shot slid into the next, effortless in form, ruthless in precision. He rotated through styles with frightening ease.

One moment he delivered a wide sweeping angle that mirrored Sect Master Jiang’s curved flow. The next moment, he transitioned to sharp, angled cuts that echoed Elder Tang Sheng’s corner-pinching aggression.

“He’s just flexing now.”

But the table didn’t lie. Every ball responded.

A jump flicked off a rail with the wild power seen in Xiao Lianfeng’s risky early-game form. A bank shot carried the patience and calm calculation of Elder Bai Qingshui’s rhythm from the semifinals.

When he mirrored that exact rhythm again – down to the quiet breath before striking – the crowd fell completely silent.

Elder Bai Qingshui’s expression did not shift.

But the slight narrowing of his eyes said enough.

Ji Yunzhi had studied him too.

And not just studied. Replicated.

More than that, he made it fit. Adapted. Blended. Shot after shot, he did not simply copy.

He took what he observed and shaped it to match his own tempo. Even the changes, the little differences, ended up cleaner, tighter, and dangerously effective.

“Bai Chen’s not just using our styles!”

“He’s remixing them.”

The table continued to clear. One by one, the balls vanished.

There were no mistakes. No flinching.

Then only one ball remained.

Ji Yunzhi stepped forward.

A soft tap.

It rolled cleanly into the corner pocket, as if there had never been a question of where it would go.

The match was complete.

The final point had landed.

And with that –

’Game three goes to Bai Chen!’ Hao’s voice cut through the stunned hush, waking the room.

It was over.

The crowd burst into noise. Cheers, shouts, gasps.

Some collapsed into chairs, overwhelmed, breathing hard as though they had just witnessed a full-scale sect battle unfold on green felt.

Ji Yunzhi had won.

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