"You mean Lao Xie."
"Mmm." Shen Yun's gaze sharpened. "He and I are on the same side of the bracket. If we both keep winning, we'll meet in the semifinals."
Zhang Weiren's lips curved into a faint, confident smile. "Then I'll be waiting at the final. I'm on the opposite side of you two."
Shen Yun gave a low chuckle. "Don't get too comfortable. Mei Yan is on your side. If you both advance, you'll face her in the semifinal. She won't let you stroll through so easily."
The corner of Zhang Weiren's mouth twitched, though he said nothing. Shen Yun continued, his voice steady but tinged with pride. "This tournament… it was always meant for us. The peak of Body Tempering, ready to step into Qi Refining and enter the inner sect. None of the other outer disciples are our match. Only those of our realm stand as obstacles."
His voice dropped, the earlier playfulness gone. "But Lao Xie… he's different. Too different. For someone below us to stir the entire sect like this… it makes me uneasy."
Zhang Weiren looked up at the night sky, his hands folding behind his back. "Uneasy or not, it changes nothing. In the end, one of us will claim the championship. The rest… will only be remembered as stepping stones."
He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But tell me, Shen Yun — what makes you so certain he isn't already on the same realm as us?"
Shen Yun fell silent at that, his brow tightening. "You really think that's possible?"
"What is?" Zhang Weiren answered with another question, his voice calm.
"That he's at the ninth stage of Body Tempering," Shen Yun said at last.
Zhang Weiren considered it quietly, then shook his head. "I don't think it's likely—especially without the elders noticing." He let the words hang for a breath before adding, "But it's not impossible either."
"You do know he was talentless, right? The 'little mortal,'" Shen Yun replied.
"One fortunate encounter can change a man's fate, Brother Shen."
Silence fell between them. The lantern flame flickered in the night breeze, and for once neither of them had an easy answer — because Zhang Weiren's words, carried a truth neither could dismiss.
Then, slowly, Shen Yun's lips curved into a smirk. "If he really has reached our level… then all the better."
Zhang Weiren turned his head slightly, a faint glint in his eyes.
Shen Yun leaned back, folding his arms loosely. "I've grown tired of easy victories. If Lao Xie truly stands among us, then I'll welcome him. At least that way… my blade won't be wasted on dull matches."
For a moment, the night was quiet again — two figures beneath the stars, their words carried away by the wind.
Several days passed.
The sect grounds remained restless, filled with whispers and speculation about the clash that had shaken the outer sect. Yet while disciples gossiped and elders quietly observed, Lao Xie himself never stepped into their noise.
His hut became his world.
Day after day, he sat within those plain wooden walls, a single oil lamp casting its glow while his breath rose and fell in steady rhythm. The crowd outside might have spoken his name endlessly, but inside, silence reigned. His qi flowed, his mind sharpened, and his blade rested within reach — untouched, yet never forgotten.
From dawn until dusk, he cultivated. The faint scent of herbs lingered in the air, remnants of the pills he consumed. Threads of qi pulsed through his meridians, each cycle smoothing and strengthening his foundation. To others, this stage of Body Tempering was a barrier they clawed at in frustration, yet for him, it felt like walking down a path he had already known.
Occasionally, laughter and chatter drifted from outside the hut, disciples passing by, speaking his name like it was a tale from a storybook. Some voices carried awe, others disbelief, and some edged with jealousy. Yet not once did Lao Xie open his door.
Only once in those days did he step beyond the hut.
The round of sixteen.
The arena had been full again, the murmurs loud with anticipation. His opponent, a strong contender praised for his technique, walked in brimming with confidence. But before most could even settle into their seats, the match was over. A single exchange — decisive, clean, leaving no room for doubt.
The referee barely had time to raise his hand before the disciples burst into uproar. Some shouted that it wasn't fair, others argued it was true skill. Everyone watched quietly, their expressions unreadable, yet their eyes followed him as he left the stage.
Lao Xie never looked back.
He simply returned to his hut, as though nothing had changed.
And so the days rolled on. The quarterfinals approached, names whispered with tension, but Lao Xie's hut remained still. No visitors, no distractions. Only cultivation, and the steady, patient rhythm of someone who did not need to prove himself to the noise outside.
Inside the dim hut, Lao Xie sat cross-legged in silence. His breathing was steady, qi flowing in quiet streams through his meridians. The faint glow of the oil lamp swayed, shadows stretching along the wooden walls.
It was then the system's voice cut into his mind, smooth and unhurried.
"Host. The quarter final match is set."
Lao Xie opened his eyes, the calm in his gaze unbroken. "So soon? Mm—time passes quickly when one doesn't waste it."
"Your opponent has been determined. He stands at the eighth stage of Body Tempering."
The corners of Lao Xie's lips tugged upward faintly, though his tone remained even. "Only the eighth… That should be over quickly."
A pause followed, the system's voice colder when it returned. "Do not underestimate him. To reach the quarterfinals, he has proven himself stronger than the rest."
Lao Xie rose slowly to his feet, his qi rippling faintly through the air, a pressure that brushed against the walls of the hut. His hand rested lightly atop the sheathed sword at his side.
"Underestimation? No. But the outcome is already written. What can a mere body tempering do to me?"
With that, Lao Xie pushed open the wooden door of his hut. The morning light spilled in, soft and cool. His figure slipped into it without hesitation, white robes swaying as he set off toward the Martial Hall.
By the time he arrived, the quarterfinals had already drawn a sea of disciples. The arena buzzed like a restless hive, eager eyes fixed on the platform where names would soon carve themselves into sect memory.
And there, at the heart of it all, Lao Xie stepped onto the stage. His presence was neither loud nor forceful—yet the crowd hushed all the same, as if the air itself shifted to make way for him.
His opponent, Fang Ge, was already waiting. Broad-shouldered and straight-backed, his frame carried the weight of a man built for battle. Muscles swelled faintly beneath his robes, and his aura was firm, his eyes steady. Unlike others who had stood before Lao Xie, fear did not cloud his gaze.
"Brother Lao. Your name echoes through every corner of the sect now. Today, I stand before you not with arrogance, but with resolve. Even if I lose, I wish to face you at my best."
Lao Xie inclined his head faintly, neither dismissive nor encouraging. Only silence answered Fang Ge's upright words.
Elder Mu raised his hand, the stern lines of his face as unreadable as ever. The murmuring around the hall swelled, spilling like a tide.
"Fang Ge's no pushover, but against Lao Xie… how long can he really last?"