"I heard he's one of the most upright disciples, never backing down from a fair fight. At least he won't embarrass himself."
"Hah, you call it bravery? It's just another lamb walking into the tiger's den."
"Still, better a lamb that walks straight than one that trembles."
"Doesn't matter. Everyone knows Lao Xie's already at the peak of Body Tempering. Fang Ge's only at the eighth stage. That gap… it's not impossible to cross… but still…."
Yet among the whispers, a quieter voice lingered.
"Even so… wouldn't it be something, if he forced Lao Xie to show more of his strength?"
"Forget forcing him—Fang Ge will be lucky if he lasts more than three moves."
"You think so? Don't underestimate Fang Ge. He's not flashy, but he's solid. His strikes are heavy, his defense steady. If anyone below the ninth stage can stand firm, it's him."
"Heh, 'stand firm' won't mean much when Lao Xie cuts through that defense. You saw what happened last round—his opponent couldn't even breathe before it ended."
"That's exactly why it's worth watching. Most of Lao Xie's matches end too quickly. If Fang Ge can push him, even for a few exchanges, we might finally see how deep his strength really goes."
"Hmph, you're dreaming. Men like Lao Xie… they don't show everything. Why would they? He's been winning without effort. If Fang Ge forces him, it'll only mean Lao Xie decides to end it faster."
A hush fell for a heartbeat, broken only when another voice, quieter yet carrying a note of awe, slipped through.
The murmurs rippled like waves around the martial hall, but on the stage Fang Ge stood upright, hands clasped respectfully behind his back. His expression held no trace of fear. He knew the whispers well enough—he had heard them since dawn—but his eyes never wavered from the opposite side.
Fang Ge clasped his fists once more. "Even if I lose, I hope this bout will not shame the blade I've tempered."
Lao Xie's gaze shifted to him at last, the faintest curve at the corner of his lips, "Oh? A righteous one this time?"
A bead of sweat traced down Fang Ge's cheek, but his eyes never faltered. A faint smile touched his lips. "As expected of someone strong—just standing before you makes the heart heavy."
The air thickened as Fang Ge shifted his stance, his feet planting firmly against the stone platform. His fists clenched, knuckles pale, veins standing out like coiled ropes beneath his skin.
"I walk the Dao of the Fist. I will not disgrace my Iron Ring Peak. If I fall, I fall facing forward. I only hope… that my fists are worthy to meet your sword, Brother Lao."
A ripple of qi burst from him, surging across the arena. The force of his intent struck the crowd like the echo of a war drum.
Gasps rose from the disciples watching.
"He really dares to bring out his Dao intent against Lao Xie…"
"Fang Ge's fists are said to crush stone walls—if they connect, even Lao Xie will feel it!"
Yet across from him, Lao Xie stood unchanged. His hand rested lightly on his sword hilt, eyes calm as still water. The ripple of Fang Ge's qi brushed against him—yet he did not even blink.
Elder Mu's sleeve flicked. His cold voice cut through the tension.
"Begin."
Fang Ge moved first.
His fist shot forward like a hammer breaking chains, qi condensed to the limit. The sound of air splitting roared through the arena as he closed the distance in a single step, the weight of his strike carrying the force of a collapsing boulder.
And Lao Xie—
He didn't take out his sword. His body shifted with a slight turn, robes trailing like drifting clouds. One hand lifted, palm open, brushing Fang Ge's fist aside as though it were nothing more than a passing breeze.
The impact boomed across the arena. Fang Ge staggered half a step, his eyes widening.
The crowd erupted.
"He… he parried Fang Ge's full-strength fist with his bare hand?!"
"Impossible—his defense is like iron, how could it be brushed away so lightly?"
Lao Xie's faint smile returned, his gaze still steady.
"Your Dao is upright—unyielding. Admirable… but too straightforward and predictable. Against me, every path forward will only end in a wall.
Fang Ge's breath came heavy, his chest rising and falling, but the light in his eyes only burned brighter. His feet dug deeper into the platform as he steadied himself once more.
"Then let this wall test the weight of my fists!"
He surged forward again, qi flaring like a storm breaking its banks. His fists struck out in succession—one, two, three—each heavier than the last, the sound of bones and blood pounding like war drums across the hall.
The disciples leaned forward, shouts breaking out.
"He's pushing harder!"
"Those are Fang Ge's chained strikes—once they start, they don't stop!"
Yet Lao Xie only shifted half a step at a time, his sleeve brushing aside the strikes as though swatting falling leaves. Each parry came with no wasted strength, no strain on his face, his figure as steady as a mountain unmoved by wind.
Fang Ge roared, pouring everything into his final strike, his fist glowing faintly. The platform beneath his feet cracked with the force of his momentum.
But just as the blow descended—Lao Xie's hand rose again, fingers closing around Fang Ge's wrist with casual precision. The momentum died instantly, like a raging torrent dammed in an instant.
The crowd gasped.
"I-impossible!"
"He caught it—he caught it head-on!"
"H-how can this be? He didn't even cultivate the Dao of Fist… how can he meet Fang Ge's specialty with his bare hands?"
The uproar rippled all the way to the upper seats where Ling Ruxin sat beside Elder Yao. By now, the sight of the two together at every one of Lao Xie's matches had become so common that rumors had already spread across the sect—about how he was close to both an inner disciple and an elder.
Neither seemed bothered in the slightest.
"You really don't care about the rumors, Ruxin?" Elder Yao asked, her voice quiet but tinged with curiosity.
Ling Ruxin's gaze never left the stage. "Why should I? It's not as if they're false." Her tone was calm, almost indifferent, as though gossip meant nothing to her.
"And you, Elder Yao?" she asked in turn.
Elder Yao paused, then gave a small laugh, her expression caught somewhere between resignation and amusement. "What is there to deny? We've been close for years. Some disciples already knew." Her eyes returned to the stage, softening for a breath before hardening again. "Still… every time I watch him, I wonder if I should be surprised, or if I've simply grown numb to it."
Ling Ruxin's lips curved faintly. "To fight a fist cultivator barehanded, without even drawing his sword… absurd doesn't even begin to cover it."
The two women exchanged a glance, and though their tones were calm, the storm on the stage below continued to make its own case.