Zhang Weiren's aura surged again, rippling through the air like a rising tide. The platform groaned beneath the pressure, faint cracks threading through the stone as his qi gathered, heavy and unrestrained.
Across from him, Lao Xie didn't move. His robe stirred faintly in the wind, his expression as calm as still water — unbothered, unblinking, the quiet center of a storm.
The tension stretched, coiling tighter by the second.
"You're strong," Zhang Weiren said, his voice steady, the edge of a grin playing at his lips. "But too soft. Power means nothing if it never lands."
Lao Xie tilted his head slightly, his tone unhurried, almost casual. "And what good is power that hits nothing but air?"
Zhang's eyes narrowed — the easy confidence in Lao Xie's words digging under his skin like a thorn. His fists tightened, qi flaring bright against his forearms.
He stepped forward — then vanished.
A burst of wind followed, carrying the weight of his punch as it tore across the stage. Stone cracked underfoot, the impact echoing like thunder. Lao Xie shifted sideways, his sleeve brushing the shockwave that rolled past him.
The next strike came without pause — another fist, another boom. Dust scattered across the arena as Zhang pressed forward, each blow heavier, sharper, faster than the last. His movements were clean and focused, no wasted effort, no hesitation.
But Lao Xie flowed between the attacks with quiet precision. His body moved in fluid arcs, each step light and measured, his robe trailing through the air like drifting mist. He never clashed directly — only guided, deflected, and slipped through every opening with ease that seemed almost unreal.
For a moment, their movements blurred — strike, step, sway, counter. The rhythm between them grew faster, the sound of fists cutting air blending with the crack of stone and the faint hum of gathered qi.
"You're good," Zhang Weiren said between blows, his grin widening despite the sweat beginning to form at his temples. "Better than the rumors said."
Lao Xie's tone was light, almost amused. "Rumors are made by people who lose."
Zhang laughed, a short, sharp sound that cut through the noise. "Then I'll change the story today."
His qi surged again — stronger, denser. A metallic shimmer spread across his arms, crawling up to his shoulders as his veins pulsed faint gold. His Iron Body Art ignited, and the ground beneath him fractured from the pressure alone. Each movement now carried the weight of refined steel, his fists burning with condensed energy that rippled the air around him.
He stepped in, faster than before. Each swing came with a low boom that shook the platform, the vibrations crawling up through Lao Xie's feet. Yet even then, Lao Xie's composure didn't waver.
He turned with the momentum, letting Zhang's strikes pass by in spirals of displaced air. And then — just once — his hand moved.
When Zhang's fist shot toward his ribs, Lao Xie's fingers brushed the air beside it, two fingertips tracing the current of qi that surrounded the strike.
The next instant, Zhang's punch veered off course — not by force, but by precision. The airflow twisted, the energy behind it redirected, and his attack glanced harmlessly past Lao Xie's side.
Zhang froze for a split second, his balance faltering.
His eyes widened slightly. "You— you reflected my strike with two fingers?"
Lao Xie gave a soft hum, almost thoughtful, as he adjusted his sleeve. "Maybe I was just lucky."
For a moment, neither moved. Then —
The arena erupted.
Gasps burst through the stands like ripples in a pond. Disciples shot to their feet, mouths half open in disbelief, eyes wide as their gazes darted between the two figures on stage.
"He—he deflected Zhang Weiren's punch with just his hand?!" one outer disciple shouted, voice cracking halfway through. His friend beside him was gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
"No—no, he didn't even touch him!" another cried out, his jaw slack. "I was watching closely! He didn't block—he bent the attack somehow!"
Further back, a young female disciple covered her mouth, her eyes sparkling with shock. "That movement… it wasn't Qi deflection. It was something else!"
Murmurs spread like wildfire, dozens of voices overlapping in disbelief and awe. Some leaned forward over the edge of the spectator stands, robes rustling; others turned to one another, gesturing wildly, as if needing confirmation that they'd actually seen what they thought they had.
"What kind of technique was that?!" someone demanded breathlessly. "That wasn't even a martial art—it was like he moved through the attack!"
Even a few of the senior disciples seated near the front exchanged startled looks. One of them exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath, "That calm bastard… he's been hiding something this whole time."
The noise swelled, pulsing like a living thing across the Martial Hall — disbelief, admiration, and rising anticipation all colliding into one restless storm.
Even among the elders, several heads turned sharply toward the stage. The officiating elder's eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze flicking between the two figures locked in their quiet standoff.
Down below, Zhang Weiren's expression shifted — surprise giving way to something else entirely. The excitement of battle. The thrill of meeting an opponent who could finally push back.
He steadied his footing, his grin returning, sharper than before. "Not bad," he said, voice low but clear. "But luck won't save you twice."
Lao Xie smiled faintly, his tone calm as still water. "Then let's find out, shall we?"
Lao Xie's calm words lingered in the air, quiet yet sharp enough to slice through the noise.
Zhang Weiren's grin only deepened, his knuckles tightening until faint lines of gold qi crackled across his arms. But before either could move again—
—the roar of the crowd began to fade into background hums, replaced by the murmurs and shifting gazes above.
High above, the commotion from the arena rolled upward like waves, but in the exclusive seats, a quieter tension lingered.
Ling Ruxin's eyes followed every motion below, her fingers resting lightly on the strings of her guqin. The faint sound of the crowd faded behind her focus.
"His movement…" she murmured softly, almost to herself. "It's barely noticeable, but it's different from before. More refined… no, sharper. Like he's found rhythm in his stillness."
Her gaze softened for a moment, unreadable. "It's as if his body knows the flow before it even happens."
Beside her, Elder Yao remained silent. Her teacup sat untouched again, forgotten at her side. She had been watching Lao Xie closely, her eyes reflecting that same golden shimmer that flickered faintly in his.
It wasn't just skill. She could feel it — that strange pressure beneath his calm. The same thing she'd sensed earlier when her spiritual sense shattered upon touching his aura.
Her fingers tapped lightly against the armrest, a quiet rhythm that matched her thoughts.
"Could it be…" she thought, her brows drawing slightly together, "his cultivation has already surpassed mine? Is it possible?"
The idea was absurd — impossible by normal reasoning — yet that lingering unease refused to fade. She could still recall the feeling when her perception failed, the emptiness where his realm should have been.
Her lips pressed together faintly as she exhaled, her usual calm returning over her features like a veil. She took a slow sip of tea, hiding her thoughts behind the motion.
Down below, the elders seated near the officiating platform had already begun murmuring among themselves.
"Did you see that just now? He didn't block the strike — he redirected it," one elder said, leaning forward, eyes gleaming with intrigue.
Another frowned, arms crossed. "That's not possible with brute strength. He must've altered the flow of spiritual energy around the punch… but that kind of control at his level—"
"—should be impossible," another finished for him.