The dust had yet to settle when the silence began to stretch again, thick and waiting. The air between them seemed almost alive, pulsing faintly with the pressure of their restrained qi. Zhang Weiren's stance was solid, his breaths deep and steady, each inhale drawing the surrounding energy tighter around his body like molten gold.
Across from him, Lao Xie stood unmoving — calm as still water, not a single ripple in his presence, not even the faintest flicker of tension in his gaze.
The crowd barely dared to breathe. Even the elders above leaned slightly forward, their eyes sharp, their words forgotten.
The seconds passed in silence, each one dragging longer than the last. Zhang's jaw flexed faintly, his expression settling into something caught between focus and disbelief. He had faced countless opponents, but none who carried such stillness — it was unnatural, as if the man before him existed outside the rhythm of battle itself.
And then, with the faintest shift of his weight, Zhang moved.
The stone beneath his foot cracked under pressure as his qi surged once more, spilling across the stage in golden waves. His grin returned, edged with the spark of challenge. "Let's see if you can dodge this," he said, his voice low but brimming with pride.
He lunged forward. The air roared in his wake, rippling from the sheer force as his fists blurred into motion. Each strike came faster than the last, hammering through the air with precision born from years of discipline. Every impact sent shockwaves tearing through the arena floor, the edges of his golden aura distorting the air itself.
Yet even in that storm, Lao Xie's calm didn't waver. His robe fluttered softly from the passing wind, his gaze half-lidded, unhurried. When Zhang's punch came for him, he didn't retreat — he stepped into it, one foot sliding forward as his palm rose with unshakable precision. The moment his fingers brushed against Zhang's wrist, the strike curved, its power spilling sideways in a violent explosion of dust and broken stone.
Gasps rippled through the stands.
Zhang's eyes widened, confusion flashing behind his focus. "You—how are you doing that?!"
Lao Xie's lips curved faintly, his tone light and almost teasing. "You've been fighting the air all this time. Maybe it's time to listen to it."
The crowd froze — not understanding, but feeling the weight of those words.
Then Lao Xie began to move.
He didn't strike in bursts of power; his counters were fluid, effortless. A hand that guided rather than hit, a turn that led rather than dodged. His qi didn't explode — it flowed.
When Zhang's next punch came, Lao Xie's palm caught the force mid-motion, twisted it a breath's width, and let it fly past him, splitting the ground behind them instead.
A second later, he lifted his sleeve, flicking it once — a soft motion that dispersed the shockwave of condensed qi headed his way.
Zhang stumbled half a step back, his stance faltering under his own redirected power.
The audience erupted.
"He didn't even block it!" one disciple shouted, his voice breaking from excitement. "He just—moved—and the attack turned!"
Another leaned forward, wide-eyed. "That's not evasion… it's control! He's controlling Zhang Weiren's strength!"
Somewhere near the front, an inner disciple's fan fell from his hand, forgotten. "He's not even using his sword," he whispered. "He's dismantling Zhang Weiren bare-handed."
The noise spread like wildfire — awe, disbelief, and confusion twisting together until the entire Martial Hall vibrated with voices.
Up on the viewing platform, Ling Ruxin's expression tensed, her gaze fixed on the stage. The faint breeze stirred her hair as her lips parted slightly. "He's different today," she murmured softly. "Though I can't tell what it is… his movements have grown fluid."
Beside her, Elder Yao had yet to move, her gaze cold and unwavering. But within her eyes, a faint unease flickered — subtle, but real. "His movements…" she thought to herself, "though it's barely noticeable, there's no mistaking it — his realm has risen again."
Her fingers tapped once against the armrest, the sound faint but rhythmic. The realization sat heavy in her chest. To surpass her perception entirely — that was something only cultivators far above her level could achieve. The thought was absurd… and yet the evidence was right before her.
Around them, the elders exchanged hushed remarks, their tones a mix of disbelief and reluctant admiration.
"He turned that punch again!"
"No, it's not just that — he's moving through the flow of Zhang's qi itself!"
"Impossible! No one at the Body Tempering Realm could manipulate force like that! Is he really at the body tempering?!"
But on the stage below, none of that noise seemed to reach him. Lao Xie's robe fluttered softly as the dust slowly cleared, the faintest trace of amusement ghosting across his features. Zhang stood across from him, chest rising and falling with labored breaths, his expression caught somewhere between fury and exhilaration.
Lao Xie adjusted his sleeve lightly, the motion elegant and almost lazy. "Are you still sure strength alone decides victory?"
Zhang's eyes burned with renewed determination, his grin returning despite the exhaustion creeping through his body. "Then stop dodging," he said, voice rough but steady. "Let's see if that calm of yours can stand when I hit it head-on."
Lao Xie's smile deepened just slightly — a flash of confidence, quiet and sharp. "Then come," he said softly. "Let's see if you can."
The air grew heavier again, the faint hum of their qi resonating across the arena as both cultivators readied their next strike.
Zhang Weiren's words hung between them, steady but sharp, his grin stretched into something half-challenge, half-desperation. The veins on his arms still shimmered faintly gold, his qi flaring in restless waves. But in the stillness that followed, something in the air shifted.
Lao Xie's gaze lowered slightly, that faint smile still touching his lips — though this time, it didn't carry amusement. It was quieter, steadier, and there was weight behind it now.
He exhaled once — a soft, measured breath that made the air around him stir. His sleeve fluttered gently as his hand turned upward, and from the faint shimmer of light that formed before his palm, a silver blade emerged, sliding free of the void with the whisper of steel meeting wind.
The sword gleamed under the morning sun, its blade thin and pale, almost translucent — like flowing water frozen in motion. Spiritual light rippled faintly along its edge, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Zhang Weiren's grin faded slightly, replaced by wary interest. "You're going to get serious now?" he asked, his tone caught somewhere between challenge and respect.
Lao Xie lifted the blade with an almost casual motion, the sword's edge catching the sunlight in a quiet arc. His voice was calm, unhurried — the same tone he had used throughout the fight, yet somehow sharper now.
"I've only been watching until now," he said softly. "It's rude to let a guest perform alone."
A ripple of laughter — uncertain, disbelieving — rolled through the crowd, quickly swallowed by awe as the pressure around him began to change. The calm that had once felt weightless now pressed outward, invisible yet suffocating. The air no longer moved around him — it followed him.