The crowd leaned forward, straining their eyes against the settling dust.
Two figures stood in the ring.
Jin. Head bowed. His robes torn, chest heaving.
And his opponent — Lu Shaolin, the Warrior Rank prodigy, blade pressed against Jin's stomach.
The crowd erupted into cheers.
"Shaolin wins!"
"It's over!"
"That fool didn't stand a chance!"
Even the announcer raised his voice to call it.
Ruan's eyes went wide, her heart plunging. No… no, he can't lose. He said he'd save me… he said—
Her nails dug into her chains until her skin broke.
But then—
Lord Bi'an's voice boomed above the noise.
"WAIT. Look closer."
The announcer blinked, faltering. He squinted down into the ring, confusion knotting his brow. Then his jaw dropped.
Jin wasn't pierced at all.
The blade was stopped — suspended inches from his stomach. Held firmly in place by Jin's palm, wrapped in the sash he had tied to his waist earlier. The cloth was torn and blackened, but intact. His hand… unbloodied.
The crowd gasped as one.
But the true horror wasn't that.
Across Lu Shaolin's neck, a deep gash bled freely, the crimson running down his chest. His eyes rolled back, his body stiffening. And when Jin finally let go of the blade, Shaolin crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
The announcer's throat bobbed, words caught in his mouth. Even the clan leader — a man whose face was said to be as cold as stone — showed the faintest flicker of shock. His voice, low and cutting, reached only Lord Bi'an.
"…Did you see it?"
Lord Bi'an's lips tightened. His eyes were sharp, unsettled.
"Yes. And it terrifies me."
The announcer stumbled over himself before finally raising his voice:
"VICTOR… JIN!"
The crowd erupted into chaos — cheers, confusion, fear.
Meanwhile, Jin staggered backward, panting, then immediately dropped into a dramatic whine.
"AAAHHH! He almost skewered me!" He pointed at the fallen Shaolin as guards dragged him away. "Do you see that blade? Right in my stomach! Look! Look at this delicate waistline — ruined! Does he have no manners?!"
He turned and stamped his foot, glaring at the unconscious Shaolin.
"You brute! Do you know how much work it takes to keep this stomach so smooth? I haven't had oily pork in weeks! Do you have ANY idea what kind of restraint that takes? And you—" he jabbed a finger at Shaolin as guards dragged him away, "you try to stab me like I'm some fat boar? Barbarian!"
The crowd blinked in disbelief as Jin crouched down beside Shaolin's limp form, shaking his head in exaggerated pity.
"Look at you! Passed out like a maiden at a summer festival. And after all that talk of being Warrior Rank, the great number four! Hah! Number four my ass, more like—" he slapped his own thigh, cackling, "—number FLOOR! Because that's where you are now! On the FLOOR!"
Xiǎoyè meowed from above, as if laughing with him.
Jin wasn't done. He sniffled, pretending to wipe a tear.
"And your abs! What a waste! I had plans for those abs, you know. I was going to punch every single square until it turned into soup. Soup! And you faint before I could even get started? How inconsiderate. How selfish."
Then he suddenly clutched his stomach again, whimpering dramatically.
"Ooohhh, my poor baby belly. Almost ruined forever. Almost skewered like roasted duck! I'll have nightmares of blades every time I eat noodles now, you monster!"
The guards hauling Shaolin quickened their pace, clearly unnerved. Jin pointed after them furiously.
"Run, you coward! Run away with your silly fainting act! And don't come back until you've learned how to aim properly!"
Finally, he flopped backward on the arena floor, splaying out like a tragic hero. He adjusted his hair, flicked invisible dust from his robes, and raised his hand toward the clan leader — three fingers up, his grin splitting wide.
"Three more! THREE! And this time I demand a new robe. A proper robe! This one is tainted, tainted by his filthy blade. Look at me — I look like a homeless peach seller!"
The crowd didn't know whether to laugh, jeer, or fear. Even after seeing him nearly kill a ranked warrior, Jin made it seem like the true crime of the day was almost ruining his stomach.
Finally, Jin turned, struck a theatrical pose, then raised three fingers toward the clan leader. His grin was wide, arrogant.
"Three more! Three more pigs to slaughter!"
Gasps rippled again — the audacity of this man!
Shen leaned toward Lord Bi'an, his face pale.
"…How did he do it? I didn't even see him move."
Lord Bi'an exhaled heavily.
"You didn't. Few could."
Flashback: The Final Strike
The memory replayed in Lord Bi'an's eyes.
As Lu Shaolin's Zin-coated blade thrust forward, Jin's hand had darted for his waist. Not to guard — but to whip the sash from his robes. In the blink of an eye, he had wrapped it around his palm, bracing against the blade's tip.
At the same instant, his free hand — calm, surgical — snapped upward.
The Third Form of Tide Root Style.
A hidden palm-edge slash, delivered in the shadow of the block.
The audience, dazzled by the Zin flare and blade thrust, never saw it. But Jin's strike was precise. Sharp. A cut across Shaolin's neck that would kill most men, delivered with just enough restraint to keep him alive — barely.
And all the while, Jin never changed expression.
Lord Bi'an's jaw tightened as the flashback ended.
"That boy… he hides a monster behind that smile."
Back in the ring, Jin stretched, yawning loudly.
"Alright, enough waiting! Where's my new robe? This outfit screams tragic beggar chic — and I do NOT approve. Chop chop!"
The crowd didn't know whether to laugh or tremble.
But one thing was certain — no one would underestimate Jin again.
The third round was his.
And the nightmare had only begun.
Outside the Arena. A guard had seen the horse and taken it to a stable, thinking it was lost.
The moonlight spilled gently over the stables. The guards had long since gone quiet, and the prisoners groaned in their sleep. But Xiǎoyè, wings flicking smugly, leapt down from the rafters with a graceful swish of its long tail.
Time to visit that… dirty mule.
The horse stood in its pen, head drooping, ears twitching. The fight had knocked the spirit out of it — no escape, no rebellion. Just resignation.
Xiǎoyè strutted up, chest puffed.
"Dirty mule," it purred, "do you know what brilliance you missed? My Master—yes, MY MASTER—Jin, the genius of the heavens, turned the entire fight around. One slash! One! And that Warrior Rank dog dropped like a sack of rotten carrots. The crowd gasped, the heavens shivered, and I—his loyal companion—watched history unfold."
The horse rolled its eyes.
"Oh please. You worship that fool like he's some divine spirit. He's a lazy brat who laughs at his own jokes. If he wins, it's because the heavens are drunk."
Xiǎoyè's fur bristled.
"Blasphemy! You wouldn't know brilliance if it kicked you in the teeth—oh wait, that already happened when Master mounted you!"
The horse snorted, lips curling.
"You stupid bat-rat. I may be trapped, but at least I don't cling to some human like a child begging for scraps. You're nothing but his… his flying lint ball!"
Xiǎoyè's eyes narrowed into slits. Its grin turned sharp.
"At least I'm free to roam. You? You're stuck here, chewing moldy hay like a prisoner. Master may tie me with affection, but you… you're tied with ropes. Tell me, who's the beast, hm?"
The horse froze, shame washing over its long face. Slowly, it lowered its head.
"…You're right. I spoke out of jealousy. Forgive me, great cat."
Xiǎoyè raised its chin, smug as a king.
"Good. Now, kiss my paws and we shall call it even."
The horse leaned down. Xiǎoyè extended one dainty white paw, its whiskers twitching with pride.
CHOMP!
"YAAAAHHH! YOU FILTHY HOOF-BRAIN!" Xiǎoyè shrieked as the horse bit down and shook it like a rag. "LET GO, YOU FLEA-INFESTED OX!"
The horse's laughter was a deep, smug neigh.
"Oh, does the delicate fur hurt? Poor kitten! I thought you said you were strong? Look at you squealing like a plucked chicken!"
Xiǎoyè twisted, hissing, and finally tore free, its fur puffed up in wild tufts.
"You hay-breath donkey! You stable-stinking, hoof-licking dung carrier!"
The horse stomped, tossing its mane.
"Better dung carrier than a flying dust mop! You cloud-sniffing furball! You think flapping those ugly bat wings makes you special? You look like a half-baked demon squirrel!"
Xiǎoyè screeched, tail lashing like a whip.
"At least I don't smell like boiled cabbage left in the sun! I've seen pigs cleaner than you!"
The horse reared, nostrils flaring.
"And I've seen rats with more dignity than YOU, you spoiled kitchen carpet!"
The two glared, sparks practically shooting between their eyes. Then, simultaneously, they turned their heads away with a sharp "Hmph!"
The truce would not last.