The punch tore through the air.
Cold shattered layer by layer, qi waves surging as Cáo Jiànyú's figure drove forward with the blow—his momentum exploding, as though he meant to crush the entire arena beneath that strike.
And in that instant—
Xuán Chén moved.
No stance.
No step.
Not even a preparatory breath.
He simply lifted his eyes.
There was no anger in them.
No release of killing intent.
Not even a judgment of victory or defeat.
Only the calm of someone who had acted at this exact moment countless times before—
a body that moved faster than thought.
A heartbeat before the fist reached him, Xuán Chén's figure vanished from where he stood.
Not a dodge.
Not a retreat.
But—
a step straight into the heart of the attack.
Cáo Jiànyú's pupils contracted sharply.
He saw it clearly—
his fist was still driving forward, yet the target had simply disappeared.
In that instant, a faint, crisp sound snapped through the air.
As if something had broken.
The next moment, a hand was already pressed against his chest.
The instant that palm landed, the entire flow of the battle shifted.
Xuán Chén did not stop.
Before Cáo Jiànyú could fully regain his footing, Xuán Chén closed in again.
His movements weren't fast—
but he did not yield a single step, as though he had rediscovered a rhythm long lost.
Fist.
Elbow.
Knee.
Each strike landed without flourish, without wasted force—
but every one of them struck precisely at the nodes where Cáo Jiànyú's qi shifted.
The drug still burned in his veins.
His strength was still immense.
But for the first time, Cáo Jiànyú felt it clearly—
He was being suppressed.
Not by cultivation.
Not by raw power.
But by something he could not name—
something that eroded his judgment piece by piece.
"Impossible…" he snarled, forcing the drug's power to surge again.
His qi spiked violently, blood and energy roaring like a tide.
He hurled himself forward in a desperate charge, burning his body to drive the technique.
When the punch erupted, the air split open.
The arena's formation lines trembled.
This strike—
left no room to retreat.
To everyone watching, the two figures were charging straight into each other—
a collision with no path to survival for either side.
Around the arena, countless spectators unconsciously held their breath.
But at the instant the punch was about to land—
Cáo Jiànyú's blood and qi lurched.
Not hesitation.
Not a mistake.
But the backlash of the Three‑Turn Soul‑Forcing Pill—
finally erupting after being pushed far beyond its limits.
A violent surge of energy slammed backward through his meridians, disrupting the smooth rhythm of his strike.
The pause was tiny—so small almost no one could see it.
But Xuán Chén saw it.
He didn't retreat.
Instead, he stepped forward—half a step, no more.
Not to clash head‑on.
But to close the distance.
Cáo Jiànyú's vision blurred.
Before his punch could fully descend, a cold, solid force slipped through that single thread of weakness—
and drove straight into his chest and abdomen.
No explosion.
Just a deep, heavy thud.
Cáo Jiànyú's body jolted violently.
The raging blood and qi inside him seemed to lose all support at once—
collapsing in a single breath.
The punch never finished.
He staggered forward two steps, mouth opening—
only to spit out a mouthful of blood tainted with the bitter scent of the pill.
His body finally gave out, crashing heavily onto the arena floor.
Silence fell.
The entire arena was frozen in place,
breathless,
motionless—
as if the world itself had stopped.
Xuán Chén remained where he stood, his chest rising and falling faintly.
The qi within him still churned, not yet fully settled.
He did not move immediately.
He simply lowered his gaze, looking at the man collapsed at his feet.
Then—
a sound, so faint it was almost imperceptible, slipped from Cáo Jiànyú's throat.
A breath thinner than a thread, broken and uneven.
"Si… tú… Jìng… you…"
The voice was so soft that even Xiǎo Chén, standing at the edge of the arena, did not hear it.
But Xuán Chén heard it clearly.
It was not an accusation.
Nor did it resemble a final message.
It was more like a fragment of unwillingness—
a sentence that never reached its end.
A heartbeat later, the sound stopped.
Cáo Jiànyú's pupils lost their focus completely.
—
On the judges' platform, reactions diverged.
The Sixth Elder's expression had darkened to the point of dripping ink.
His hand, hidden within his sleeve, clenched tightly—
yet he said nothing.
The result was decided.
Any resentment could only be swallowed.
Gǔ Líng remained still, his gaze lingering on the arena for a moment before he shook his head lightly, releasing a sigh so soft it barely existed.
The elders beside him wore similarly complex expressions.
Some closed their eyes.
Some looked away.
As though they had foreseen this outcome long before the duel began.
In contrast, Dù Jīn's posture straightened, and the tension he had held for so long finally eased.
A flicker of restrained excitement surfaced in his eyes—
as if a wager had been settled,
or a judgment he had made had been proven correct.
Xuānyuán Dié stood beside him, the corner of her lips lifting slightly.
It was not a triumphant smile.
It was the quiet satisfaction of a swordswoman who had seen the one who should survive… survive.
Her gaze drifted over Dù Jīn, faint and fleeting—
as though she had suddenly remembered something,
and her mood brightened a little more.
At the very least, for the next six months,
her dessert portion would not be shorted.
She withdrew her gaze and looked back toward the arena.
Her expression had already returned to its usual calm.
But in her heart,
she quietly marked this moment down.
——
On the eastern stands, the senior sister who had warned Xuán Chén before the duel stood quietly among the crowd.
She did not clap.
She did not speak.
She simply smiled—softly, as though this outcome had never surprised her.
On the western stands, the seat that belonged to the White Lion was empty.
No one had noticed when he left.
Only the vacant space remained, lingering with the last traces of cold air.
In the shadows near the arena's edge, Sītú Jìng cast one final look at Xuán Chén.
Unwillingness and confusion churned in his eyes.
Not anger—
but the frustration of something he could neither understand nor control.
A moment later, he turned and walked away.
His steps were light, but the weight pressing on him was unmistakable.
On the judges' platform, someone finally spoke.
Dù Jīn stepped forward, his voice clear and steady as it carried across the entire arena.
"On the life‑and‑death stage, the result is decided."
His gaze settled on Xuán Chén.
"The victor—Xuán Chén."
For a heartbeat, the arena fell utterly silent.
Then, from the eastern stands, came the sharp sound of someone drawing in a breath.
The emotions that had been suppressed for so long finally found release.
Some stared blankly.
Some widened their eyes.
And in the next instant, the tension broke—
a wave of quiet, trembling excitement rippled through the crowd.
Soft gasps rose one after another.
Someone covered their mouth.
Someone else stepped forward unconsciously, eyes locked on the lone figure still standing at the center of the arena.
There was no loud cheering.
But the disturbance was unmistakable.
It wasn't the thrill of victory.
It was the realization—
"He really survived."
—
The declaration had barely faded when Xiǎo Chén moved.
Ignoring every gaze, he leapt onto the arena at once.
Bǎishìtōng followed close behind, his steps unsteady but not a beat slower.
Xuán Chén stood where he was, feeling the breath he had been holding onto finally lose its support.
The killing intent faded.
His strength ebbed.
The qi and blood he had forcibly stabilized began to backlash.
His vision wavered.
Just as his body was about to collapse, a hand caught his shoulder—steady, unwavering.
"Brother."
Xiǎo Chén's voice wasn't loud, but it was unmistakably clear.
He raised his other hand, gave Xuán Chén a firm thumbs‑up, and grinned without restraint.
"Well done."
Xuán Chén blinked, then let out a soft laugh.
He had just opened his mouth to speak when Bǎishìtōng shoved his way in between them.
"X‑Xuan Chen… y‑you sca'red the h‑hell outta me…!"
His eyes were red, his voice thick with a heavy nasal choke as he scrubbed at his face in a panic.
"I r‑really th‑thought y‑you… y‑you were g‑gone…!"
Xiǎo Chén shot him a sideways glance.
"Pathetic."
Bǎishìtōng sniffed hard and snapped back immediately,
"Wh‑what do you know! Try goin' up there y‑yourself!"
Listening to the two bicker, the tension that had stretched Xuán Chén to his limit finally loosened completely.
"All right…" he murmured. "Let's go."
Supporting one another, the three of them turned and left the arena.
In the direction of the Sword‑Star Stone Tower, the lights were dim—
but the place felt unusually peaceful.
—
Back at the stone tower, Xuán Chén sat down and only then realized his hands were still trembling faintly.
Bǎishìtōng bustled around, while Xiǎo Chén helped him regulate his breath.
Everything seemed to settle back into calm.
After a moment, Xuán Chén suddenly spoke.
"Just now… right before he died, he said something."
Xiǎo Chén's movements paused.
He looked up at him.
Bǎishìtōng also stopped what he was doing.
Xuán Chén was silent for a heartbeat before he continued, slowly:
"He mentioned a name."
Xiǎo Chén frowned.
"Who?"
Xuán Chén replied quietly:
"Sītú Jìng."