Breaking Through the Formation's First Snare
The gong's crack split the air so sharp, even the wind seemed to flinch. Cultivators flooded forward like a burst dyke, surging for the formation's shimmering gate—every face tight with the hunger to be first, none guessing how the array would sink its teeth into them.
The second Wang Chen stepped inside, the world crushed down. Not just weight—heat, thick as molten lead, seeping through his robes to stick to his skin. His ribs creaked like old bamboo under the pressure; each breath dragged, a knife twist in his lungs. His legs felt bolted to the ground, heavy with a force that wanted to yank him into the rock. Then the mist moved: Qi coiled into beasts—shadowy, but solid enough that their claws kicked up little puffs of dust. Fangs glistened with phantom saliva, claws sliced the air so hard it whistled, and their howls? They didn't just echo—they burrowed into his ears, like a nightmare trying to claw its way out of his skull. He blinked, and for a split second, he saw his old master's face, yelling, "Don't let illusions rattle you!"
"Stay tight—stick together!" Wang Chen's voice cut through the din, steady as a blacksmith's hammer striking iron. His gaze flicked to his side, and a memory pricked—last night, Zhang Wei had grabbed his wrist, fingers clammy, eyes darting like a spooked rabbit, and whispered, "The Soaring Sword boys hate spirit shields. Watch for their piercing tricks." Now that whisper tasted like ash in his mouth. It wasn't a warning. It was a map for the enemy. His jaw tightened; he flexed his fingers, and the Qi sphere hovering before him dimmed for half a heartbeat.
Kael moved first, striding to the front until his boots scraped loose stone. His earthen Qi burst outward—brown, thick, like the very earth was heaving to answer him. He pressed his palms to the ground, jaw set so hard a vein popped in his temple, knuckles white where he dug them into the rock. The shifting, treacherous stones hardened under his touch, turning into smooth, unyielding pavement that didn't so much as crack when Li skidded over it. A beast lunged, maw wide enough to swallow a man whole; Kael didn't flinch. His Qi rose like a wall, and the beast shattered against it, dissolving into wispy mist that made his eyes water. He wasn't just defending—he was planting an anchor, holding their little patch of reality steady in a world that wanted to twist it apart. He glanced back once, quick, to check if Jian was keeping up—she was, quiet as ever—and his shoulders relaxed a fraction.
Beside him, Li became a blur. His twin fans whirled, silver arcs slicing through the air so fast they left faint afterimages. He didn't just cut down illusions—he danced around them, stepping light as a leaf even when the ground trembled. Sweat beaded on his forehead; he wiped it away with the back of his hand, never slowing. But his real power was in his eyes: sharp, quick, scanning the mist like a hawk. He'd pause, just a heartbeat, nose twitching like he could smell the thin spots in the array, then bark, "Left! Pressure's thin there—c'mon, hurry!" He didn't wait for them to follow; he was already shifting, boots skidding slightly on the stone to lead the way, making sure no one strayed into the invisible barriers that hummed where the mist was thickest. When Wang Chen's disc slipped for a second, Li reached back, grabbed his elbow, and hauled him forward—fast, rough, no time for niceties.
Jian hung back, quiet as a shadow. She didn't even glance at the beasts—they were smoke to her. Her eyes were fixed on the mist itself, sharp as a needle, picking out the faint, almost invisible ripples where the formation's Qi stumbled. A barrier loomed ahead: tall, solid, glowing with a faint blue light that made the air tingle. Impossible to break, or so it seemed. Jian's fingers lifted, slow and precise, like she was plucking threads from the air. She tapped once, twice—then thrust her hand forward, her sleeve slipping down to reveal a thin scar on her wrist. A ripple went through the barrier, like a stone dropped in still water. Then it cracked, spiderwebs spreading across its surface, before shattering into dust that made her cough softly. She didn't even blink; she just pulled her sleeve back up and turned to follow the others, her steps light as a cat's.
And Wang Chen? He was the thread that held them all together. The Qi sphere before him never stayed the same—now a tight, glowing ball, now a flat, wide dome, now a handful of small, spinning discs. It looked chaotic, like he was making it up as he went—but every twist was perfect, honed by years of practicing until his hands ached. When a wave of confusing Qi swept over them, making Li stumble and Kael's wall flicker, Wang Chen's sphere spread into a dome—soft, flexible, like silk—and the confusing Qi unwound inside it, like a tangled string being pulled straight. His temples throbbed; he grit one's teeth and the dome held. When the ground turned to mud, sucking at their boots so hard Kael's heel sank an inch, Wang Chen flicked his wrist, and small, solid discs of Qi popped up under each of their feet—steady, unyielding, even when the mud gurgled and tried to yank them down. He glanced at Kael, who gave him a sharp nod, and something tight in his chest loosened.
Other teams fought like dogs, bloodied and breathless, swords clanging, screams cutting through the mist, just to move a step. But the Muay Thai Sect? They flowed. Like water through cracks, like wind through trees. They didn't fight the formation—they used it, moving where it let them, turning its tricks against it. Li laughed once, sharp and bright, when he sliced through an illusion that had tripped up a cultivator from another sect.
Then the mist thinned, and they saw the canyon. Narrow, dark, its walls sharp as broken swords, wind whipping through it that smelled like iron. And at the mouth? Three men in gray robes, swords drawn—Soaring Sword Sect. The leader's face was familiar: tall, scar cutting across his jaw, just like Zhang Wei had described. "The one who uses Phantom Piercing Needle," Wang Chen thought. His hand tightened around nothing.
The leader sneered, his voice like metal scraping metal, loud enough to carry over the wind. "Wang Chen of the Muay Thai Sect? Heard you hide behind a little spirit shield, like a coward. Let's see how well it holds against the Soaring Sword's best."
The three swords lifted as one. Qi gathered at their tips, thin as threads but sharp enough to make the air hum, to make Wang Chen's skin prickle. Then they struck—fast, faster than the eye could follow. The beams didn't hit the shield. They sneaked, curling around its edges like snakes slithering toward an egg, straight for Wang Chen's heart.
Kael's wall surged forward, too slow. Li's fans snapped, trying to cut the beams—useless, they just slipped through. This was a move made to kill spirit shields. A move they should never have known to use. Zhang Wei's betrayal wasn't a suspicion anymore. It was a punch to the gut, cold and hard. Wang Chen's mother's voice popped into his head: "Trust is a knife—handle it careful."
But Wang Chen didn't flinch. His lips twitched, not a smile, but a flicker of something cold—like he'd been waiting for this. He reached out, his fingers brushing the surface of his sphere, which warmed under his touch.
The beams hit. The sphere didn't resist. It breathed, opening up, pulling the beams inside like a sponge soaking up water. For a second, the sphere glowed, bright as a star—so bright Li had to squint—and then it twisted, stretching into three long, writhing tendrils of Qi, dark and angry. Wang Chen flicked his wrist, hard.
The tendrils lashed out. The beams—now twisted, corrupted—snapped around the Soaring Sword disciples' swords. The blades trembled, violent, uncontrolled, like they were trying to jump out of their hands. The disciples gasped, their faces going white as paper. One dropped his sword; it clattered to the ground, still buzzing. They could feel it: the bond between them and their swords, the Qi that was part of their very souls, was unraveling. Their own technique was turning against them.
"Impossible," one whispered, his hands shaking like he'd been burned. His voice cracked.
By the time they recovered, fumbling for their swords, Wang Chen and his team were gone. Vanished into the canyon's darkness, leaving only the echo of their footsteps and a wisp of Qi that smelled like pine—Wang Chen's signature. The three Soaring Sword disciples stood frozen, their pride shattered, their faces as pale as death. One kicked a rock, hard, and swore.
Outside the formation, the crowd went quiet. Then the whispers started. Soft, at first, then louder, passing from mouth to mouth like a secret.
Wang Chen.