Zhao Yan's roar tore through the air like a wild beast. He wasn't just throwing a punch—his entire body seemed set ablaze with searing hatred, hurtling toward Wang Chen. In that instant, the [Molten Iron Fist] was no longer just a technique; it was a comet of pure, destructive intent.
Wang Chen made no clever maneuvers this time. He felt the sphere in his palm tremble and instantly morph into a thick, disc-like shield, pressing against his arm. He drew a deep breath, gritting his teeth, bracing himself for the inevitable impact.
The collision hit like a raging beast slamming into stone—messy, violent, uncontrollable. The shield held, but the concussive force threw Wang Chen back three steps, his boots carving deep furrows in the sand. The heat washed over him, scorching his clothes and stealing his breath. His arm went numb, his heart pounding as if trying to escape his chest, yet he held his stance, swallowing the fire that seemed to seep into his bones.
Zhao Yan's grin twisted, a savage spark in his eyes. "Not so clever now, huh?! You can't redirect everything!" He clapped his hands, and a smaller, denser sunfire sphere bloomed between his palms. "[SUNFLARE BURST]!"
This was it. The ultimate strike. Wang Chen could feel the energy coil like a venomous snake, ready to snap and swallow the entire platform.
His mind fell silent. No calculations. No schemes. The sphere in his hand melted, not into a larger shield, but into a hundred tiny, shimmering fragments. They didn't arrange neatly—chaotic silver motes swirled in front of him, a living cloud of light.
The sunfire slammed into the swarm.
What followed was not orderly pops or precise dispersals. It was a deafening, sizzling storm. Tiny fragments glowed white-hot and then fell to the sand like dead insects. Others were hurled aside violently. It was brutal. Inelegant. Wasteful. But it worked. The cataclysmic blast shredded into countless smaller eruptions, each dissipating harmlessly into the air.
When the light finally dimmed, the sand at Wang Chen's feet was littered with dull, grey shards of his sphere. The core in his hand glimmered faintly, smaller, diminished.
Zhao Yan's grin vanished, replaced by hollow exhaustion and disbelief. He had given everything. "You… you just… burned through it?"
Wang Chen drew a shaky breath. His own energy wavered. "Sometimes," he said, his voice rough, "that's all you can do."
He didn't give Zhao Yan a moment to recover. Charging forward, the weakened sphere reshaped into a blunt, simple club in his hand. No finesse. No elegance. Just purpose. Zhao Yan, drained and demoralized, raised a feeble guard. Wang Chen's swing wasn't graceful—but it was relentless. The club slammed against Zhao Yan's arms, and the bigger man collapsed to the sand, utterly spent.
The victory was messy. Costly. Imperfect. As the crowd erupted, Wang Chen glanced at the scattered, broken fragments of his weapon on the sand. He had won—but the triumph felt cold, heavy, earned with sweat and strain.
He looked toward Zhang Wei and Liang Jin in the stands. Their faces were pale, anxious. His own feelings weren't of triumph. It was a sharp, icy understanding: this was only the beginning. The traps would only grow deadlier.