The crowd's roar faded into a dull hum in Wang Chen's ears. Each breath he drew on the arena sand was hot and sharp, tasting of ash and expended energy. His focus had narrowed to the sphere in his palm—it felt smaller now, lighter, its usual vibrant hum reduced to a faint, thready pulse. Sacrificing parts of itself to survive the [Sunflare Burst] had been a brutal, piecemeal trade.
He walked off the platform, the weight of his own body feeling heavier than Zhao Yan's fists. A firm clap on his shoulder made him flinch. It was Li, but the usual playful glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by a grim tightness. "That was cutting it fine. You alright?"
Wang Chen managed a terse nod, his throat too dry for words. He flexed the hand that had braced the shield; a dull, deep ache had settled into the bones, and a fine tremor refused to leave his fingers.
Kael's gaze was heavy, his assessment blunt. "He found your limit. Your weapon is wounded."
"It will heal," Wang Chen said, the words sounding less certain than he intended. "It just needs time." But the tournament's relentless clock was ticking, a luxury they no longer possessed.
Jian offered no comfort. Her silent, analytical stare swept from his trembling hand to the dimmed core, dissecting the failure with a precision that was more unnerving than any rebuke.
The victory felt fragile. They had advanced, but they were now exposed. Wang Chen' adaptive core, their greatest asset, had been proven vulnerable. A sufficiently powerful, mindless force could break it.
Back in the quiet of their quarters, the air was thick with unspoken tension. The silence stretched until Wang Chen broke it, his voice low. "I miscalculated." He stared at the sphere on the low table between them, its dim glow a reproach. "I was arrogant. I thought adaptation meant I could handle anything. I didn't plan for an attack that required me to… tear myself apart just to endure."
Kael shook his head, a slow, deliberate motion. "It was the only path to survival. You stand here. That is what counts."
"But look at the cost!" Li gestured sharply at the weakened core. "What happens when the next one hits even harder? Or if two of them come at you? You can't just keep shedding pieces of your spirit."
"He is correct," Jian's voice was cool, a statement of pure fact. "Your method contains a critical flaw. You have become a single point of failure for this team."
The words landed with the force of a physical blow, precisely because they were true. Their entire strategy was a tapestry woven around Wang Chen's ability to control the battle's flow. If that center gave way, everything would unravel.
"We need another way," Wang Chen admitted, the words tasting like ash. "We cannot rely solely on my adaptation."
"Then we change the formation," Kael rumbled, his presence a stabilizing force in the room. "We do not always use you as the anvil. The load must be shared."
A spark returned to Li's eyes. "Right. Let them focus on trying to break you. That just leaves the rest of us free to actually strike, instead of constantly playing guard."
Jian gave a single, sharp nod. It was the most profound agreement she had offered all day.
It was a humbling moment for Wang Chen. His pride in his unique path had been a shield, and it had just been cracked. He saw now that true resilience wasn't about his solitary endurance, but about the strength of the whole.
As they leaned in to sketch new formations in the air, a soft knock interrupted them. Elder Guo entered, his wise eyes missing nothing, lingering on the damaged sphere.
"I saw the match," he stated. "A victory earned with grit, not grace. And the lessons from such fights are the ones that stick." His gaze settled on Wang Chen. "The mountain did not gift you that core to make you a lone fortress. It gifted it to you to be the heart of something greater. And even the strongest heart needs a shield."
He placed a small, worn leather pouch on the table beside the sphere. "Spirit sand from the river market. It resonates with raw, unshaped energy. It may help your core remember itself, and perhaps… learn a little more of what it truly is."
Wang Chen picked up the pouch. It was warm, humming with a faint, chaotic energy that made the sphere on the table flicker in recognition.
"Thank you, Elder," he said, the gratitude genuine and deep.
"The next round is in three days," Elder Guo reminded them, his gaze sweeping across all four faces. "Your foes will be sharper, and they have seen the cracks. Rest. Recover. And remember—you are not four separate blades. You are one weapon. And even the finest steel will snap if it tries to bear every blow alone."
He left, his final words settling in the room like a vow. Wang Chen looked at his teammates—the clever wind, the unyielding mountain, the piercing blade. They were his strength as much as the core was.
He loosened the drawstring and let the shimmering, primal sand trickle over the dormant sphere, a whisper of healing and a promise of change.