Inside the stone corridor, Jian was a study in contained fury. Her opponent, the cold-eyed woman, pressed her relentlessly. Their blades—one gleaming steel, one an invisible shiver in the air—met in a continuous, desperate song of scraping metal. Jian was faster, her strikes more lethal by a hair's breadth. But her opponent was fresher, her energy reserves deeper, and she fought with the smug assurance that this was a battle of attrition she would win.
"You fight well, for a stray," the woman taunted, her blade deflecting a thrust that would have pierced a lesser fighter's heart. "But you are alone. Your friends are finished."
Jian's only response was to narrow her eyes, her focus intensifying. But a sliver of doubt, cold and treacherous, had been planted. Was she the last one standing?
Then, she felt it. Not a sound, but a shift in the air pressure. A familiar, solid presence, followed by a playful, chaotic current.
Her opponent sensed it a moment too late.
From one end of the narrow corridor, Kael appeared. He didn't enter. He simply arrived, his broad shoulders nearly filling the opening. He was a wall, bleeding and magnificent, his presence an unspoken promise: No one gets past me.
From the other end, a whirlwind of shimmering air announced Li. He leaned casually against a monolith, a fresh, bloody cut on his cheek, but his trademark grin was back in place, wider and more dangerous than ever. "Hey, Jian," he called out, his voice cutting through the clash of swords. "Need a hand? Or should we just watch you work?"
The psychological impact was devastating. The Heavenly Sword disciple's flawless rhythm faltered for a microsecond. Her eyes darted between the two new threats, her clinical composure cracking. She was no longer a hunter; she was the cornered prey.
That microsecond was all Jian needed.
Her invisible blade, which had been meeting the woman's steel with defensive parries, changed its intent. It didn't block the next thrust; it flowed around it, a ghostly serpent evading a strike. As the woman's sword extended harmlessly past Jian's shoulder, Jian's own weapon materialized for a fraction of a second—a sliver of absolute sharpness pressed against the woman's exposed throat.
The disciple froze, her breath catching. The cold touch of imminent death was more effective than any chain.
"Yield," Jian said, her voice low and final.
The woman's sword clattered to the stone floor. The fight was gone from her eyes.
The stalemate was broken. In less than a minute, the tactical genius of Wang Chen's team had turned certain defeat into overwhelming advantage. Three of the four Heavenly Sword disciples were neutralized.
But the true lynchpin of the battle still held. Wang Chen, his face pale, a thin line of blood drying beneath his nose, maintained his conceptual hold on Yun. The Heavenly Sword leader's sword was still trapped, his spirit still wrestling with the existential void Wang Chen's core had shown him.
Wang Chen's eyes met those of his teammates. Kael, solid and reassuring. Li, grinning with manic relief. Jian, her gaze sharp with a newfound, fierce pride.
They were whole again. And now, it was time to end this.
(To be continued...)