The following month was a descent into a strange kind of madness. Li Yao became a living ghost of orthodoxy. He attended every lecture, his questions to the instructors were pedantic, focused solely on the most literal interpretation of the sect's canon. He practiced the [Soaring Cloud Sword Art], the [Mist-Wreathed Step], the [Seven Thrusting Swords Art] for hours on end, but with a new purpose.
He was not trying to master them. He was trying to deconstruct them.
With his Soul-Sight and the System's analytical power, he broke down every technique to its fundamental components. He identified the precise angle of a sword thrust that wasted the least energy, the exact footwork of the Mist-Wreathed Step that created the most deceptive afterimage, the specific sequence of the Seven Thrusting Swords that created the most unbreakable momentum.
He wasn't creating anything new. He was simply removing the accumulated inefficiencies, the stylistic flourishes, the personal interpretations that had been layered onto the techniques over generations. He was reverse-engineering the perfect, platonic ideal of the Soaring Cloud Sect's combat arts.
The result was… boring. His movements became utterly predictable, devoid of flair or personal touch. But they were also flawless. When he sparred with other disciples, they found him incredibly frustrating to fight. He was like a mountain—immovable, relentless, and offering no openings. He didn't win with brilliance; he won by simply not making mistakes, by executing the sect's own techniques with a robotic perfection that exposed their opponents' imperfections.
He was building a shield of orthodoxy. A defense so pure and by-the-book that any "heresy" used against him would be blatantly obvious, and any victory he achieved would be unquestionably earned within the sect's own rules.
But it wasn't enough to defend. To survive the Ancestral Armament, he needed an offense. A way to strike back using only the tools he was given.
He spent days in the Grand Scripture Repository, not in the sections on advanced techniques, but in the foundational theory. He read scrolls on the philosophical principles of the Soaring Cloud Sect, the words of the founding patriarch. He wasn't looking for a hidden technique; he was looking for a loophole.
He found it in a dusty, neglected commentary on the patriarch's teachings. The text discussed the concept of "Cloud and Mist." The Cloud was the form, the visible technique, the orthodox path. The Mist was the intent, the adaptability, the spirit behind the form. The patriarch wrote: "To be bound by the Cloud is to be a prisoner. To have no Cloud is to be a ghost. True mastery is to wear the Cloud as a garment, while one's soul moves as the Mist."
It was a philosophical justification for the very heresy the Orthodoxy Faction now condemned. The patriarch himself had understood that rigid adherence was a cage.
This was his key. He wouldn't break the rules. He would fulfill them so perfectly that he would expose their inherent limitation.
The System, working with this philosophical framework, generated a combat strategy.
"Proposed Tactic: [Formless Cloud Defense]. Utilize flawless execution of orthodox defensive stances to create an impermeable 'Cloud' shield. Analyze the Ancestral Armament's energy patterns in real-time. Identify the 'Mist'—the foundational intent of the patriarch's will within the weapon. Then, utilize a perfectly-timed, perfectly-executed orthodox counter-thrust, not against Hong Li, but aimed at the point where the Armament's 'Mist' momentarily separates from its 'Cloud' during its power cycle. This will not damage the weapon, but will cause a spiritual feedback loop, overloading it and forcing it to deactivate temporarily."
It was a plan of breathtaking audacity and precision. He would use the sect's own perfect form to disrupt the manifestation of its founder's will. It was the most orthodox form of heresy imaginable.
The day of the Sect Tournament arrived. The Arena of Ascension was a colossal bowl of white stone, filled with the roaring energy of thousands of disciples and elders. The air crackled with anticipation. This was more than a competition; it was a theater, and Li Yao was the star of a play he hadn't written.
He stood in his designated waiting area, his expression calm, his spiritual aura suppressed to a simple, solid Mid Core Formation hum. He wore the standard Inner Sect robes, his spatial arm hidden within the Spirit-Iron gauntlet, which was now polished to a dull, non-reflective sheen.
Across the arena, Hong Li preened. He was resplendent in custom-made robes, the Ancestral Soaring Cloud Armament resting in a scabbard on his back. The sword itself was a masterpiece of white jade and blue steel, and it radiated a palpable pressure, a divine authority that made the air around it hum. Hong Li's aura, amplified by the weapon's proximity, was a blazing beacon of orthodox power.
Elder Hong presided over the match, his flinty eyes fixed on Li Yao. Elder Guo watched from the elders' pavilion, his expression unreadable. In the highest stands, a splash of white caught Li Yao's eye—Xuan, observing like a scientist at an experiment.
"The duel begins!" an elder announced.
Hong Li didn't wait. He drew the Ancestral Armament. The moment the blade cleared the scabbard, a wave of pure, overwhelming pressure slammed into the arena. Disciples in the front rows gasped and leaned back. The very light seemed to bend towards the sword.
"Behold the true path, heretic!" Hong Li screamed, and lunged.
The [Soaring Cloud Sword Art], amplified a hundredfold by the Armament, was a force of nature. A blade of compressed cloud and lightning, wide enough to engulf the entire arena, shot towards Li Yao. It was an attack meant to annihilate, to leave no room for tricks or evasion.
Li Yao did not dodge. He did not use a fancy technique.
He executed the most basic defensive stance of the [Soaring Cloud Sword Art]: [Unmoving Cloud Peak].
His spirit sword came up, his body settled into a root-like posture. It was a beginner's move, one every outer sect disciple learned. But he performed it with an absolute, geometric perfection. His energy formed a shield that was not a barrier, but a perfect, unyielding reflection of the orthodox principle of defense.
The colossal blade of cloud and lightning struck his simple stance.
The impact was deafening. The arena shook. But Li Yao's defense held. The energy shattered and dissipated around him, leaving him standing unmoved in the center of the storm. He hadn't blocked it with power; he had neutralized it with perfect form.
A confused murmur ran through the crowd. Hong Li's face contorted in rage and disbelief.
He attacked again and again. Blazing suns of fire, piercing shards of ice, crushing waves of earth—all the elemental variations of the sect's techniques, magnified by the Armament. Each time, Li Yao responded with a different, perfectly executed basic stance. [Cloud-Dispelling Step], [Mountain-Enduring Will], [Stream-Dividing Thrust]. He was a dictionary of orthodoxy, deflecting a library of empowered attacks.
He wasn't fighting Hong Li. He was fighting the idea of Hong Li's attack, and winning through sheer, boring perfection.
The crowd, initially excited, grew restless. This wasn't the dramatic smiting of a heretic they expected. This was a masterclass in foundational swordsmanship, and it was making the vaunted Ancestral Armament look clumsy.
Elder Hong's face was like stone. Elder Guo had a faint, thoughtful frown.
Hong Li was sweating now, his energy flagging. The Armament was powerful, but it was draining him. He was being outlasted by a disciple using nursery-level techniques.
"ENOUGH!" Hong Li roared, his pride in tatters. He raised the Ancestral Armament high, pouring every last drop of his energy into it. "I call upon the Founder's Will! [Heavenly Cloud Judgment]!"
The Armament blazed with a holy, terrifying light. The phantom of an ancient, majestic cultivator appeared behind Hong Li, its hand resting on the hilt of the sword. This was the ultimate technique, a direct channeling of the patriarch's power.
This was the moment.
As the heavenly energy gathered, Li Yao's Soul-Sight and the System worked in perfect sync. He saw it—the tiny, inevitable lag between the "Mist" of the patriarch's intent flowing into the weapon and the "Cloud" of the technique manifesting.
The phantom swung the sword down. A beam of pure, divine judgment, capable of erasing a mountain, descended upon Li Yao.
Li Yao didn't try to block it. That was impossible.
He performed a single, simple, orthodox movement. The [Cloud-Piercing Lunge], the most basic offensive move in the arsenal, taught on the first day of sword practice.
But his timing was perfect. His aim was perfect. He didn't lunge at Hong Li or the phantom. He lunged at the empty space between them, at the exact, microscopic point where the flow of intent from the phantom met the physical structure of the Armament.
His spirit sword, a cheap, standard-issue weapon, touched that point.
There was no explosion.
The blazing beam of heavenly judgment winked out of existence. The majestic phantom flickered and vanished. The Ancestral Armament in Hong Li's hand went dark, its divine light extinguished. The overwhelming pressure vanished, leaving behind a ringing silence.
Hong Li stared at the dead sword in his hand, his face a mask of utter incomprehension.
Li Yao stood with his sword extended, his posture a perfect example of the [Cloud-Piercing Lunge]. He had not broken a single rule. He had used a standard technique against a standard, if ultimate, attack. He had simply found the one place where the form was not perfectly aligned with the intent.
He lowered his sword. "Your technique is flawed," he said, his voice carrying in the dead silence. "You rely on a crutch, Hong Li. You have forgotten the foundation."
It was the most orthodox condemnation possible.
The arena erupted. Not in cheers, but in a confused, tumultuous uproar. No one understood what had just happened, but they had seen Hong Li with the Ancestral Armament fail to defeat a disciple using basic stances.
Elder Hong was on his feet, his face purple with rage, but he had no words. What could he say? Li Yao had won using his own faction's dogma against him.
Elder Guo was smiling, a small, genuine smile of deep appreciation. He saw the masterpiece for what it was.
Li Yao looked up at the stands and met Xuan's gaze. Her glacier-blue eyes held a flicker of what might have been approval. The mutation had not been culled. It had, instead, given a lesson to its would-be executioners.
He had survived. He had won. And he had done it without revealing a single one of his true secrets. He had become the perfect mirror, and the reflection had broken the thing it was reflecting. The path was still treacherous, but he had just proven that even the most gilded cage could be picked from the inside.