Afternoon heat settled over the Great Tower, filling the arena with a tense stillness. Spectators packed the circular stands, their murmurs echoing faintly against the stone. Guards tightened their formation. Even the air felt heavier—anticipating something no one could quite predict.
The first match of the second round began.
Pin Sujin vs. Zhao Ming.
Two completely different worlds standing on the same platform.
Pin Sujin stepped forward, the ground vibrating beneath his weight. His palms were relaxed, but his presence alone felt like an immovable cliff. Every breath he took reverberated through the arena.
Zhao Ming faced him with quiet composure. Hood still drawn. No killing intent. No tension. Just a stillness deep enough to unsettle even the most seasoned observers.
The judge lowered his hand.
"Begin!"
Pin Sujin moved first.
Not fast.
But final.
His palm descended like a falling boulder, dense with qi, carrying the weight of mountains. The kind of strike that didn't simply wound—it ended.
Zhao Ming stepped into it.
And turned.
Redirecting the force with the gentlest tilt of his wrist.
The palm smashed into the ground beside him, stone cracking and dust spraying upward.
Pin Sujin blinked.
Zhao Ming's eyes remained calm.
The Rock Palm advanced again, his second strike heavier than the first. Zhao Ming met it with the same softness—yield, guide, dismiss. The force slid past him like a stream around stone.
Pin Sujin grunted.
A hint of respect—or irritation.
He raised his leg for a kick that could break a wall.
Zhao Ming swept his arm in a small circle, turning the momentum just enough that Sujin's own weight pulled him off balance.
A murmur spread through the audience.
"He's redirecting everything…"
"Pin Sujin can't land a clean hit…"
"That movement—it isn't Zhao Sect technique."
Zhao Ming exhaled softly, steady, measured.
But even as he flowed around each attack, it became clear:
He was not unscathed.
Every strike he redirected still brushed him—residual force bleeding through. Even the slightest contact with Pin Sujin's power rattled his bones.
His ribs throbbed.
His forearm stung.
His breath tightened.
Pin Sujin's strength was simply too vast to negate entirely.
And the Rock Palm noticed.
His eyes sharpened.
"You can turn the force," he said, stepping forward, "but you cannot erase it."
Zhao Ming didn't deny it.
He only adjusted his stance, feet sliding quietly over the stone, fingers loose, shoulders relaxed.
Pin Sujin charged.
A kick.
A palm.
A sweeping strike.
A crushing blow.
Zhao Ming redirected each one—calm, methodical—but the shockwaves accumulated. His body bent but didn't break. Sweat dampened his brow. Every redirection grew tighter, every breath shorter.
A heavy strike crashed into his shoulder.
Another grazed his ribs.
And then a palm slammed into his side, sending him sliding across the arena floor.
He caught himself just before falling.
Pain rippled through his torso.
He inhaled.
Lei Sheng… what would you do here?
A memory surfaced—quiet, smoky, backlit by lantern light in the moving bar.
Lei Sheng's voice, calm and tired:
"Against someone far stronger, boy, redirection isn't enough.
A mountain doesn't fall from a hundred nudges.
You absorb.
You endure.
Then you give everything back in one stroke."
Zhao Ming straightened slowly.
Pin Sujin approached, each step like thunder rolling over plains.
"You can't win like this," Sujin said.
Zhao Ming didn't argue.
Instead—
He opened himself.
Not to attack.
But to receive.
Pin Sujin struck him again, a crushing blow against his raised forearms. Zhao Ming staggered but held firm. Another hit—his legs bent, his breath hitched, vision flickered.
He absorbed.
Another.
His shoulder burned.
His ribs cracked.
He absorbed.
Pin Sujin frowned.
"What are you—?"
Zhao Ming stepped forward.
For the first time in the fight—he attacked.
His palm shot out, guided by redirection, fueled by gathered force, empowered by every blow he had taken and stored.
The arena trembled.
The air howled.
Pin Sujin's eyes widened.
The counterstrike landed squarely against his chest.
A shockwave rippled across the entire platform.
Pin Sujin slid backward—
and backward—
and backward—
His heels scraped the edge of the arena.
He windmilled his arms—
And stopped.
Balanced at the brink.
One more inch—
And he would've fallen.
Silence swallowed the arena.
Zhao Ming stood at the center of it, chest heaving, trembling slightly, blood on his lips—but standing.
The mountain had moved.