Tian Lei finally moved.
He shifted one foot to the side and—tapped his finger against the falling wind slash.
Silence.
Then—
CRACK.
The technique shattered like glass under pressure, particles of wind essence scattering harmlessly into the air.
The crowd gasped.
Meng Shen landed a few meters away, eyes wide.
His lips moved silently. "How…"
Tian Lei finally spoke, voice calm. Controlled.
"Too many steps. Too much motion. Wind tries to dance… but sword doesn't follow wind."
Meng Shen's expression froze.
That line—it wasn't random.
It was a reversal of a core mantra from Heavenly Cloud Peak.
He clenched his jaw, rushing one last time. A flurry of strikes, all sharp, all brilliant—each backed by the full weight of his cultivation and momentum.
But Tian Lei—
Stepped past all of it.
It was as if the strikes didn't matter. As if they had been erased before they existed.
And then—
One light chop to Meng Shen's shoulder.
Just a palm.
BOOM.
