With his declaration complete, Lan Yuheng sank into stance. His spear rose in both hands, steady as a rooted oak, its polished shaft thrumming faintly with the qi woven into it.
A breath.
Then—movement.
The spear swept forward, and at once the training grounds answered. The air thickened, saturated with emerald brilliance. Roots of qi tore through the stone tiles underfoot, twisting upward into thorned vines that lashed in tandem with each strike. The crowd of disciples flinched instinctively, as though the hall itself had been dragged into a living forest.
His first form struck—a downward cleave so forceful it seemed to split the very earth. From the arc of his spear, a colossal phantom tree manifested, branches whipping outward in a storm of thorns. The technique roared with vitality, crushing yet inexorable.
