The disciples gasped. Some staggered back, trembling, unable to meet the weight of his intent. A few fell to their knees, crushed not by qi but by the sheer will embedded in the art.
He did not stop.
The second form unfurled, a sweeping arc heavy with Death. Darkness laced the strike, carrying the sense of endings, of inevitability. Vines of qi that lingered from earlier disciples' performances withered to dust in its wake.
The third form followed—Soul blazing forth. It resonated in the marrow of every witness, as if the spear itself whispered: I see you. I cut you. I divide what you are from what you pretend to be.
Seven strokes in all he demonstrated—each one distinct, yet harmonized by the triad of Gold, Death, and Soul. Together they roared with a rhythm that was not borrowed from any scroll or sect, but carved from Tian Lei's own truth.
