Lin Shu stepped out of the arena, his mask-like expression unchanged, his presence still radiating the quiet dominance of the battle he had just fought. He found Chi Aoyan sitting nearby, her eyes flicking toward him as he sat down beside her. She looked at him in silence, her thoughts clearly unsettled, still replaying what she had just witnessed.
Chi Aoyan's lips parted slightly as she studied him. That fight had been a storm contained in flesh—steel blades forged from sheer will, gauntlets that shattered bone, a single thunderbolt that had ended it all in fire and ruin. She wondered if she could ever summon such control, such unshakable composure while standing against so many enemies.
Her own turn soon came, and though she carried herself with pride, she felt the weight of the restriction placed upon her. Her beast—half her strength remained bound to the edge of the stage, its fierce energy dormant. Without it, she fought alone.
The battle was brief, decisive, but not without cost. She won, her opponent falling beneath her strikes, yet she returned with fresh wounds, blood staining her sleeve where blades had grazed her. Still, her head was held high as she rejoined Lin Shu, refusing to show weakness.
The two waited in silence, the atmosphere heavy with the scent of iron and sweat from the countless fights taking place. Then, a familiar voice broke through the noise.
"I take it you both have won your matches, right?"
Chi Yanqi's calm tone carried a note of amusement, though his sharp eyes betrayed that he had already guessed the outcome.
"We did," Lin Shu said, his voice low and steady. Then, with a faint pause, he added, "but I have something I want to talk to you about."
Chi Yanqi folded his arms, giving a simple nod, wordlessly inviting the question.
"Hey," Lin Shu began, his tone more thoughtful than before, "I know you told me not to use my full power… but what if I did? Wouldn't it actually draw even more attention to me? These matches are already restrictive, and sometimes they force me to fight at my limits. Against many opponents, wouldn't using my full strength not only guarantee victory, but also bring in more money for the arena?"
For the first time, a faint smile tugged at Chi Yanqi's lips. He leaned slightly closer, as though speaking to a student who had asked the right but dangerous question.
"That is true," he said slowly, "but your level of performance right now is already more than enough. You should keep that power hidden until you reach the Silver Rank. If you reveal everything now, you'll burn too brightly, too fast. Think of it this way: if you show every card you hold, then in the future, nothing you do will surprise your audience. Their anticipation will die, and with it, their excitement."
He raised a finger, as though drawing the line of thought into the air itself.
"But if you keep something hidden, if you always exceed their expectations instead of simply meeting them, they will wonder. They will watch. They will whisper to one another: 'What will he do next? What power still lies beneath his palms?' That kind of uncertainty is worth more than any coin—it is what keeps your audience loyal. It is what makes your wealth endless."
With that, he reached into his robe and pulled out a pouch, tossing it toward Lin Shu. The heavy weight of gold landed neatly in his hands.
"Here. Your share for this match. The arena takes thirty percent of the profit. Per our contract, I only take twenty. You take fifty."
Lin Shu loosened the cord of the pouch and glanced inside. Golden gleam spilled out, the neat stack of coins glittering like captured sunlight. Four hundred coins. Enough to fill the pockets of a merchant lord, yet to him, they were only another step forward.
He nodded once, closing the pouch with an air of finality, before tucking it away.
"Understood."
The sound of battles still rumbled in the distance, but for the three of them, the moment felt suspended—like the calm between storms.
Somewhere in Greenwood Hollow, behind the still walls of a quiet chamber, a young girl with long blue hair sat in lotus position, her slender frame trembling faintly as she cultivated. The air around her should have been calm, filled with Qi, yet her heart was never at ease. Even in silence, shadows lingered behind her closed eyelids—shadows that no light could ever burn away.
A soft knock came at the door. Han Yi's eyelashes quivered, her body tensing as though the sound itself carried threat. The door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside. It was her mother. The faint scent of herbs and warmth clung to her robes, a contrast to the chill that always coiled in Han Yi's chest. Slowly, she walked closer until she stood before her daughter.
The past weeks had been torment. Not the kind that faded with sleep, but the kind that lived inside her bones. Han Yi had suffered at the hands of Ren Hao, Lin Shu, and Yan Qing—faces etched into her nightmares like brands seared into flesh. When she closed her eyes, she saw it again: the moment their strength pinned her down, the moment she felt her throat split open. The copper tang of blood filled her nose, choking her breath. The cold of death had pressed against her skin. She had seen her own life fade, helpless, reduced to prey before predators who did not falter.
She had felt it. She had smelled it. She had died—or something close enough that the boundary had blurred.
If it had not been for her mother's hands, steady and desperate, pulling her back from that abyss, Han Yi would have been gone. A body to bury. A name to mourn. But survival did not mean freedom. The scars were deeper than wounds could show.
After that day, Han Yi had not spoken. Words seemed foreign, heavy, unworthy of the air she still breathed. She clung only to silence and to her mother's side. Without her, she would have been nothing but a shell. It took endless nights, endless soothing, and the quiet strength of her master working alongside her mother to even begin to mend the broken pieces of her spirit. Healing was not a path walked quickly—it was a crawl, slow and raw, with bloodied hands gripping at fragments of self.
Now, as her mother approached, Han Yi's breath hitched. The warmth of her presence wrapped around her fragile world, and when she leaned into her mother's embrace, she felt something she had long feared lost: safety. She wished this moment could last forever, that time would stop before the shadows crept back in.
Her mother stroked her hair gently and whispered, "Han Yi… I have something to tell you. Something good."
Han Yi tilted her head upward, eyes wide, waiting—yearning—for that warmth to not fade. Her lips parted just slightly, though no sound came, only expectation.
"You remember that your brother was supposed to be here weeks ago?," her mother continued softly, her voice steady, careful, as though afraid to break the fragile calm. "He was supposed to come for the tournament your master postponed. Well… he has finally received permission to leave his sect. After completing important missions, he was allowed to come here. He should arrive today."
The words sank in slowly, and then like the first sunlight breaking through endless storm clouds, Han Yi's face shifted. A faint tremor crossed her lips, her eyes trembling as moisture gathered at their corners. And then—rare, precious, almost forgotten—a smile appeared. Small, but radiant in its fragility.
It had been so long since her mother had seen that smile, a smile that belonged only to her family. For that single moment, her broken world felt whole again.
Han Yi's thoughts drifted to her brother. To the world, he was a prodigy—brilliant, unshakable, a genius whose cultivation talent seemed destined to pierce the heavens themselves. Even though their talent was said to be equal, Han Yi had never truly believed she stood on the same level as him. His path felt like it was carved by fate itself: decisive, unwavering, impossibly skilled. Yet to her, beyond all that dazzling brilliance, he was simply her brother—kindhearted, protective, a boy who stood for justice when the world grew cold. Just remembering his warmth made her chest tighten. She could not wait to see him again after so long, to have her family together in the wake of her nightmares made her feel safety.
Meanwhile, inside the main building of the Stone Path Hall, Lu Zhenhai sat in silence. His expression was calm, but the steady tapping of his fingers against the wooden desk betrayed that he was waiting for someone important. The quiet stretched on until—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Come in, Lei."
The door opened, and a young man of about fifteen stepped inside. His black hair was tied neatly behind his back, each strand sharp against the faint light filtering through the windows. His green eyes gleamed like polished emeralds, radiating vitality and unshakable confidence. His presence carried the weight of a storm compressed into flesh—sharp, refined, undeniable. Even at such a young age, his cultivation had already reached the peak of Rank 1. His aura surged with barely restrained strength, a pressure comparable to the inner disciples of great sects.
"Hello, Uncle Lu," the young man said, his tone steady but respectful.
Lu Zhenhai rose from his seat, his gaze lingering on him with both pride and quiet astonishment. The boy had grown. His bearing, his strength, his very presence—it was as though the Han bloodline itself was manifest before him.
"Lei," Lu Zhenhai said with a rare, genuine smile, "your father would be proud of your progress. Truly, you bring honor to the Han name. Few in your generation could even dream of such achievement."
Han Lei bowed lightly, the emerald fire of his eyes unwavering.
"Sit, lei. I want to hear everything. Every mission, every challenge, everything that happened during your time in the sect."
Han Lei moved forward and sat beside his father's sworn brother. The two began to speak, their voices steady but carrying the weight of countless untold stories. For a while, the hall was filled not with silence, but with the bonds of family and legacy—ties that had survived distance and hardship, now reunited beneath the roof of Greenwood Hollow.