Before the dust from the first beast had even settled, the gate on the far side of the arena slid open with a whisper. There was no roar, no growl of challenge. Only a subtle ripple of iridescent light, a distortion in the air like heat haze over a desert dune.
The Mirage-Weaver Lynx padded silently onto the scarred tiles. It was a creature of slender grace, its coat a shifting tapestry of greys and tawny golds that seemed to blur its edges. It did not snarl. It simply regarded Lin Feng with an unnerving, preternatural calm, its large golden eyes blinking once, slowly. It was the picture of serene lethality.
A wave of startled recognition swept through the spectators.
"A Mirage-Weaver?" a disciple gasped, his earlier bravado vanishing. "That's a Mid Tier Meridian Opening beast! Its claws can shred low-grade spiritual armor!"
From the terraces, the minor elder with the stern features let out a low whistle of appreciation. "Now that is a test. Its illusions aren't mere tricks; they're woven from its own qi, designed to fray the senses and disrupt spiritual perception."
The arrogant disciple from the Rustless Blade Clan fell silent, his smug expression replaced by a frown of genuine concern. Even he knew the reputation of these creatures.
Then, it moved.
It did not charge. It flowed. And as it moved, the air around it fractured. A perfect, shimmering duplicate of the lynx, slightly translucent and wavering like a reflection on water, split off from its flank. The illusion darted to the left in a feint, a beautiful, distracting lie, before fading into nothingness. The real Lynx, having never broken its stride, was already circling to the right, its true form momentarily clarified by the act of creation before beginning to blur again.
A collective murmur of unease rippled through the crowd. This was a danger far beyond a simple sonic attack.
The change in Lin Feng was instantaneous and profound.
The bored slouch vanished. His spine straightened, pulling his height to its full, imposing measure. The lazy indifference in his dark eyes sharpened into points of obsidian focus, tracking the real beast with unnerving precision. The air around him seemed to still and grow cold.
A slow, arrogant smirk touched his lips, the first true emotion he had shown. It was not a smile of joy, but of cold, intellectual relish.
'An illusionist,' he thought, his mind igniting, processes whirring to life with a speed that would shatter a lesser mind. 'This is different. This is not noise. This is a puzzle.'
The lazy disciple was gone. In his place stood a mastermind, and the arena was his chessboard. The game had finally become interesting.
The Lynx attacked. It was a symphony of misdirection. A shimmering mirage lunged at Lin Feng's face, fangs bared in a silent snarl. Lin Feng's body reacted to the immediate threat, his arm coming up in a flawless, instinctual block.
It was the wrong move.
In the instant his focus was committed to the fake, the real Lynx was already beside him, a phantom of lethal intent. A crystalline claw, sharp enough to part qi, sliced toward his hamstring with surgical precision.
Lin Feng's reflexes were not human. He felt the infinitesimal displacement of air, the subtle pressure change that betrayed the true attack. He twisted his body in a brutal contortion, avoiding a crippling blow. But not entirely. The claw grazed his calf. A line of fire burned across his leg, and a thin trail of blood welled up, stark against his pale skin.
'Fast,' his mind noted, the observation cold and sharp. 'The illusions are not intangible phantasms. They are decoys. Qi constructs designed to pull focus. The real attack always follows from a blind spot.'
He counter-attacked without hesitation. A blistering side kick, his body a whip of focused power, aimed to shatter the Lynx's ribs.
His technique was perfection. His power, devastating.
His foot passed through a shimmering afterimage that was already dissolving into motes of light. The real Lynx was two feet away, its golden eyes holding a glint of ancient cunning; it was already weaving another mirage from the ambient qi.
The pattern repeated. A lightning-fast jab phased through a fading copy. A sweeping kick, meant to break a leg, met only empty air. Each of his attacks, brutal and efficient, was wasted on beautiful, distracting lies.
Each time, the Lynx retaliated in the opening he created. A swift, precise strike aimed at tendons, at arteries, at joints. Lin Feng was forced into a relentless, defensive dance, dodging and deflecting at the very last second, the graze on his calf a testament to his marginal speed advantage.
He was not losing. But he was being outmaneuvered. He was a master being expertly played by a creature whose intelligence was as sharp as its claws.
High above, the spectators watched, breath held.
The arrogant Rustless Blade disciple found his voice again, a nervous tremor in it. "See? The beast is toying with him! He can't even touch it!"
Jian Nian's fists were clenched so tight his scarred palms ached. He saw the problem—a language of combat where every verb was a lie.
The minor elder with the stern features nodded slowly, a grim respect in her eyes. "The Mirage-Weaver does not defeat with overpowering force. It exhausts. It frustrates. It makes its opponent doubt their own senses until they make a fatal error."
The elder in plum robes watched, her fervent smile undimmed. She saw not a struggle, but a calibration. She saw the intense focus on Lin Feng's face, the gears turning behind his eyes. He was learning. Adapting.
The mastermind was deciphering the rules of the game. And everyone knew the most dangerous player was the one who learned the fastest.
Frustration, a foreign and unwelcome sensation, began to simmer beneath Lin Feng's icy calm. He could feel it—the vast, dark ocean of Void Qi within him reacting to the perpetual deception. It stirred, a restless leviathan, its innate hunger yearning to surge forth and devour. To simply erase the false images from existence, to unravel the Lynx's beautiful lies into nothingness.
He tried to force it. On his next punch, a blow aimed with piston-like precision, he willed the dark energy into his fist. He commanded it to lend its annihilating weight to the strike.
Nothing happened.
The energy remained a dormant, depthless pool within his dantian, utterly refusing his call. It was like trying to grasp smoke.
He tried again, pulling at it, demanding it flow into his eyes to pierce the veil of illusion. For a split second, a flicker of absolute cold darkness shaded his vision. The world seemed to hollow out, colors leaching into grey, and the Lynx's shimmering mirages glitched—their edges fracturing like broken glass before snapping back into place.
It was a glimpse of a power that could see the truth of things. But it was gone as fast as it came. Uncontrolled. Useless.
'I can't command it,' he realized, the thought a cold spike of clarity as he twisted his torso, a crystalline claw ripping through the air where his side had been a heartbeat before. 'It's a storm locked inside a glass box. I can see the lightning, but I cannot wield it.'
His teeth gritted. Fine.
'Then I'll do this as I always have.'
His strategy shifted. He stopped wasting energy on attacks meant to kill. He began to analyze, to pressure, to probe. He launched a feint of his own, drawing a lunge from a mirage, and in the micro-second the real Lynx committed to an attack from his flank, he hammered a short, powerful punch into its shoulder.
The blow landed with a solid thump. The Lynx recoiled with a silent hiss, its fluid grace faltering for a moment. But Lin Feng's eyes narrowed. The strike should have shattered bone. Instead, it had only seemed to bruise, the beast's natural qi and resilient flesh absorbing the purely physical impact.
It happened again minutes later. A perfectly timed elbow strike to its ribs. A solid connection. The Lynx staggered, its illusion flickering, but it did not break. It did not bleed.
The truth crystallized in his mind. This was the fundamental law of this world. Against a Meridian Opening realm beast, a creature whose very flesh was tempered by spiritual energy, mundane force was largely inefficient. True damage required either overwhelming physical power focused on a critical weakness, or the penetrating quality of cultivated qi.
He had one of those. The void qi churned uselessly within him, a weapon he could not draw.
He was fighting a battle of attrition with a opponent who could kill him with a single, well-placed strike, while his own attacks were little more than annoyances. The mastermind was solving the puzzle, but he lacked the key to unlock the final door. The frustration cooled, hardening into a colder, more determined resolve. He would find another way.
He stopped trying to hit it.
The aggressive pursuit ceased. Lin Feng's entire demeanor shifted into something fluid, untouchable. He became a ghost in the arena, his martial arts transforming into a beautiful, flowing dance of pure evasion. He weaved between illusory claws, his body bending around strikes with an almost preternatural grace. He wasn't fighting; he was observing. His eyes, sharp and calculating, tracked not the beast, but the patterns in the air. His ears listened for the faint whisper of displaced air that the mirages lacked. He felt the subtle currents of qi, the tiny disturbances that betrayed the truth.
'The afterimage lasts precisely one second,' his mind cataloged, cold and precise. 'It always appears at the exact point of its direction change. A predictable tell. The real beast is always opposite the initial momentum of the mirage. A compensation for the energy expended.'
A slow, cold smile touched his lips. 'I see your rhythm now.'
He saw the Lynx's muscles coil, the subtle shift in weight that preceded another feint. He knew a mirage would leap left. It was written in the creature's very posture.
Instead of looking left, his gaze snapped right, his body already coiling to meet the true threat.
The mirage appeared, a beautiful, shimmering lie, and faded on schedule. Simultaneously, the real Lynx solidified on his right, lunging for his throat with blinding speed, its maw open wide.
But Lin Feng was already moving. He didn't throw a wild punch. He launched a low, powerful front kick into the empty space where the Lynx's jaw was destined to be. It was not an attack of anger, but of perfect, clinical prediction.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickeningly precise. His boot connected perfectly with the beast's muzzle. The sharp, clear sound of crystalline teeth cracking echoed in the silent arena. The Lynx was thrown backward, its lunge reversed into a clumsy, dazed tumble. It landed in a heap, shaking its head, a low, pained whine escaping it. The elegant flow of its qi was shattered, its mirage trick broken along with its teeth.
A gasp rippled through the spectators. They had seen the shift, the moment he stopped reacting and started dictating.
"He... he predicted it!" a disciple whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief.
Lin Feng didn't give it a moment to recover. He closed the distance in a flash of motion that was there and then gone. As the dazed beast tried to rise, he delivered a single, devastating palm strike. It was not fueled by qi, but by perfect body mechanics, focused intent, and every ounce of his physical power, channeled into one precise point.
The blow snapped the Lynx's head back with a final, decisive crack.
Its body went limp, collapsing to the tiles. The fight was over.
The arena was utterly silent, save for the faint, fading hum of the containment arrays. Lin Feng stood over the second fallen beast, his breath even, his expression once again a mask of bored indifference, as if he had done nothing more remarkable than swat a fly.
He stood over the fallen beast, his chest rising and falling in a deep, measured rhythm. It was not the panting of exhaustion, but the controlled respiration of extreme focus. The thin line of blood from the Lynx's claw traced a crimson path down his calf, a stark contrast against his pale skin and the grey of his robes.
'Illusions are a crutch for the weak,' his mind concluded, the thought as clean and sharp as a honed blade. 'A distraction to mask inefficiency. True speed, true power… it needs no deception.'
His body thrummed with a slight, pleasant fatigue—the satisfying burn of muscles used to their utmost potential. With a clinical detachment, he began a series of cool-down stretches. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his hands, and tested the weight on his injured leg, bending the knee with careful precision. The muscle protested with a dull ache, but the tendon held firm. It was a superficial wound. An inconvenience, not a hindrance. The lesson of the fight was etched into his flesh and bone: his body was a refined, lethal weapon, honed to a degree that defied his apparent realm.
But the other lesson was colder, deeper. The vast, dark ocean of Void Qi within him had settled back into an impassive, depthless calm. A wild card. A storm locked in a glass box. A power he could glimpse, could feel straining against its confines, but could not yet command.
The silence above was shattered not by cheers, but by a rising tide of stunned commentary.
"The Lynx's fangs can pierce low-grade spirit armor... and he took a claw and just walked it off?" a disciple from the Vermilion Bird Clan muttered, her flirty demeanor replaced by stark assessment.
The arrogant disciple from the Rustless Blade Clan was utterly silent, his earlier scoffing now a distant memory. He could only stare at the blood on Lin Feng's leg, a mark that spoke not of weakness, but of a terrifying tolerance for pain.
On the walkway, Mo Yun was no longer sketching. He simply stared, his brush forgotten. "He didn't break its rhythm," he murmured, awe stripping the calculation from his voice. "He learned it. He composed a counter-melody in the space of a dozen breaths."
Jian Nian released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The hunger in his eyes had intensified into a blazing inferno. He hadn't seen a victory; he'd seen a language of combat so pure it bordered on the artistic.
The minor elders were a chorus of subdued shock.
"The Silent Blade didn't choose a swordsman," one said, his voice hushed. "She chose a diamond. The pressure of a real fight only reveals more facets."
The elder in plum robes finally unclasped her hands. A single, slow tear traced a path down her cheek, though her expression was one of rapturous triumph. "He doesn't fight to prove his strength," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "He fights to understand his limits. And he is deeply, profoundly disappointed to find them so soon."
As the dissipating light of the Ghost-Step Fox faded from the tiles, Lin Feng turned. His chest rose and fell only slightly, a testament to controlled exertion, not fatigue. His dark eyes, cold and unwavering, found the Arena Master's single good eye through the thick observation portal.
His voice cut through the lingering silence, calm yet layered with an authority that brooked no argument.
"Time for the third beast."
A pause, perfectly measured, letting the expectation build.
"I'll take a Foundation Establishment, Mid Tier."
The words landed not like a request, but a decree.
For a moment, there was only stunned silence. Then the arena complex erupted.
"You cannot be serious!" a senior disciple yelled, leaping to his feet. "That's a death wish! That's—"
"He's insane!" another cried out, his voice cracking with a mix of awe and horror. "Absolutely, utterly insane!"
The group of female disciples from the Cerulean Cloud Clan clutched at each other, their faces pale but their eyes shining with a feverish, terrified admiration. "He's going to get himself killed!" one wailed, but she couldn't look away.
The arrogant Rustless Blade disciple finally found his voice, but it was shrill, stripped of all its earlier bravado. "He's a madman! Someone stop him!"
The murmurs swelled into a roaring cacophony of disbelief and panic. It was chaos.
Then, a voice, sharp and clear and thrumming with spiritual pressure, cut through the din like a knife.
"SILENCE!"
The minor elder in the plum robes was on her feet. Her face was flushed, her eyes burning with a fervent, unshakeable light. She swept her gaze across the terraces, silencing the hundreds of disciples with the sheer force of her presence and her passion.
"You mewling children see only the realm, not the man!" she declared, her voice ringing with conviction. "You see a cliff and scream of the fall. He sees a cliff and measures its height for the view! That is the difference between your comprehension and his! Now watch, and learn what true ambition looks like!"
Her words hung in the air, a stunning rebuke that left the complex in a hushed, shocked quiet. She slowly sat back down, her chest heaving, her devotion laid bare for all to see.
Far away, on Medicine Soul Peak, Li Meixiu's hands stilled above a simmering cauldron. A delicate porcelain spoon slipped from her fingers, clattering against the rim. A faint, inexplicable tremor passed through her—a subtle shift in the world's rhythm known only to a mother's intuition. She paused, a mischievous smirk blooming on her lips as she adjusted Mr. Bunbun in the crook of her arm.
"Oho? What's this?" she murmured, leaning conspiratorially toward the plush rabbit. "My A-Li must be performing again. I can feel another heart sighing for him from across the sect." She sighed dramatically, though her eyes sparkled with pure delight. "Poor thing. She'll learn that his heart is already perfectly occupied."
She waved a dismissive hand, the gesture light and airy, and turned back to her work. "Well, at least he makes life interesting."
In the control niche, the Arena Master's face was a storm of conflict. His knuckles were white where he gripped the console. Every instinct, every year of experience, screamed at him to refuse, to call a halt to this madness.
But then he remembered the pale grey robes. He remembered the disciple's unshakeable calm through two brutal fights. He remembered the icy, terrifying reputation of the master who had sent him.
He slammed his fist on the console, a sound of final surrender.
"Elder Lan's orders were clear," he growled, the words grinding out through gritted teeth. "To grant you access to... enlightenment. Or a beating. I suppose this is how you've chosen to find it."
His hand hovered over a larger, more complex control rune, etched with warning sigils. He looked down at Lin Feng, his expression grim.
"Don't say I didn't warn you, pup. The Blood-Iron Gorilla hasn't been fed today. It'll be... enthusiastic."
He slammed his palm down on the rune.
A deep, grinding shudder passed through the entire arena complex, far heavier than before. From the deepest, most secure gate, the sound of massive, clinking chains echoed, along with the guttural shouts of cultivators and workers straining against something immense and contained. Something was coming up from the dark. Something big.
---