The dust shifted around their feet as the last echo of their clash faded into the murmuring wind. Zhang Weiren steadied his stance, shoulders rising and falling with controlled breaths, the faint tremor in his muscles betraying the force he'd expended. His arms gleamed with that molten-gold sheen once more, qi pulsing like a heartbeat through his veins.
Across from him, Lao Xie lowered his sword just slightly, the blade angled loosely at his side, his expression unchanging — calm, almost serene, as though the last flurry of violence had been nothing more than a passing breeze brushing his sleeve.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Zhang Weiren stepped forward.
The sound of stone cracking beneath his foot rolled through the arena, followed by the heavy rush of qi that made the air tremble. He lunged with a renewed ferocity — fists cutting through the wind like iron meteors, the force behind them sharp enough to distort the air around each strike.
Lao Xie didn't retreat.
He shifted one foot, his movement unhurried yet impossibly precise as he stepped into Zhang's charge, sword rising in a smooth arc. Their energies collided for the first true time — steel against qi — a ringing hum vibrating through the stage as sparks scattered into the dust.
Zhang blocked the blade with a forearm hardened by Iron Body, the metal-like sheen flashing beneath the sunlight. He slid back half a step but didn't lose balance, answering with a sweeping strike aimed at Lao Xie's ribs.
Lao Xie turned with it — the movement fluid, graceful — letting the blow skim past him before he pushed forward again, sword brushing dangerously close to Zhang's shoulder.
"You finally decided to fight back," Zhang said between clenched teeth, breath rough yet laced with excitement. "I was starting to think you'd dance around me all day."
Lao Xie's lips curved faintly. "If I wanted to dance, you wouldn't be able to keep up."
A few disciples near the front actually gasped — half at the exchange, half at the casual arrogance of it.
Zhang barked out a laugh even as he twisted away from another sword slash. "Big words from someone who's barely scratched me."
Lao Xie shifted his grip on the sword, driving forward again with a series of clean, sharp strikes — each one perfectly angled, perfectly measured. They weren't overwhelmingly powerful, but they were relentless, a steady tide forcing Zhang to match his rhythm blow for blow.
"You're blocking well," Lao Xie said lightly, as though complimenting a junior. "Though you're a bit stiff here—"
His sword slid along the contour of Zhang's guard, tapping against a vulnerable point near the wrist with a flick so subtle it barely disturbed the air.
"—and here."
Zhang hissed sharply as a jolt of numbness shot up his arm.
"What kind of swordplay is that?!" he demanded, gritting his teeth as he shook off the sensation.
"An efficient one," Lao Xie replied softly. "It's alright if it's unfamiliar. You'll get used to it."
Zhang exhaled heavily — whether from frustration or thrill was hard to tell — and struck again, fists tearing through the air with renewed ferocity. Each punch carried force enough to crater the stage if it hit directly, and yet Lao Xie wove between them, his blade carving thin arcs of light through the dust-choked air.
Their steps echoed in perfect rhythm — Zhang's heavy and explosive, Lao Xie's light and impeccable. The clashing of their energies sent ripples across the arena floor, cracks spiderwebbing beneath their feet.
Up in the audience, the tension snapped and the reaction swelled all over again — louder, sharper, almost frantic.
"He's—he's attacking now!" a disciple practically shouted as he leaned so far over the railing his friend had to grab his sleeve. "Lao Xie's actually on the offensive!"
"And Zhang Weiren can keep up?" another blurted out, his eyes wide, his voice cracking from disbelief. "How?!"
A third disciple shook his head so quickly his hair whipped around him. "No—no, look closely!" he insisted, pointing down with trembling fingers. "Zhang's only matching him by brute force! Lao Xie's controlling the rhythm — all of it!"
Another gasp tore from the stands when a clean clash sent dust spiraling upward. Someone in the crowd slapped a hand to his forehead. "Did you see that feint?!" he yelled, voice breathless. "He redirected that punch and struck back in the same motion — one touch!"
The entire row shook as disciples jumped to their feet, their robes fluttering wildly in the wind stirred by their movements.
Above them, Ling Ruxin leaned forward unconsciously, her fingers brushing the silk strings of her guqin as though seeking grounding. Her eyes shimmered faintly, sharp and intent.
"His movements…" she murmured, her breath soft, almost reverent. "It's barely noticeable, but he's different today. They're not just fluid — they're adapting. Refining. He's reading Weiren's rhythm and weaving it into his own."
A flicker of realization crossed her gaze — something quiet and unreadable.
Beside her, Elder Yao remained still. Too still.
Her lashes lowered slightly, casting shadows across her eyes as she studied the boy on the stage. The faintest crease formed between her brows — a rare sign of tension.
"He's improved again," she whispered, her voice barely audible even to herself. "His body and realm… they're aligning at an abnormal pace."
Her expression tightened — though the rest of her posture stayed composed, almost serene. Yet beneath that calm, the slight tremble in her breath betrayed the weight of her thoughts.
On the elders' platform, whispers surged in waves.
"Lao Xie's swordsmanship… this isn't the level of a Body Tempering cultivator," one elder muttered, his eyes narrowing in disbelief.
"He's not overpowering Weiren," another said, leaning closer, voice low with awe. "He's suffocating him with precision."
A third elder pressed a palm to his chest, stunned. "How is he controlling the flow of the fight so easily?! Every movement of Weiren's… he reads before it forms."
One of the elders further left slammed his hand lightly against the armrest, unable to contain himself. "What kind of monster is that boy? Wasn't he talentless before? How can he progress like this in mere days?!"
"Talentless?" a snort followed from another elder. "Open your eyes. That boy has already stepped beyond the boundary of what we call 'talent.'"
Another elder whispered under his breath — voice soft, almost disturbed, "If this continues… this tournament may not be enough to measure him."
And as their murmurs filled the height of the arena, all eyes inevitably returned to the stage — to the calm figure whose expression never changed, whose movements flowed like an unbroken stream, and whose presence seemed to tighten around the battlefield like an unseen hand shaping its fate.
But on the stage, only the clash of will and steel mattered.
Zhang Weiren landed a heavy blow against Lao Xie's blade, sending a shockwave that rattled the air. Lao Xie skidded back a step from the sheer force — the first sign of pressure — and dust spiraled upward around his feet.