"So that's it? I've grown fast—can't that just be because of my talent and comprehension?" Wei Wen shot back, voice calm but pointed.
Atkin chuckled, low and amused. "You've only been a martial artist for a few months, and you're already a Planetary Level spiritual force user. No one on Earth's ever shown talent like that."
"If you're going to say it's just natural talent, you really expect me to believe it?"
"I'm more inclined to think you've got some kind of artifact or rare item that's accelerating your growth."
Wei Wen raised an eyebrow. "What if I said I didn't?"
The truth was, he didn't have any treasure. His rapid rise had everything to do with Luo Feng's feedback, not some mystical item.
"You just broke through to the Planetary Level and yet you're standing there like you don't fear me. You expect me to believe you've got nothing backing you up?" Atkin's gaze sharpened, a faint killing intent threading through it.
"If I don't fight you now, I won't see where we really stand—and I won't force you to show your hand or reveal the source of your power."
Wei Wen frowned slightly. "You're actually going to attack me? Aren't you afraid of being caught on satellite surveillance? You know as well as I do—Hong and Thunder God made it clear. Martial artists aren't allowed to fight without justification."
Casual fights between Planetary Level fighters were strictly forbidden. The consequences were deadly. Hong had once personally executed a Planetary Level warrior who killed a lower-tier opponent.
Even if someone could rival Hong in strength or speed, they wouldn't dare cross him. The man had grasped the Conceptual Realm—a level of mastery few could touch. For Wei Wen, provoking someone like that would be suicidal.
"Heh." Atkin's grin turned strange. "The Australian continent's empty. No people, no satellites watching this area."
"I made sure. No surveillance is catching what I'm about to do."
Atkin stared at Wei Wen like a predator sizing up his prey, cold and confident, certain he had him pegged.
"So that's how it is…" Wei Wen exhaled slowly. "Then show me what you've got, Fifth Speaker."
Of Earth's five Speakers, only Iste wasn't a martial artist. The rest—including the one standing before him—were combatants.
Based on the intel recorded in Ruin No. 9, there were only two Tier 3 Planetary Level martial artists currently on Earth. They had to be the Third Speaker, the Ice Emperor Mohan Deson—and the Fifth Speaker, Atkin.
"It's been a very long time since anyone dared talk to me like that," Atkin said, amused. "An 18-year-old brat acting this cocky in front of me?"
"Today, I'll teach you a lesson on behalf of your master. And I'll show you exactly what a Tier 3 martial artist can do."
Atkin hadn't climbed to his position through flattery or luck. He wasn't Iste, the Tier 2 spiritual master—but he sure as hell didn't fear some kid who just stepped into the Planetary Level.
He launched a punch—fast and brutal. His gauntlet gleamed, metal bristling with vicious spikes as it carved through the air.
Wei Wen's mind surged. Several SS-grade flying knives shot forward instantly.
As a spiritual force user, Wei Wen's telekinetic control easily outpaced the speed of Atkin's punch.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Each knife screamed through the air with sonic cracks, the force distorting the space around them.
The blades cut across the 50-meter gap in a heartbeat, wrapped in a vortex of turbulent air, homing in on Atkin like a pack of silver wolves.
"That many?" Atkin's face shifted as he stepped back, then stopped holding back. He reached behind him and unsheathed the long sword strapped to his back.
"Your psychic amplitude… it's even stronger than Iste's," he muttered.
"I thought I could put you down with brute force, but clearly you've got real skill. Looks like I'll need to take this seriously."
Martial artists might not run faster than spiritual force users, but their weapon speeds were another matter entirely—especially with a sword. Air resistance was much lower.
Any elite student in their fourth or fifth year at the Martial Academy could achieve the Perfect Realm in sword technique and movement skills—and some even reached the Conceptual Realm.
As one of Earth's most powerful Planetary Level martial artists, Atkin had both movement and sword techniques at the Conceptual level.
Clang! Clang!
As the flying knives closed in, Atkin twisted and wove through them, dodging several, while his sword flicked out to deflect the rest.
But even Conceptual mastery couldn't dodge all of them at that speed.
One blade merely grazed his sword—but its path curved just enough to strike Atkin's abdomen.
His SS-grade armor, paired with the Black God Set, absorbed most of the impact.
The knife's force was reduced by 90% by the Black God armor; the rest spread harmlessly across his internal systems.
"That's just a Tier 1 psychic attack," Atkin sneered, though the blow still shoved him backward several meters before he steadied.
"I can go toe-to-toe with Iste. You don't have a chance."
"Give it up. Hand over whatever's letting you grow this fast. I might let you live."
Wei Wen just grinned. "You're too slow. I doubt you can even land a hit."
True enough. SS-grade throwing knives alone couldn't break through his opponent's dual armor setup—not against a Tier 3 Planetary physique.
But they didn't need to kill him. Not yet.
"Hmph." Atkin snorted in irritation.
The flying blades swirled around him like a swarm of hornets—annoying, dangerous, and persistent. They couldn't be ignored. One mistake, one blade to the eyes—unprotected by armor—and it would be over.
Atkin's eyes flicked to Wei Wen standing behind the knives, expression composed, calculating.
He made his decision.
Enduring the knife barrage, Atkin suddenly charged, his body flashing forward in sharp bursts of speed.
In theory, Wei Wen should've retreated.
But Atkin found himself locking eyes with an unexpected expression on the young psychic's face—almost like he was waiting for this.
Atkin scoffed. No way this kid could match him in close quarters. Maybe he was a Planetary Level psychic—but even if his physical body reached that level, he wouldn't win a melee exchange.
There was no way those flying knives could penetrate both layers of armor.
Even though he felt something was… off… he didn't stop. He didn't think he needed to.
Wei Wen charged forward too.
The moment their distance closed, the silver glow of flying blades surged again, blurring into a whirlwind around Atkin.
But Atkin moved like a serpent in the dark—evasive, sharp, deadly.
His movement flowed. His blade danced.
He dodged and deflected the entire barrage with minimal effort while pressing forward with each step.
Pfft!
Then he struck—suddenly, precisely.
Atkin's sword lashed along the edge of Wei Wen's hexagonal SS-grade shield, curving unnaturally around it.
The flexible blade coiled along Wei Wen's left arm—and struck.
Crack.
Wei Wen staggered backward, a line of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His right arm was limp and broken at an unnatural angle.
"Hmph. And here I thought you had some trump card," Atkin exhaled, relaxing for a moment. "Turns out you're just bluff."
Wei Wen's lips curled upward.
"You're the one who's finished."
Whoosh!
A crimson blur struck like lightning.
Too close. Too fast.
The Crimson Soul Copper Mother—Wei Wen's hidden trump card—lashed out at near point-blank range.
Atkin's eyes widened.
At that speed, at that range, nothing could block it.
He had nowhere to run—and nowhere to hide.