The gong rang again.
Round one resumed.
Chiáng Hǔ Zhāo rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck with a snarl. His breath steamed in the cold air as if he were a bull about to charge. His pride had already been shredded, and yet—he couldn't allow himself to be humiliated by a prisoner. His stance lowered, muscles taut, aura pressing outward like a heavy storm.
But Jin?
Jin was stretching. Right there in the middle of the ring, like a man about to nap instead of fight. He wiggled his arms limply, shook his legs, even hopped twice on one foot before balancing on the other, wagging his eyebrows at the crowd.
The spectators whispered in disbelief.
"Is… is he mocking the fight?"
"No… look at his stance. He's loose, but his balance… it doesn't break."
"That's not a fool. That's a demon in disguise."
Chiáng charged first. His fists blurred—iron-hard jabs snapping forward like arrows. But Jin wasn't speaking anymore. Instead, he dodged with over-the-top gestures: bending backwards until his hair brushed the ground, spinning sideways like a top, leaping over a sweep while wagging his finger like a disappointed teacher.
The crowd burst into laughter. He looked like a clown.
But no strike touched him. Not a single one.
Chiáng's fists began to pound faster, heavier. He spun into a roundhouse kick. Jin hopped back—landing on one foot, then exaggeratedly limping in a circle, pretending the kick had "broken" his leg. He used the other leg like a crutch, hobbling toward the audience with a pained expression. The crowd roared with amusement.
Then, suddenly, Jin dropped the act. His "limp" became a blur—he stomped forward and drove his shoulder into Chiáng's chest, sending the larger man sliding back two full paces.
The laughter died.
Jin didn't gloat. He didn't speak. He just brushed off his shoulder, glancing to the side with a casual smirk.
It was the first hint.
Beneath the fool's mask… lay a predator.
Chiáng roared, throwing a furious hook. Jin ducked low, slid under, and tapped his opponent on the ribs with two fingers, as if checking a melon for ripeness. Then he slapped his chest twice—mock applause—and shook his head.
The crowd howled with laughter.
But Chiáng's face twisted in rage. His strikes grew wild, unrestrained, shaking the ring with each impact. Jin flowed between them, weaving effortlessly, but his movements grew sharper now. Each dodge was closer, tighter, every lean and sidestep measured with surgical precision.
To the crowd, it looked comedic. To trained eyes, it was terrifying.
"Those are… minimal movements," one elder whispered.
"He's conserving energy," another muttered.
"No…" the Clan Leader's eyes narrowed. "…He's measuring us."
Jin tilted his head. Then he raised his hands and mimed a little drum beat on his own chest, stepping side-to-side in rhythm with Chiáng's strikes. The crowd clapped along, delighted by the performance.
Step. Tap. Dodge. Spin.
Each movement flowed like water—effortless, unbroken, playful yet precise.
Chiáng grew slower, panting heavily. Sweat rolled down his brow. He swung again, but Jin wasn't there—he was already behind him.
Jin tapped him on the shoulder like a friend calling his name. When Chiáng turned, he was met with a palm strike to the gut that knocked the air from his lungs.
Still Jin said nothing. He simply wagged a finger.
The crowd erupted. They had never seen a fight like this—half performance, half art, wholly infuriating for the victim.
Finally, Jin exhaled. His stance shifted. His legs spread wider, his arms lowered, his shoulders rolling like waves. The loose, mocking fool was gone. The ring floor beneath him almost seemed to ripple as he began to move.
"...Tide Root Style," one elder whispered, eyes widening.
Chiáng stumbled forward, enraged, throwing one last desperate punch. Jin didn't dodge. He let the fist come, his body flowing like water. His arm moved in a smooth arc, guiding the punch harmlessly past his face.
Then—he struck.
A sweeping palm, rising like a tide. His hand caught Chiáng under the ribs, lifting him upward.
Jin's other arm followed—a crashing wave—slamming into Chiáng's chest with crushing force. The impact echoed across the ring like the boom of a storm tide.
Chiáng's feet left the ground.
The warrior flew backward, lifted as though by an invisible wave, before crashing over the ring's boundary stones. He hit the ground outside with a heavy thud, unmoving.
Silence.
The crowd stared, mouths open, eyes wide.
Jin straightened, dusting his palms. Then—finally—he looked at the Clan Leader.
He raised one hand, pointing directly at him. His smile curved, wide and taunting.
The Clan Leader's jaw tightened.
The audience exploded into cheers, shock, disbelief.
They had never seen anything like it.
"Who IS he?"
"What kind of martial style was that?"
"He toyed with Chiáng… like a child plays with a dog!"
In the ring, Jin stood calm, unbothered. His shadow stretched long under the torchlight. His grin remained—playful, mocking, but beneath it, sharp as the edge of a blade.
The fool had declared victory.
And the crowd realized, with a chill, that he might be no fool at all.
The roar of the crowd still shook the arena, but high above the ring, in the pavilion of honored seats, the air was hushed.
The Clan Leader of the sat forward, his sharp eyes fixed on the figure standing below—Jin, grinning as though he had just won a tavern game rather than a formal martial match.
"That man…" the Clan Leader's voice was deep, resonant, though low enough that only the lords beside him could hear, "his movements. That was no crude street brawling. At first, yes—careless, mocking, but the moment he flowed into that last sequence…" He narrowed his gaze. "That was a martial art refined. Where could he have learned such a thing?"
Lord Bi'an stroked his beard, his usual calm face shadowed with thought. He turned slightly, eyes glancing toward Shen who sat quietly behind them before answering.
"According to Shen, this friend of his hails from a small, almost nameless village. Fireroot, I believe he called it."
"Fireroot?" The Clan Leader frowned, the name clearly foreign even to him. "There is no record of such a place producing Martial artists of note, much less martial arts practitioners of that caliber. His style bore traces of an ancient flow discipline, and yet…" The Clan Leader tapped the arm of his chair, his voice edged with suspicion. "It was not a perfect recitation. It was changing, adapting—even evolving as he fought."
Lord Bi'an nodded slowly. "Indeed. He turned another man's art into his own. That is not something even seasoned masters do lightly. That boy… either he is a fool touched by Heaven's whim… or a monster born for combat."
Shen swallowed hard at the words, his mind racing. He remembered it—Jin in the woods, surrounded by bandits. Back then, Jin had fought like a clumsy drunk, tripping over his own steps, laughing as he swung wildly, a mess of chaos and luck.
But today…
Shen's hand trembled slightly on his knee.
This Jin was different. His body had sharpened. His strikes had purpose. If that man… if he actually trained in earnest…
A shiver ran down Shen's spine.
What kind of demon would he become?
The Clan Leader leaned back slowly, his expression dark yet tinged with amusement. "Chiáng Hǔ Zhāo may have been no great prodigy, but among our younger fighters, his strength is respectable. And yet, against that man… he was nothing more than kindling against a wave."
Lord Bi'an's eyes did not leave the ring. "The question now is not whether this Jin can fight. The question is—who is he? A hidden master feigning foolishness? A wanderer of the demonic path disguised as a fool? Or perhaps…"
His eyes flickered, narrowing as Jin continued to bask in the cheers, still pointing toward the Clan Leader with that insolent grin.
"…perhaps something we have not seen in a very long time."
Silence fell between the lords.
But throughout the pavilion, whispers spread like wildfire.
"Who is he?"
"A hidden master?"
"No man like that comes from nowhere…"
And beneath it all, Shen clenched his fists tighter.
No… this is Jin. This is the same ridiculous man I know… but also someone else entirely. Just… what are you, Jin?