The arena had settled into an expectant silence. The echoes of the crowd's cheers from the previous bout still rang, yet now a hush swept across the seats. Jin lounged in the center of the ring, arms casually behind his head, one leg stretched lazily, the other bent like he was sunbathing.
The nobles whispered among themselves.
"Why doesn't he seem concerned?"
"He has no fear… but his stance—"
"—Impossible. No one moves like that unless they're hiding something."
Jin glanced around the arena, his grin wide. He even waved at a few spectators who looked startled.
From the far side, the translator—who doubled as ring announcer—stepped forward and began reciting details. "Your next opponent is Yán Huī, warrior rank, number four. Martial lineage of the Tiān Yún Diàn. Adept with multiple weapon forms. Victory, as always, by pushing the opponent out of the ring or laying them on their back."
Jin blinked. "Ranked? Number four?" he muttered, tilting his head. "I wonder if number one cried at his homework, too." He waved toward the audience like he was calling for applause.
The crowd murmured. The nobles and generals leaned forward in their seats. This "fool" might be about to face a true warrior, and everyone was eager to see what would happen.
A cart rolled into the ring, filled with weapons: spears, short swords, staves, and even a pair of chained tonfa. The translator motioned toward Jin.
Jin stared at the array. His brows knitted in mock concentration. He picked up a long staff—not too heavy, not too light—and spun it between his fingers like a baton. Then he twirled it over his head and struck a pose like a theatrical performer. "Is this one of those pointy sticks? Good. I shall make them dance."
Xiǎoyè mewed from the stands, tail flicking in amusement.
From the other side, Yán Huī entered the ring, stance precise, eyes locked on Jin. The aura radiating off him was tangible—disciplined, honed over countless drills, calculated. Every muscle was ready to spring, and the crowd felt the weight of his skill.
Jin smiled broadly. "And here we go!"
The gong sounded.
Yán lunged first, spear pointed with deadly intent. Jin, predictably, didn't dodge in a normal fashion. He sidestepped dramatically, spinning the staff in one hand while juggling the other like he was warming up a plate. Twirl—flick—swing.
The tip of the spear grazed his shoulder. Jin flinched exaggeratedly, arms flailing. "Ooh! Careful! This is my good side!" he exclaimed in pantomime. The audience laughed, thinking it a performance.
But in reality, each motion was calculated. Jin's staff deflected the next strike, guiding it harmlessly aside. His footwork, though comedic to the eye, allowed him to control the distance with perfect precision.
Yán's eyes narrowed. "This one isn't playing around," he thought. His strikes became more forceful, combining spins, thrusts, and sweeping attacks designed to push Jin off balance.
Jin reacted by rolling, leaping, and even "pretending" to trip—landing on one knee and spinning the staff in a circle. When Yán followed up with a low sweep, Jin leapt over, raised his hands dramatically, and shouted, "And now, the flying giraffe!" He landed lightly behind his opponent.
The audience howled. Nobles clutched their fans. Some thought it was an act of madness.
But beneath the laughter, Jin was serious. He measured every step, every parry, every sweep. He wasn't relying on brute strength alone; he was controlling momentum, manipulating Yán's balance subtly. One mistimed thrust from Yán was redirected by Jin's staff into a harmless deflection, but enough to shift the fighter off his center.
Jin's movements flowed between forms now—like waves breaking on a rocky shore. He twirled the staff, slashed, blocked, and even used the ring itself: hopping off the edge slightly, using the momentum to pivot into another strike, always keeping Yán guessing.
Then, with a wink at the crowd, Jin performed the Second Form of Tide Root Style with weapon integration.
Step one: Staff twirl, sweeping low, guiding Yán's forward momentum.
Step two: Sidestep and leap, spinning staff horizontally to trip the opponent's spear.
Step three: Push forward, staff tip under the chest, redirecting energy harmlessly into a gentle lift.
Step four: Vault backward, staff pivoting to sweep at the opponent's legs as he tried to recover.
Step five: Two quick feints, twisting the staff like water spiraling, letting Yán stumble past him.
Step six: Spin fully, whip the staff at the opponent's chest, just enough force to push him toward the ring edge.
Yán tried to recover. Jin jumped, spinning midair like a mischievous acrobat, landing lightly on his feet, twirling his staff and letting it slap the floor with a dramatic thwack.
The crowd exploded. Some cheered, some gasped. Even Lord Bi'an leaned forward, squinting, trying to follow Jin's absurd yet deadly choreography.
Jin twirled once more, grinning like a child. "I declare… victory… soon, maybe!" he sang mockingly.
Yán roared, renewed determination blazing in his eyes. He charged again, spear thrusting straight at Jin, fully intending to end the fight. Jin paused… just for a second, measuring distance. His lips twitched with a grin as he thought, Time to push him outside the ring.
He leapt, staff spinning, guiding the spear aside, and—using Yán's own momentum—shoved him firmly with a pivoting motion, following the tide-flowing technique. Yán teetered… stumbled… and with a dramatic slam, he tumbled out of the ring.
The crowd went wild. Jin landed, spinning on the staff like a performer taking a bow. He pointed at the sky, then at the Clan Leader, grinning, still in full comedic mode.
Xiǎoyè meowed from the stands, tail flicking in approval, clearly entertained beyond reason.
Jin bowed theatrically, twirled the staff once, then raised it high in mock victory.
The translator ran forward, translating his words: "You… were too slow, my dear spearman! Maybe next time, catch the wind before it smacks you!"
Even the nobles gasped—this man, who had no name, no clan, no rank, had just dispatched a warrior-ranked fighter, number four, without breaking a sweat, all while performing like a fool.
And as the arena erupted into a mixture of laughter, astonishment, and disbelief, Jin looked around, still grinning.
The Clan Leader's eyes narrowed. He had not seen such audacity… or such skill, masked under the guise of a fool.
And somewhere above, Xiǎoyè meowed, eyes sparkling with glee, knowing this was only the beginning.