Vurek's boots struck the ground softly as he stepped forward, but the sound carried, echoing unnaturally through the courtyard. Every villager's breath seemed to stop with that step.
He did not draw a weapon.
He did not raise his voice.
Instead, he spoke, his tone low and cold, a voice honed by years of command:
"You are not Tarsa."
The words weren't asked as a question. They were stated like fact, as though Vurek were stripping away layers of illusion with his gaze alone.
Shen Hao tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
"Sharp eyes. Took you long enough."
Vurek's stare narrowed. He stepped closer, each movement deliberate.
"And you are not from the Valley."
Shen Hao shrugged. "Closer."
Murmurs spread among the villagers. They weren't used to anyone speaking to Vurek like this. Every word felt like watching a man balance on the edge of a blade.
Vurek stopped only a few paces away, his aura restrained but pressing against the skin of everyone watching, like frost creeping over glass.
"You embarrassed my men," he said at last, his voice carrying weight.
Shen Hao gave a small, careless laugh.
"I do that a lot."
For the first time, a flicker of something crossed Vurek's face, not anger, not humor, but a narrowing of focus, like a predator finally recognizing worthy prey.
"…Then I will not underestimate you."
Shen Hao's smirk faded, his expression sharpening. He rolled his shoulders once, stretching his neck with a soft crack.
"Good. Because this is where the fun ends."
The words fell heavy, final, sinking into the air like a stone cast into deep water.
The villagers trembled, their hands clasped together, lips moving in silent prayers. Some whispered under their breath. Others gripped the hands of their children tightly.
They had seen many fights, many executions, many nights where blood stained the dirt. But tonight was different.
This was no rebellion.
This was no desperate stand.
This was a reckoning.
The stillness before their clash was heavier than any roar of battle.
Neither man moved at first.
Shen Hao stood loose, arms hanging at his sides. Vurek stood upright, his hands lowering from behind his back, each finger relaxed yet ready.
The villagers felt it before they saw it.
A pressure, invisible but real, settled over the courtyard. It pressed on their shoulders, slowed their breathing, made their knees feel weak. Children whimpered softly before being hushed.
Then, with no warning, Shen Hao exhaled.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't forced. Just a breath.
But with it came a wave.
BOOOOM.
The ground trembled as his aura unfurled, rolling outward in a dome that seemed to bend the very night air. Dust lifted, pebbles rattled against stone, and torches bent backward as if bowing away from him.
Beginning Realm, Peak, the edge of power most men only dreamed of touching.
Yet it wasn't wild. It wasn't out of control. His aura settled heavy and deliberate, like a mountain lowering itself onto a thread, unshakable, precise, unyielding.
Across from him, Vurek's jaw clenched.
For the first time tonight, his composure shifted. Just slightly. But enough for those watching to notice.
He inhaled deeply, his chest rising, and then his own aura broke free.
WHOOOOM.
The air snapped colder, moisture crystallizing into faint frost across the nearest rooftops. His presence was sharp, cutting, honed, like a thousand blades pressing forward at once.
Beginning Realm, High Peak. His strength was undeniable.
Two storms now filled the same sky.
The villagers staggered back instinctively, caught between crushing weight and slicing wind. Some dropped to their knees, clutching at their chests, while others whispered hurried prayers beneath their breaths.
The square became a battlefield before a single strike was thrown.
And in that suffocating silence, Shen Hao lifted his eyes toward Vurek.
The smirk was gone.
The jokes had faded.
What remained was a stillness sharper than steel.
Shen Hao (voice low, steady):
"Now… we begin."
The two auras pressed against each other, grinding like mountains colliding.
Neither man spoke.
Neither blinked.
The air itself seemed uncertain, caught between freezing in Vurek's pressure and collapsing under Shen Hao's weight.
A drop of water fell from a rooftop beam.
It struck the ground, tick.
And then, Vurek moved.
He didn't run. He didn't roar.
He stepped.
One clean stride, but the ground cracked beneath his boot as though stone itself recoiled. His sword flashed free in the same motion, steel gleaming blue in the fractured torchlight.
SHHHHKT!
The blade cut downward, swift and precise, aimed not at flesh but at finality.
Shen Hao tilted his head slightly, just enough.
The blade missed cloth by the width of a breath.
But the force, CRAAAACK!
The ground split in a jagged line, dust spitting upward.
Before it settled, Shen Hao's arm rose.
No weapon. Just a palm, lit faintly with coiled Qi.
He pushed forward, BOOM.
The blast met Vurek's ribs.
Not enough to finish him, but enough to send him skidding backward five long paces, boots carving scars into the dirt.
The crowd flinched at the sound.
Vurek didn't fall.
He straightened, wiped a thin line of blood from his lip, and adjusted his grip on the sword.
His eyes, colder than before, fixed on Shen Hao.
The fight had truly begun.
Vurek's shoulders rose once with his breath, steadying himself. His sword lowered slightly, then angled forward, the stance of someone who had no intention of holding back again.
The torchlight behind him wavered, catching on the edge of the blade.
Shen Hao rolled his neck, loosening the stiffness, his expression calm as ever. His hands were still bare, still relaxed, as though he were sparring with children instead of standing opposite a man who carried death in every step.
Then, without warning, Vurek surged forward.
The air cracked with the speed of his movement, one moment he was standing, the next he was upon Shen Hao, sword already arcing in a horizontal sweep.
Shen Hao leaned back, spine bending almost unnaturally, and the steel passed inches above him. He let the motion carry him backward into a crouch, then pushed off the ground with one palm.
WHUMP!
He spun sideways, coming up behind Vurek with a kick that glowed faintly with Qi.
It connected.
THUD.
Vurek staggered, his boots dragging two long lines in the ground before he caught himself. The crowd gasped, some instinctively stepping back from the invisible weight of their battle.
But Vurek didn't falter for long.
He twisted, blade flashing in a backhand strike aimed low at Shen Hao's side.
This time, Shen Hao caught the weapon.
Not the hilt, the blade.
His fingers closed around the flat of the steel, Qi wrapping his hand like armor. Sparks spat where his grip met the sharpened edge.
For the first time, Vurek's eyes widened.
Shen Hao smiled faintly, tilting his head.
"You're strong. But you grip too hard."
Then, with one motion, he shoved.
Vurek flew backward, sword ripped from his grasp, skidding across the dirt and clattering against a stone wall.
The villagers held their breath.
The elders, those still standing, stared in disbelief.
Vurek rose slowly, a faint tremor in his hand where the sword had been. His chest rose and fell harder now, but his gaze had sharpened even more.
And Shen Hao?
He just stood there. Hands loose. Breathing steady. Waiting.
The sword lay half-buried in the dirt, a dull reflection of the torchlight trembling across its edge. No one dared move toward it. Even Vurek left it where it had fallen.
Instead, he straightened. His lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes never leaving Shen Hao.
For the first time, he flexed his fingers, bare hands now, skin rough and scarred, faint traces of frost gathering along his knuckles.
He spread his stance. Steadier. Lower. A fighter stripped down to the truth of what he was.
Shen Hao tilted his head slightly, as if curious. His shoulders lifted in the barest shrug.
Then Vurek came again.
No steel this time. Just fists.
The first strike was a straight punch, fast and direct. Shen Hao shifted his weight, letting it cut past his cheek. The air snapped against his skin, close enough to sting.
The second followed instantly, an elbow angled high, sharp as a spear tip. Shen Hao raised his forearm and blocked, the impact ringing through the plaza like two stones colliding.
BOOM!
Dust lifted. Pebbles rolled.
And still they moved.
Vurek struck low. Shen Hao swept it aside.
Vurek spun into a kick. Shen Hao stepped under it, brushing past like smoke.
Each clash left small shockwaves rippling through the night.
The villagers stood frozen, unable to tell where one strike ended and the next began. The sound of fists meeting air, forearms colliding, feet slamming against dirt, it rolled across the street like thunder.
Neither man spoke now.
No jokes. No taunts.
Just the rhythm of combat.
One step, one counter.
One strike, one answer.
A test.
And it was far from over.