Through the training room came the unmistakable scratching sound of metal hitting metal, like calls resonating in autumn air. The long hall was arranged in rows from north to south with pairs of disciples practicing. Wooden swords sparkled. Spears twirled. As they thrust, the atmospheric qi emerged with a faint sound like a whisper. The whole hall stank of sweat and oil and faint iron, three flavors it is better to hide from—
Lin Xuan stepped. His right hand resting on the hilt, Lin Xuan crossed from marble hall into dark cold stone room; Wu Ming clutched at his coat tails, swallowing as he moved. Every person reacted with him without needing to be told but a voice followed from a position of invisibility on floor higher than where they were standing in great numbers because everyone knew it was him.
"It's him; poison can't touch him."
"Or perhaps he poisoned junior brother Zhao Kun?"
"Didn't the elders say nothing would ever leave their lips?"
Outward or inward, the outcome was the same.
"Anyway, I can't enjoy a good fight with him."
Gossip went on without end, as if it were an invisible sword attacking from all directions at once.
Instructors barked out orders, welling groups of students into circles. Disciples huddled in clusters according to their respective sects. Meng Zhao's cronies took over one corner of the room; with smirks, they watched as Xuan walked over. The white-haired instructor from the banquet scene walked up. The scar in his forehead furrowed as he spit out a word:
"Lin Xuan!"
One ripple ran across the room. Wu Ming gave a loud, "Why don't you pair wolf against sheep?" The man's stare shut him up. Wu Ming looked down on the ground. Sir Lin Xuan looked into Zhao Kun's red eyes. The boy's face almost looked as if it had been lifted out of the pond, so that it presented a look hard to tell if was real at all or just a mask made out of his own skin and bitterness.
"What do you say?" Xuan asked.
Zhao Kun raised his head; slowly opening his mouth, he put in the beads of poison gleaming like jewels under the light.
"Have not all right…"
On the fighting stage, the two faced off with wooden blades in hand. As Zhao Kun began the opening form of Serpent Flow Sword with a wave of his sword, that very motion was not new to Lin Xuan.
[System Notice: Technique Familiarity 100%. Predictive patterning active.]
The instructor shouted: "Start!"
Zhao Kun lunged instantly, a glint of light flying toward Lin Xuan's ribs with his blade.
Lin Xuan didn't flinch, his own blade coming into contact with Zhao Kun's easily. His form was a mirror image -- not a clumsy imitation, but as if he had been practicing this for many years. Suppressing a sigh of admiration, several of the disciples present actually did applaud.
Zhao Kun's face twisted. Suddenly, silver arcs of light flashed and there sounded on Lin Xuan like waves hitting rock. His wooden blade met every one of them.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Three sounds in one echoed out, clear and identical.
"Impossible," someone said dryly.
Zhao Kun's sweat flew away. His sword blurred faster—yet every move was also mirrored, his patterns unspooling like a scroll Lin Xuan had already read. Then Lin Xuan's blade pushed. On the verge of being too far forward, Zhao Kun teetered off his balance. There was an inch of space still left between Lin Xuan's blade and Zhao Kun's throat.
"Enough!" Zhao Kun spat bitterly, making a fierce expression. He dropped his sword, seizing one hand with the other. But before the instructor could separate them, three disciples burst forth from the sidelines—Zhao Kun's cronies, "accidentally" stumbling into the ring with weapons drawn.
"Wait," the instructor called out, but was utterly drowned by rings of weaponry against each other.
All three people made a rush at Lin Xuan together.
[System Notice: Techniques Detected – Twin Fang Daggers, Crane Step Sword, Stone Palm.]
[Replication Possible. Efficiency: 71–89%.]
Lin Xuan's calm heart stayed calm. He turned his sword against the knives, swirling his spear out from behind without missing a beat. In no time at all, he had met three styles—daggers paddling towards him, diagrams graving into his back.
What he saw, he drew upon. He noted any vulnerabilities in each.
Loud cries rang out.
"No! He is using their forms—!"
"No! Copies as they fight!"
When Lin Xuan began to strip his allies' power bit by bit, both body and soul, Zhao Kun stumbled backwards with widened eyes. A Flying Knife burst from its master's hand and rattled across the Dusty Channel floor. An additional disciple let out a soft breath as his Crane Step transformed into Lin Xuan's, his own center of gravity looted and thrown back into his face. Stone Palm met Elbow Spearwood and so lost, a pain ran right up his wrist.
Lin Xuan's moves were not stiff in any way. They were minimal, efficient, perfect. Where his opponents seemed to be reaching out, he was already there. They all roared at the tops of their voices, but he was breathing slow. In just this short interval, the three disciples lay groaning on the ground.
Lin Xuan stood alone, the spear held delicately with both metal and light held in one hand. A single gaze passed over the crowd, leisurely, perverse unprovoked. The whole hall was quiet. The iron-gray elder stalked forward, not a trace of emotion in his eyes. He looked these groaning cultivators over, and then he looked at Lin Xuan.
"Your forms are correct," he said, "Too correct for a newly-entered disciple." His words struck down as if to heritage. "But martial brothers, he who gains victory wins all rewards."
A commotion broke out. Some looked with astonishment, others with a hint of doubt, while more others yet were obviously envious. Wu Ming burst into enthusiastic applause.
"Senior Brother, you're magnificent! It was like three little guys chasing a chicken!"
Laughing broke out in the hall, against its will.
Zhao Kun's face became fiery red. He spat a mouthful of blood, not on account of any injury but dry straight because of his humiliation.
"Lin Xuan," he hissed hoarsely.
Lin Xuan's voice was calm, his eyes even.
"Never," he said softly, "and Desist."
Observe on balcony Meng Zhao's manner. His fingers pounded the railing: heavy twice then again a third time smiling pure awe.
Of course, you copy, you learn, you adapt. Fine. Then I will cover you in so many swords, so many schools, that even your skill cannot save you. If even the sect itself would turn on you, then let's see if cool eyes can save you now.
The hall hummed long after the contest was over. People chattered of how impossible it was for Lin Xuan to adapt, how unexpectedly he found himself using other people's techniques as if born into them. Admiration shook hands with suspicion, wonder embraced jealousy.
Lin Xuan left quietly, every blow described on his lips as Wu Ming pranced knowingly at his side. But Lin Xuan's heart was as clear as water. Every test fuels their jealousy; every win feeds their fear. Very well, let them sharpen their swords. When they come to stab, I will be ready for them.
The whispers were louder than ever now. The helpless cripple was no longer a rumor. It had become a storm that swept up all around him.