From Zhuge Su Yeon's Perspective
The Han boy strode into the center of the arena as if stepping onto a stage he had already rehearsed, wearing the same smile fools wear when they think they know how the story ends.
"If you want to avoid humiliation, kneel now and admit defeat," he declared, loud enough for the stands to register his "generosity." "But if you choose to fight, then I promise I won't break more bones than necessary."
Zhuge Wen gave no reply. Not for lack of words, but because in a duel, silence is worth more than any provocation. He moved instead with the fluidity of a river untroubled by stones in its path: drawing the bow from his back and readying the first arrow—without hurry.
From my seat above, I simply observed. The judge—an elder with a silver beard from the Yuan He clan, chosen to affirm the fight's fairness since he belonged to neither side—took two steps forward.
"Are you ready?"
"Of course." Han Zhi Feng spun his short blade, eager for the applause of his imagination.
Wen only nodded, sparing his words.
The judge's hand rose."Begin."
The sharp word had barely echoed when Han Zhi Feng already lunged.There was no testing, no gauging—he charged like an arrow loosed from a taut bow, intent on ending the fight in a single stroke.
I caught what ordinary eyes might miss: the short blade, raised at an oblique angle, carried intent unfit for a youth tournament. It wasn't meant to knock down. It was meant to cut flesh. The tip quivered faintly, betraying the coiled strength in his grip and the silent decision behind the strike.If that blade landed, Zhuge Wen wouldn't just lose the fight—he'd lose much more.
Whether this was mere savagery from an undisciplined youth, or a veiled order from the Han clan… I didn't know, and didn't care. I had long since prepared for tricks like this.
And then Zhuge Wen moved.Not to block. Not to counter. But to vanish from reach.
A sidestep, a twist of the hips—his body slid like a leaf carried by breeze. Then the chase began. It wasn't the panicked flight of someone fleeing—it was the calculated rhythm of Steps of the Celestial Balance.
The system held many Early Earth-rank techniques far swifter than Celestial Balance, that much was true. But few possessed its harmony of movement and stability—simply perfect for an archer. Every step was silent, every footing kept his center intact, and his body always remained poised to shoot.
Han Zhi Feng, furious at slashing nothing but air, roared:"Coward! Stop running and fight like a man!"
Frustration cracked his voice, but didn't stop him from launching his own movement technique. His boots slammed the ground, each burst accompanied by a sharp twist of his torso, trying to cut the gap.
Yet… with every step, Wen's figure only grew smaller.
Steps of the Celestial Balance was an Earth-rank technique, Initial Grade—something that shouldn't exist in a city like Gray Sky. Even in the White Flame Empire, only direct heirs of untouchable forces had access to such methods, guarded as lineage secrets.
Han Zhi Feng, for all his pride, wielded only a mid-grade Spiritual technique. The gulf between them was vast.Even with a one-realm cultivation advantage… he would never catch Zhuge Wen.
No matter how he shouted, no matter how blood pounded in his ears, the distance only widened.
It didn't take long for Wen to realize the obvious—his opponent would never close in, no matter how desperately he pressed. And at that moment, the hunt reversed its course.
His bow rose in his left hand, body turning sideways as he ran. The motion was fluid, not rushed, like breathing with the wind. The string drew taut—and the first arrow flew.
It did not shriek like the impatient shots of common archers. It was silent, discreet, like the distant hum of an insect. Han Zhi Feng noticed it only when the metallic glint was already at his shoulder—too late for a full dodge. The impact tore his tunic, and a red line split his skin. Small, but deep enough to wrench a grunt from his chest.
The second arrow came from an even trickier angle, loosed the instant Wen's right foot landed, his body's sway altering the shot. Han Zhi Feng raised his blade on reflex, but the clash deflected his guard, and the arrowhead cut his thigh, leaving a burning gash sharper than the pain could explain.
The Han boy snarled, pushing harder, but the gap did not shrink—and Wen was already preparing the third. This one dipped low, aimed at the abdomen. Not lethal, but the dull thud against flesh forced the air from Zhi Feng's lungs. He staggered—just a moment, but enough to show his resilience was waning.
Not every arrow struck. Some clattered against granite, others hissed past by inches. That was not his foe's skill—it was simply Wen's limit after only a month of training. But each shot that did bite drew blood, and with it, speed, strength, and confidence.
The fourth arrow struck Zhi Feng's sword arm. It didn't pierce through, but enough to make him curse and tighten his grip desperately around the hilt. The fifth scraped his ribs, tearing cloth and dragging a muffled groan.
And then came the sixth.Wen spun left, riding the momentum of a Celestial Balance step, and loosed. The arrow arced high, then dropped like lightning into Zhi Feng's collarbone. It didn't break bone, but the pain broke his posture. His chase grew clumsy, uneven—and soon halted altogether.
Panting, the Han youth stopped in the arena's center, sweat streaking his face, his glare heavy with rage, but unable to take another step forward. Every wound stung—not by size, but by precision.Across from him, Wen stood several paces away. Bow still in hand, another arrow nocked, gaze calm, impassive, as though weighing the seconds before his next shot.
The silence that fell was not peaceful—it was the taut quiet before an inevitable end.
Han Zhi Feng's chest heaved, each breath like a blow to his ribs. Yet when Wen halted, his pride screamed louder than his body's cries for surrender.
"Finally… tired, are you?" His voice came hoarse, cracked, but dripping with the venom born when humiliation begins to sting real.
He lifted his blade again, hands trembling more from fury than pain, and charged. Every step was a desperate lunge, a denial of the truth closing in. The gap shortened—not from his speed, but because Wen no longer moved.
The young archer did not retreat.Did not pivot.Did not resume his run.
He only raised his bow. The motion was clean, precise, like the final stroke of a seasoned calligrapher. The arrow rested on the string, and a faint glow—a deep violet, nearly hidden in the arena's light—began to pulse at its tip. Subtle, but to my eyes, familiar.
The Arrow of the Roaring Heavens.Another martial technique I had placed in his hands.
The gathering of Qi was brief but intense. And then—the shot.
The sound that split the air was not the sharp whistle of a common arrow, but a deep, resonant echo, like the distant roar of thunder in the sky. The shaft tore through the space between them as if air itself did not exist, slamming perfectly into Zhi Feng's left shoulder.
The impact alone would have toppled a weaker opponent. But the true effect came an instant later: a burst of Qi, short and brutal, exploded from the wound. The Han boy's body convulsed as if struck by lightning, blood spraying from his mouth even as he stumbled forward.
He staggered two more steps before his legs gave out. His blade fell first, clattering on granite; his body followed, collapsing heavily in the arena's center. Still.
The silence that followed was almost unreal. Even the wind seemed to pause, banners frozen in air.Zhuge Wen, bow still raised, held it there for a few moments to ensure his opponent would not rise. Then, slowly, he lowered the weapon. His gaze held no triumph, no pity—only acknowledgment.
He turned toward the judge, the Yuan He elder whose face, for a heartbeat, betrayed surprise. Clearly, he had not expected Han Zhi Feng to fall this way.
The elder drew a deep breath, straightened, and announced, voice ringing through the stands:"Victory—Zhuge Wen!"
The crowd's reaction lagged, as if the words needed more time to settle. Only when Wen began to withdraw, steps steady and quiet across the granite floor, did the arena awaken—but still with no applause, no cheers. Only the low, heavy murmur of those who had just witnessed what should have been impossible.
Zhuge Wen left the arena with bow in hand, vanishing into the Zhuge pavilion's shadow, while Han Zhi Feng's body remained sprawled across the floor—a reminder that no matter how cultivation is glorified… there will always be arrows that cannot be avoided.