Through Zhuge Su Yeon's Eyes
Yuan He Jian was strong, yes. But nothing more.
That was the only way I could describe him.
The refined sense of rhythm his sister had shown against Min... was not in him.Apparently, it wasn't a trait carried in their blood.
The result was simple: the fight unfolding in the arena was no lesson for Zhuge Rong—but it was far from a casual stroll in the park.
Rong carried his massive blade with the natural ease of someone born to wield it.
His defense was solid: arms firm, stance low, a wall that absorbed impact with ease while keeping his opponent at a safe distance.
Waiting for the moment when his overwhelming strength could topple the enemy with a single strike.
And yet... that was all.
Rong's foundations were not yet fully solidified.He had no movement technique—and no mental cultivation art either.
As for mental cultivation... what real importance could it have in a place like Gray Sky?
It wasn't a true necessity. At least not yet.
The real gap was in his legs.In his evasions.In the ability to close or widen distance before the enemy could react.
Movement techniques are like wind in a sail—and Rong, at that moment, was a ship with a reinforced hull but no wind to carry it forward.
It wasn't that I had been stingy with my promising youths.It was simple math.Time was too short. Two months to push cultivation to the limit and still cram Earth-grade techniques into their routines. Teaching two was already bending the bow until the wood creaked. More than that... would only bury their foundations in haste. And I wasn't interested in raising warriors made of glass.
So even aware of this weakness—which was no different from the flaws present in my other youths—I could do nothing. The gamble had already been made.
And now... Yuan He Jian was exploiting that exact hole.
He didn't advance continuously.Instead, he preferred short thrusts, quick jabs, measured charges that tested the steel wall that was Zhuge Rong. But his tests lasted only seconds, probing for a gap between the arc of the blade and the positioning of the feet. Then he retreated before any counter could reach him.
It was a game of provocations.Advance—retreat.Strike—flee.Like someone who knew he couldn't topple the wall all at once, but was content to wear down the mason until he made the first mistake.
The crowd saw two styles colliding:an immovable wall against wandering wind.But from where I sat, it was obvious—Jian didn't possess his sister's lethal patience. He was gambling on rhythm, not strategy. Even so, as long as Rong couldn't close the distance, the wind would keep blowing, testing the stones of the wall.
And the fight dragged on...
The metallic clangs echoed as though the arena itself were a massive bell. Strike, retreat, lunge, defend—and again.
Perhaps the Yuan He boy expected to win by relying on his superior cultivation and naturally greater Qi reserves. Unfortunately, if that was his strategy, he had miscalculated.
A fatal miscalculation.
Rong's Offensive Fortress Slash was not a technique that devoured Qi like a starving parasite. On the contrary, its efficiency lay in economy—a single motion could seal an entire flank, block and counter in the same breath, demanding so little Qi it felt unfair. Combined with the Stone Dragon Muscles, his body refinement turned every part of him into a living wall, muscles and tendons reinforced to the density of forged iron.
Which meant that while his opponent burned energy with every thrust and rapid dash, Rong spent almost nothing beyond raw physical strength—and that, as anyone could see, he had in abundance.
Minute by minute, the two circled the platform. Jian tested angles, shifted heights, searched for blind spots. Rong swung his blade like a heavy gate, sometimes blocking, sometimes threatening a cut that never came. The crowd, used to explosive bouts, was starting to grow restless, realizing this fight was dragging on longer than any other that day.
Sweat now glistened on Jian's forehead. He tried to mask it with a neutral expression, but the flow of his Qi betrayed the effort. With each retreat, it took longer to recover his stance; with each thrust, his strikes grew less precise.
Rong, on the other hand, looked like a boulder in the middle of a river: unmoving, expending only what was necessary to remain whole. His gaze stayed steady, following the opponent's rhythm with the calm certainty that wind cannot break stone.
Only after twenty minutes did the scene begin to change. Rong, always centered, began yielding space. One step back, two to the side. The crowd might interpret it as fatigue... but I knew the weight of every inch he ceded.
He was luring Yuan He into a mistake, crafting the opening to end this fight.
When the arena's edge was no more than an arm's length away, Rong held his guard open. Jian, seeing his chance, hesitated for half a second—long enough to gather Qi and drive a precise thrust. The impact landed with a sharp sound, the weapon's tip piercing Rong's shoulder and drawing a low murmur from the crowd.
But the counter came instantly.
Rong's blade crashed to the floor with a screech of iron against stone, as his now-free arms locked around his opponent's waist, trapping him in the unyielding grip of the Stone Dragon Muscles.
There was no escape.
Rong leapt.Not sideways, not backward—but down, dragging Jian with him as if he were an inevitable extension of his body.
The strategy was clear: repeat Zhuge Cai's tactic and force a double elimination.
Jian realized midair what was about to happen. His movement technique flared at his feet, twisting his body as he fought to break free before the ground met them. But what is speed against a grip designed to crush even spiritual beasts? Even at the ninth level of Body Refinement, he could not break through the wall that held him.
The impact thundered, dust erupting from the arena's edge. When they finally separated, it was far too late for any heroic narrative.
The judge, face twisted as though tasting sour wine, raised his hand and declared the result:— "Both competitors, eliminated!"
Murmurs rippled through the stands. Clearly, some clans had imagined a perfect sequence—three straight losses for the Zhuge, erasing any prestige we had reclaimed in the tournament.
Unfortunately for them, Zhuge Rong had no intention of falling alone.
I watched him, shoulder bleeding but still standing, and couldn't help but think what a waste it was. If Rong had simply held the stalemate longer, his opponent would have tired far faster than him, and the victory would have been his—without injury.
Instead, for lack of patience, all he had won was a wounded shoulder and a draw.
Even my own youths, it seemed, were not entirely free of the impulses of youth.
I wouldn't judge him. Not immediately. To everyone else, it looked like he had earned a hard-fought victory through sacrifice. But that kind of mentality would need correction in the future.
Another note for my ledger.