The Crucible's Gift
"Predictable."
The word, spoken with the chill of a winter wind, was Wu Zhangkong's only commentary as the trio's attacks converged on him. His confidence wasn't arrogance; it was the absolute certainty of a master surveying apprentices.
While the final, chilling threads of his "Frost Mark" pursued Yao Xuan, his attention fractured with terrifying efficiency. A mere flick of his wrist sent a tendril of sword energy lancing toward Gu Yue's sphere of condensed light. It didn't strike to destroy; it encased. A shell of instant, perfect frost formed around the luminous orb, severing Gu Yue's spiritual connection like a surgeon cutting a nerve. The light within guttered and died, dispersing into harmless ambient glow before it could erupt.
Simultaneously, without even turning his head, another wisp of sword energy shot backward. It was thinner, colder, a scalpel compared to the broadsword aimed at Yao Xuan, yet it carried the precise, devastating cold of a mountain peak. It met Xie Xie's Light Dragon Dagger not with a clang, but with a hiss. Deep blue frost crystallized along the blade, racing up Xie Xie's arm with terrifying speed. It encased his wrist, his forearm, crawling over his bicep and across his chest before Xie Xie could gasp, leaving him half-frozen in a pose of aborted attack, his breath pluming in the sudden cold.
For Tang Wulin, Wu Zhangkong didn't even deign to use a sword energy. As the heavy hammer whistled toward his leg, he simply shifted his weight—a minute adjustment, no more than an inch. The thousand-forged tungsten steel passed through empty air, its momentum pulling Tang Wulin off-balance. A faint flush of embarrassment heated the boy's cheeks at the effortless evasion.
All this transpired in the space between two heartbeats. Wu Zhangkong's primary focus never wavered: Yao Xuan.
The five remaining threads of Frost Mark, sharp as frozen starlight and humming with lethal cold, found their target. Yao Xuan had evaded the cage, but not the hunt. He met them head-on, his crossed dragon claws sheathed in a corona of prismatic light.
CRACK-BOOM!
The sound was not of metal, but of frozen lightning shattering. Four of the sword-energy threads exploded against Yao Xuan's "Ancestral Dragon Sky-Splitting Strike" in bursts of glacial mist. The fifth, weakened but relentless, pierced through the dissipating energy and struck home.
Clang!
A clear, bell-like note rang out—the sound of supreme cold meeting primordial scale. The sword energy spent itself against the golden dragon scale on Yao Xuan's forearm, digging a shallow, finger-width pit no deeper than a centimeter. But its true power was not in penetration; it was in transfusion. A wave of paralyzing cold, deep as a glacial crevasse, shot up Yao Xuan's arm. Instantly, his right limb was encased in a shell of solid ice up to the elbow, the flesh beneath screaming with numbness.
'He held.' The thought cut through Wu Zhangkong's analytical mind, followed by a surge of pure, professional awe. He had calibrated that final thread to test the absolute limit of a top-tier Soul Master's defense. Yao Xuan hadn't just met it; he had defined a new limit. The boy's soul power, at Level 18, burned with a purity that shamed many Great Soul Masters, and his physical form… it was a fortress.
In that moment, Wu Zhangkong saw beyond the student to the future. Shrek Academy's gates swinging open. A prodigy to mend past failures. A dragon-related martial soul, potent and mysterious, worthy of being presented to his own estranged teacher… The icy tundra of his heart experienced a tremor, not of warmth, but of profound, strategic satisfaction.
His face, however, remained a mask of impassive frost. "Adequate," he stated, the word a backhanded compliment of the highest order. "Continue."
He launched himself forward again, a blizzard given purpose. For the next thirty minutes, the training arena became a world of controlled violence.
For Yao Xuan, it was a relentless tide. Wu Zhangkong focused the majority of his synthesized pressure on him, a grinding wheel against the diamond of his potential. Each attack was a lesson in efficiency, timing, and ruthless intent. Yao Xuan's soul power drained, then was dredged up from reserves he didn't know he possessed. His muscles burned, his lungs screamed for air that seemed frozen solid by the arena's chilling aura. The dragon scales on his arms grew dull with impact frost and fine scratches. This was no longer a test of skill, but of essence. Could his will outlast his teacher's calculated onslaught?
And within that exhaustion, something dormant began to uncoil.
It was an instinct older than memory. Not a technique, not a skill from the system, but a legacy etched into the very fabric of his bloodline—the Ancestral Dragon's boundless combat heritage. With every parry that grew crisper, every dodge that became more intuitive, every counter-strike that landed with sharper intent, Yao Xuan felt it awakening. It was as if a deep, silent part of him had been watching all his previous fights from within and was now stepping forward to guide his hands. His movements lost their last hints of scholarly deliberation and gained a terrible, graceful fluidity. He was learning not how to fight, but to be a fighter.
For Gu Yue, the battle was a complex puzzle. She wove elements not just as attacks, but as terrain, as distractions, as subtle aids—a gust to slightly deflect a sword thrust aimed at Tang Wulin, a sudden patch of slippery ice under Wu Zhangkong's foot, a burst of light at the periphery of his vision. Her calm amethyst eyes missed nothing, calculating elemental synergies and weaknesses with a mind as sharp as Wu Zhangkong's sword.
Xie Xie, once freed from his ice shell, fought with desperate ingenuity, his pride stung. He became a phantom, harrying Wu Zhangkong's flanks, forcing micro-adjustments, learning to make his one explosive moment count. Tang Wulin, meanwhile, evolved from a blunt instrument into a tactical nuisance. He used his Blue Silver Grass not to bind, but to trip, to snag ankles for a half-second, to create momentary obstacles. His hammer strikes grew less wild, more targeted, aiming for joints and moments of imbalance.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of clash and gasp and frost-tinged breath, Wu Zhangkong stepped back. The Heavenly Frost Sword dissolved into a swirl of sapphire motes that faded into the cold air.
"Cease."
The single word brought the world back. The four teenagers staggered, their bodies trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline. Yao Xuan's chest heaved, his right arm, now free of ice, hung limp and throbbing. Gu Yue's perfect posture was slightly slumped, a sheen of sweat on her brow. Xie Xie leaned on his knees, panting. Tang Wulin simply sat down on the hard floor with a soft thud.
The notification was a welcome hum in Yao Xuan's weary mind. The points were valuable, but they paled next to the real gain. He felt different. Hollowed out, yes, but also forged. The latent combat instinct of the Ancestral Dragon was no longer a rumor in his blood; it was a whisper in his ear, a new reflex in his sinew.
"Your performance was... not entirely worthless," Wu Zhangkong said, his voice echoing in the sudden quiet. "You adapted. Minimally, but you adapted. Dissipate. Recover. The same time tomorrow."
He turned and walked away, his black tracksuit unstained, his breathing even. But as he reached the arena exit, he paused and glanced back, his icy eyes finding Yao Xuan's. For a fraction of a second, something that was not disappointment, nor even mere approval, but something akin to relentless, hungry expectation flickered within them.
Then he was gone.
In the lingering cold of the arena, amid the scent of ozone and shattered ice, the four students of Class 5 were left with their fatigue, their minor wounds, and the first, indelible taste of what true power—and the pursuit of it—demanded. Yao Xuan looked at his trembling, scale-backed hands, then at his companions. They had survived the crucible. Not as victors, but as something more important: as potentials, ignited.