The Weight of a Fist
The world inside Uncle Li's noodle shop contracted to a single, grim point. Dust motes danced in the slanted rays of the late afternoon sun, illuminating the wreckage of a toppled stool and a scattered broom. The air, once rich with the scent of bone broth and chili oil, now tasted of fear and shattered pride.
Xie Xie lay slumped against the wall, a dark smear on the plaster behind him. Each ragged breath hitched with pain. Beside him, Uncle Li—a man whose face was a roadmap of kind wrinkles now twisted by anguish—tried to shield the boy with his own frail body. "Xie Xie, you, you run!" the old man whispered hoarsely, his eyes darting toward the hulking figure blocking the door. "They... they want the shop. They wouldn't dare kill me."
The bravery in the lie was a physical ache in Yao Xuan's chest. He saw it all in hyper-clarity: the trembling of Uncle Li's hands, the vicious satisfaction on Guanglong's scaled face, the way Xie Xie's fingers dug into his own ribs, white-knuckled. Yao Xuan's calm wasn't indifference; it was the absolute stillness of a deep lake before a tempest, the surface unruffled while currents of cold, purposeful anger stirred in the depths.
Xie Xie coughed, a wet, painful sound. He turned his head, his usual cocky grin replaced by a mask of pain and furious humiliation. But his eyes, when they found Yao Xuan's, held no despair—only a fierce, unshakable trust. "No, Uncle Li," he gritted out. "They won't succeed." His gaze locked onto Yao Xuan, the plea clear and raw. "Boss... I can't beat him. It seems I'll have to rely on you."
A slow, deliberate nod was Yao Xuan's answer. It was the lowering of a visor. The acceptance of a duty that went beyond friendship—it was the protection of a sanctuary. Uncle Li's shop was more than a business; it was a testament to stubborn kindness in a hard world, a world Yao Xuan was determined to reshape. "Don't worry, Xie Xie," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut through the thugs' jeering. "This kind of punk is no match for me."
He stepped forward. The space between him and Guanglong seemed to shrink, charged with a silent pressure. As he moved, a whisper of violet and silver passed him. Gu Yue flowed like shadow and moonlight to Xie Xie's side. She didn't speak, didn't offer comforting words. Her expression remained an elegant mask of detachment, but her actions were swift and precise. She knelt, ignoring the grime of the floor, and placed a slender hand near Xie Xie's injury. A gentle, dawn-white light emanated from her fingertips, cool and soothing. It was the light of mending, of order imposed upon trauma. Her aid was clinical, efficient—the act of a supremely capable ally, nothing more. Yet, in her absolute focus, there was a quiet intensity that spoke of a will that would not abide such petty cruelty.
"Kid, you're pretty arrogant, aren't you?" Guanglong's voice was a gravelly sneer. He loomed larger now, his Ironclad Dragon martial soul making him a creature of brute stone and suppressed violence. He looked Yao Xuan up and down, a predator assessing strangely calm prey. "And that piece of trash called you boss? You little brat, you'd better get lost. I don't want to beat you until you're crying for your mother, hahaha!"
The laughter of his lackeys was a brittle, ugly sound. Yao Xuan tuned it out. His entire being was focused on Guanglong—the set of his shoulders, the slight forward lean that betrayed an eagerness to inflict pain, the dull sheen of his iron-gray scales. 'A bully,' Yao Xuan's mind coolly categorized. 'Strength derived from intimidation, not discipline. Soul Master level, but his spirit is weak. He's never faced something he couldn't overpower.'
Into the raucous laughter, Yao Xuan spoke. His voice didn't rise. It was simply there, a stone dropped into a stagnant pond. "I'll defeat you in just three moves."
The silence that followed was immediate and profound. The thugs' laughter died in their throats. The worried murmurs from the cluster of shopkeepers at the door ceased. Even Uncle Li held his breath.
"Three moves? Hahahaha!" Guanglong's roar of amusement was genuine, fueled by disbelief and contempt. "You hear that, boys? The kiddie's giving himself a handicap!"
Yao Xuan didn't smile. He didn't shift into a dramatic stance. He simply took one more step, grounding himself. His right arm drew back, not with a wide, telegraphing swing, but with a terrifying, coiled economy. There was no brilliant soul ring, no surge of colorful spirit energy. Only a subtle thickening of the air around his fist, a slight warping of the light as if the space around it could not contain the density within.
'No martial soul. No soul skill,' he thought, the calculation flawless. 'The Ancestral Dragon's gift is in the blood, in the bone. Five thousand kilograms of base strength. Eighty percent will be more than sufficient. A lesson needs to be memorable.'
"Not even using your Martial Soul? Scared out of your wits!" Guanglong boomed, but a flicker of uncertainty crossed his eyes. He responded by channeling his soul power, his scaled fist becoming a dark, metallic blur as he threw a crushing punch aimed to break Yao Xuan's own.
The moment before impact stretched. Guanglong's sneer vanished, replaced by a dawning, primal horror. The fist coming toward him wasn't a human fist. It was a falling cliff face, a comet's heart. It carried with it a pressure that had nothing to do with soul power and everything to do with origin, with a hierarchy written into the fabric of the world. The dragon within his own bloodline, the lowly Ironclad Earth Dragon, screamed a silent warning of extinction.
He tried to shift, to pour more power into his block, but it was like trying to hold back the tide with bare hands.
BOOM.
The sound was not sharp, but deep and resonant, a punch that felt like it shifted the very foundations of the shop. A shockwave of force erupted outwards, blowing dust from the floorboards and making the onlookers stagger back. A sickening, grinding crunch of bone and scale under immense pressure was horrifically audible.
Guanglong's eyes bulged. His mighty arm, the source of his pride, was violently flung backward, bending at a nauseating angle. The force traveled up his arm, through his shoulder, and lifted his entire massive frame off the ground. He became a projectile of his own making, flying backward across the cramped space. He hit the far wall not with a slap, but with a ground-shaking THUD that cracked the plaster in a spiderweb pattern centered around the crumpled impression of his body.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. One of the henchmen dropped the metal pipe he was holding. It clattered on the floor, the sound absurdly loud in the silence.
Tang Wulin, guarding the doorway with his body tense and ready, felt a surge of awe so potent it tightened his throat. He saw not just strength, but the absolute control behind it. 'Brother Xuan... he judged it perfectly.'
Yao Xuan was already moving. The lesson was not complete. Guanglong, slumped forward, groaned, his world a haze of shattered pain. Before he could even process his defeat, Yao Xuan was there. The second move was a low, precise kick, a piston strike of devastating efficiency. It didn't aim to kill, but to erase any thought of continued resistance. It connected with the man's ribs with a dull, definitive CRACK.
The scream that tore from Guanglong was pure, animal agony—a sound that had nothing to do with humanity and everything to do with broken biology. He crumpled around the point of impact, his formidable defenses rendered meaningless, his body convulsing involuntarily.
Yao Xuan looked down at the writhing form. His expression held no triumph, only a cold, clean finality. "There's no third move," he stated, his voice cutting through the man's whimpers. "But this is for Uncle Li. For every stall, every shop, every person on this street you've ever leeched upon."
He did not spit. He did not deliver a grandiose speech. He simply turned, presenting his back. The ultimate dismissal. In Yao Xuan's mind, Guanglong had already ceased to be a person; he was a resolved equation, a negative value neutralized.
The silence broke. Not into chaos, but into a crescendo of released breath and stifled sobs of relief. The shopkeepers at the door, their faces etched with years of weary fear, now shone with incredulous joy. "He did it... he really did it..." "Young hero! Thank you, thank you!" "The scourge is gone!"
"Brother Xuan is awesome!" Tang Wulin exclaimed, the words bursting from him, filled with pure, uncomplicated admiration.
Xie Xie, leaning against the wall as Gu Yue's healing light continued its work, managed a pained, lopsided grin. The shame was gone, replaced by a fierce, loyal pride. "Told you... our boss is on a whole other level."
Gu Yue stood. The healing light winked out. Her gaze found Yao Xuan's as he walked back through the settling dust, his hands now gently helping a trembling Uncle Li to his feet. Her silver-purple eyes held no simple admiration. They were deep, analytical pools, assessing the exact nature of the power she had just witnessed—power without flash, authority without proclamation. It was a truth that resonated with something ancient within her. She gave a single, slight, almost imperceptible nod. It was not the nod of a teammate to a captain. It was the nod of one sovereign acknowledging the legitimate action of another.
Yao Xuan met her eyes and returned the nod. A silent understanding passed between them, complex and wordless. Then he turned to the cowering henchmen, his voice leaving no room for the universe to disagree. "You will return every single coin. You will apologize to every person on this street. You will leave Aolai City before sunset and never return. Is that understood?"
The thugs scrambled to obey, babbling pledges, their fear of Yao Xuan now absolute.
As they filed out of the shop, the evening air met them, cool and sweet. The tension bled away, replaced by a profound quiet. Uncle Li clung to Yao Xuan's arm, tears cutting clean paths through the dust on his cheeks, repeating his thanks in a whispered mantra.
Yao Xuan patted the old man's hand gently. "It was our duty, Uncle Li." He looked at his team—Tang Wulin solid and reliable, Xie Xie battered but unbowed, Gu Yue serene and inscrutable. A strange, warm solidity settled in his chest. This was what power was for. This protection. This unity.
The points were incidental. The true reward was the light returning to Uncle Li's eyes, the straightening of a neighbor's back, and the unspoken vow in the eyes of his friends. They walked back toward the academy, the shadows lengthening. Gu Yue walked a half-step beside him, her silence a companionable, thoughtful thing. The battle for the Promotion Tournament awaited, but this smaller, more human victory—a street defended, a kindness repaid—felt just as significant. It was another thread in the tapestry he was weaving, a tapestry where strength and protection were inseparable, and at its center, a bond with a silver-haired dragon was slowly, patiently, being forged in trust and shared purpose.