Yao Xuan vs. Ye Xinglan
The referee's final word was swallowed by the stadium's roar. On the polished combat stage, under the blinding arena lights, two pools of silent intensity faced one another.
Ye Xinglan wore a form-fitting yellow jumpsuit that emphasized her lean, athletic frame and allowed for unrestricted movement. It was practical, yet on her, it looked like a warrior's grace. Her beauty was sharp, defined by the cold focus in her azure eyes—a gaze fixed on Yao Xuan with the unyielding chill of honed steel.
Across from her, Yao Xuan stood in the dark blue combat uniform of Donghai Academy. It was simple, but on his frame, now subtly thickened by coiled power, it looked like a hero's garb. His posture was relaxed yet rooted, a stillness that promised explosive motion. The contrast—her icy, directed fury against his calm, depthless readiness—captivated the crowd. Cheers for the local prodigy mixed with the awed respect for the Shrek name, creating a wall of sound that beat against the arena's energy shields.
The referee's voice cut through, stating the familiar rules with robotic efficiency. Thirty seconds of preparation. A five-second countdown. Yao Xuan's breathing deepened. He felt the familiar dual rivers within him—the vibrant flow of soul power and the deeper, hotter torrent of Ancestral Dragon blood—begin to circulate, ready to fuse into torrential strength. His eyes never left Ye Xinglan.
"Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Begin!"
Light erupted from both ends of the stage simultaneously.
"Star God Sword!" Ye Xinglan's voice was a clear, ringing command. Two yellow and one purple soul ring—optimal, textbook-perfect—bloomed behind her like deadly flowers. In her raised hand, starlight condensed, pulled from the very air, forging into a longsword of brilliant, sun-yellow metal. Its blade wasn't merely polished; it seemed to hold a miniature galaxy within, countless pinpricks of light shimmering along its edge. As her fingers closed around the hilt, a visible tremor of power rippled through her. Her spine straightened, her shoulders squared. She didn't just hold the sword; she became its extension. Her aura, previously cold and still, now hummed with a sharp, singing vibrancy.
'Body and sword as one. At her age…' Yao Xuan noted, impressed despite himself. This wasn't just talent; it was a testament to fanatical dedication. The observers below—experienced Soul Masters, teachers, and judges—stirred, murmurs of disbelief rippling through them. This unity of spirit and weapon was a milestone many spent decades failing to reach.
He didn't have time for further admiration. His own transformation unfolded.
"Ancestral Dragon Possession! Ancestral Dragon Overlord Body! Ancestral Dragon Transformation!"
The commands were silent, internal, but their effects were thunderous. Within his chest, his heart hammered a war drum rhythm, each beat pumping superheated blood infused with primordial power. A searing, glorious heat spread from his core, a forge-fire igniting in his veins. His skin shimmered, and from it erupted scales of breathtaking, iridescent beauty—each one a tiny shield reflecting nine subtle colors. His arms thickened with corded muscle, and his hands elongated, fingers sheathing themselves in keratinous, razor-sharp claws that gleamed under the lights, a direct, brutal answer to the celestial elegance of Ye Xinglan's sword.
As the threefold amplification took hold, his aura exploded outward. It was dense, ancient, and carried a weight of sovereignty that pressed against the very atmosphere. The majestic, semi-transparent form of the Ancestral Dragon Soul Spirit materialized before him, and two deep, royal purple millennium soul rings rose from his feet, their hue seeming to deepen the very light around them.
The crowd's roar hit a new peak. A Great Soul Master with two purple rings? An aura rivaling a Soul King's? The narrative of a simple grudge match was vaporizing, replaced by the spectacle of two genuine monsters clashing.
Ye Xinglan felt the pressure. The casual disdain in her eyes solidified into serious, razor-edged focus. 'He's not just a loudmouth. Good.'
"Interesting!" she called out, her voice carrying over the short distance. "Let's see if your claws match your aura!"
She moved. It was not a wild charge, but a single, perfect, diagonal step. Her body flowed with the motion, and the Star God Sword flicked out—a deceptively simple, almost casual slash aimed not at his center, but at the vulnerable space between his ribs and hip. The angle was vicious, offering no clean retreat. It was the strike of a born sword genius: minimal, efficient, deadly.
Yao Xuan's eyes narrowed in appreciation. 'Beautiful form.' But appreciation didn't mean retreat. With a ground-shifting crunch of stone underfoot, he stepped into the attack. His right arm, a limb now more akin to a mythic beast's, blurred forward. He didn't try to grab the blade—that was folly against a spirit as sharp as hers. Instead, he met the flat of the incoming sword with the reinforced bulk of his forearm and the base of his claws in a powerful, sweeping parry.
CLANG!
The sound was not of metal on metal, but of a celestial chime striking a primordial anvil. A visible shockwave of gold and nine-colored light rippled from the point of impact.
Ye Xinglan's eyes widened. The impact that traveled up her sword was not just physical force; it was a wave of sheer, overwhelming presence. Her arms screamed in protest, going numb to the elbow. The Star God Sword in her grip wavered, its stellar light flickering violently as her soul power buckled under the strain. On Yao Xuan's arm, where the impossibly sharp blade had connected, a thin white line appeared across the scales. Before the crowd could even gasp, it sealed itself, fading away as if it had never been.
WHOOSH!
Ye Xinglan was airborne, hurled back by the concussive force. But she was a disciple of Shrek. In mid-air, her body twisted in a series of complex, acrobatic contortions—a flowing, dance-like maneuver that dissipated momentum and turned a crash into a skidding, three-point landing ten meters back. She rose, her breath coming in quick, controlled pants. She flexed her hands, the numbness receding into a deep, throbbing ache.
A hush fell over the stadium, broken only by the hum of the shields.
'He didn't even use a soul skill…' The thought was a cold splash of water in Ye Xinglan's mind. Her strategy, formed in an instant, crystallized. Head-on confrontation was suicide. His defense was monstrous, his raw power overwhelming. She needed speed. She needed technique. She needed to bleed him dry with a thousand cuts he couldn't land.
Across the stage, Yao Xuan settled back into his ready stance, his claws held slightly open, his nine-colored eyes gleaming with calm, analytical light. The first exchange was over. The real lesson was about to begin.