Dawn hadn't fully broken when the stands of the Martial Arena were already packed, a dark mass of silhouettes pressing in from every direction. Yesterday's uproar still lingered like fog clinging to stone pillars, refusing to disperse.
Everyone was waiting.
Waiting to see how a mere Qi Refinement Fourth Layer menial disciple would face Lin Pojun—who had forcibly transferred groups just to crush him.
Jiang Muchen arrived neither early nor late.
He wore the same washed-out gray robe, faded to near white at the seams. No mask. No lowered gaze. A plain iron rod hung at his waist, unremarkable in every way. The jade flute rested against his chest.
As he walked forward, the crowd unconsciously parted, like water split by a dull blade.
Eyes clung to him—curious, pitying, gleeful, and a few quietly anxious.
Liu Zhen squeezed his way through, his face pale as rice paper.
"Junior Brother Jiang… it's confirmed. First match of the C-Group rematch. You against Lin Pojun. The referee—"
He swallowed.
"—is Elder Shi."
"I know," Jiang Muchen said calmly.
"It's obvious what they're trying to—"
Jiang Muchen lifted his gaze toward the viewing platform. Elder Shi was already seated, eyes closed like an old monk in meditation. On the far side, Lin Pojun was warming up. His green blade moved in a blur, sword qi carving shallow scars into the stone floor like the claws of some massive beast.
The third level of the Mountain-Splitting Sword Art: Shatterstone.
Rumor said it could cleave a mountain at its peak.
And Jiang Muchen?
Qi Refinement Fourth Layer.
One iron rod.
"I won't forfeit," Jiang Muchen said.
Liu Zhen's lips trembled. "But—"
"Senior Brother Liu," Jiang interrupted, turning to him. "Do me a favor. When I step onto the stage, stand beneath the viewing platform. If Elder Shi makes any unfair ruling, shout it out. As loud as you can."
"…Will that even help?"
"With this many eyes," Jiang said quietly, "he still needs his face."
Clang!
The bronze gong rang, slicing through the morning haze.
The officiant's voice echoed across the arena.
"The rematch begins! Thirty-two to sixteen! First match—C-Group: Jiang Muchen versus Lin Pojun!"
Silence fell.
Even breathing seemed muted.
Jiang Muchen tightened his grip on the iron rod and stepped onto the platform. The wooden boards creaked underfoot, groaning like they might collapse.
Lin Pojun followed, sword in hand. His eyes were ice—cold, cutting—regarding Jiang Muchen like an insect that had wandered onto a battlefield meant for blades.
Elder Shi rose and stood between them.
"Rules remain unchanged," he said heavily.
"No intentional killing. No forbidden pills. No outside assistance. Violators will be punished severely."
Then his gaze shifted to Jiang Muchen.
"You used hidden weapons yesterday. If you do so again today, I reserve the right to declare an immediate loss."
The words were polished, official.
But everyone heard the warning beneath them.
"Young disciple understands," Jiang Muchen replied, bowing.
"Begin!"
The gong sounded again.
Lin Pojun didn't rush. He twirled his sword once, then leveled the tip at Jiang Muchen.
"I'll give you three breaths," he said. "Draw your sword."
"I won't use one." Jiang Muchen raised the iron rod. "This is enough."
A ripple of disbelief ran through the crowd.
An iron rod… against a refined spirit blade?
Lin Pojun's expression darkened.
"Then you're courting death."
He moved.
One misstep, and his figure blurred forward. Three meters vanished in an instant. The sword thrust out—one point of cold light exploding into three overlapping afterimages, striking for the throat, heart, and dantian at once.
Mountain-Splitting Sword Art — Threefold Shadow!
Too fast to track.
Jiang Muchen didn't block.
His footwork twisted into something strange—crooked, staggering, like a drunkard's dance. Not a technique from the Red Dust Pavilion. Just as the blade reached him, he slipped past it by a hair's breadth.
Rip!
A strip of cloth was sliced from his sleeve.
But he lived.
Lin Pojun's eyes sharpened.
The second strike came in a sweeping arc, sword light stretching like a silver banner across half the platform—no room to dodge.
Again, Jiang Muchen didn't meet it head-on.
He retreated, pulling the jade flute from his robes and lifting it to his lips.
The sound that emerged wasn't the maddening tune from yesterday.
Nor was it calming.
It was… strange.
Like wind rushing through hollow metal.
Like stones tumbling down a cliff.
Like the tremor of a blade slicing through air.
Lin Pojun's movements faltered—just half a beat.
The flute was echoing his sword rhythm.
Every swing, the pitch rose.
Every shift in stance, the melody twisted.
Sword and sound tangled together, gnawing at his focus.
"Cheap tricks!" Lin Pojun roared, forcing more power into his strikes.
But Jiang Muchen's movements grew stranger still.
He drifted like a leaf caught in a storm, always on the verge of being cut down—yet never quite there. And all the while, he kept circling the edge of the platform.
Never the center.
He was laying something out.
Elder Shi noticed, brows furrowing—but he couldn't intervene. Nothing Jiang Muchen was doing violated the rules.
Lin Pojun noticed too.
He sneered. "Trying to trap me against the edge? Naive."
Suddenly, he changed tactics.
The sword rose overhead. His body leapt three meters into the air.
And then—
Slash.
The third level.
Shatterstone.
Sword light poured down like a waterfall, engulfing the entire platform.
There was nowhere to run.
Jiang Muchen looked up at the descending blade.
And smiled.
Then he did something no one expected.
He drove the iron rod into the floor.
Both hands clasped the jade flute as he blew a single, piercing note.
Hum—
The sound condensed.
A translucent wall formed above him.
The sword struck it.
Boom!
Shockwaves exploded outward. Dust filled the air. The arena's protective formations screamed under the strain.
When the dust cleared—
Jiang Muchen knelt on one knee, blood at the corner of his mouth. A fine crack had appeared along the jade flute.
But he was alive.
And the iron rod—now buried deep in the platform, only half a foot visible—stood firm.
Lin Pojun landed heavily, disbelief etched across his face.
Blocked.
His killing strike—blocked by sound.
"Good," he said coldly. "Better than I expected. But the next strike will end you."
He raised his sword again.
This time, Jiang Muchen moved first.
He pulled out a violet talisman.
"Referee," he said calmly. "Talismans don't count as hidden weapons, do they?"
Elder Shi's expression shifted. Thunder Talismans didn't—but where had Jiang Muchen gotten one?
"…They do not," he forced out.
"Good." Jiang smiled.
He tossed the talisman skyward.
A short note from the flute struck it.
Crack—BOOM!
Lightning split the sky, a bolt of violet fury crashing straight down onto Lin Pojun.
Lin Pojun barely raised his sword in time.
Clang!
Thunder detonated. He staggered back seven steps, his sword arm charred black, the blade webbed with cracks.
Before he could recover—
Another talisman.
Another note.
Another bolt.
This time, Lin Pojun roared and threw up a bronze shield artifact. Runes flared wildly—then died.
The shield fell, lifeless.
A Lin family protective artifact—ruined.
Silence swallowed the arena.
Two talismans had forced Lin Pojun to sacrifice a treasure.
His eyes turned bloodshot.
"I'll kill you!" he screamed.
He swallowed a blood-red pill.
Not a Burst Qi Pill.
A Bloodburn Pill—fueling power by consuming lifespan.
His aura exploded.
Qi Refinement Seventh Layer—peak.
Elder Shi paled. "Lin Pojun—"
"It's not forbidden," Lin snarled. "Is it?"
"…No."
Lin laughed like a demon. "Now die!"
Jiang Muchen inhaled slowly.
The last Thunder Talisman rested between his fingers.
But he didn't throw it yet.
Instead, he scattered iron caltrops across the platform. Threw down trip cords. Hung small bells on the pillars.
Then he raised the talisman.
"Senior Brother Lin," he asked softly, "where do you think this one's going to land?"
The platform was no longer neutral ground.
It was Jiang Muchen's field.
Lin Pojun charged anyway.
The strike came—
And Jiang Muchen closed his eyes.
He didn't play the flute.
He listened.
The Resonance of All Spirits surged.
Something ancient stirred.
A dragon's roar echoed—low, distant, real.
A dark-golden claw emerged from the flute and caught the blade mid-strike.
"Impossible—!"
Jiang Muchen opened his eyes.
"You lost."
The claw tightened.
Crack.
The sword shattered.
And with one final sweep of the iron rod—
Lin Pojun fell.