"Young Sword Lord, Lu Jianheng, stand up, and for the love of the Heavens, get a grip," Ji'an drawled, rolling her eyes so hard she nearly saw her own brain. "I said, as long as you withstand the attacks, you pass. You withstood the strike. You blocked the momentum, didn't fold. You've already passed, so you're in. Stop acting like a bratty young lord who lost his favorite toy and start acting like a qualified Vanguard candidate."
Jianheng's head snapped up. His eyes, usually cold and sharp, were swimming with a mixture of profound, pathetic relief and deep, abiding shame.
"I... I passed?" he whispered, his voice cracking by an octave.
"Yes, you passed, you moron! Now stand up before I decide to change the criteria to 'whoever stops weeping first'!" Ji'an barked, turning her back on him.
She began counting the remaining participants in the arena. The tournament's automatic logging arrays were pinging in her spatial ring, providing a live data stream of the dwindling field.
