The noodles were actually good.
Wuya sat on a wooden bench outside the small stall, working through his second bowl while Liya picked at hers. The afternoon sun was warm. Sounds from the Assembly drifted over—announcements, cheers, the occasional clash from practice rings.
"You eat like someone who doesn't know where their next meal is coming from," Liya said.
"Clearwater Sect isn't wealthy." Wuya said between bites. "And these are really good noodles."
"They're adequate."
"Better than what I'm used to."
Liya set down her chopsticks. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why didn't you use qi against Yan Feng? Or just now with those Crimson Blade idiots? You clearly have cultivation—I saw you move. Normal people don't move like that."
Wuya finished his noodles. Set the bowl down. "Didn't need to."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have." He looked at her. "Why waste energy when you don't have to? Elder Feng always said qi is like water in a well. You can draw from it freely, but if you empty it for no reason, you're just making yourself thirsty."
"That's... actually wise." Liya tilted her head. "Your Elder Feng sounds interesting."
"He is."
"Is he a master? What realm did he reach?"
Wuya shrugged. "Never asked."
"You never—" Liya blinked. "You trained under someone and never asked what level they reached?"
"Didn't seem important. He taught me what I needed."
"That's insane. The whole point of having a master is to follow their path, reach their level and surpass it. How can you do that if you don't even know—"
"Preliminary round two participants, report to the staging area!"
Wuya stood and stretched. "That's me."
"Already? Who are you fighting?"
"Don't know yet. Guess I'll find out."
Liya stood too, leaving coins for the noodles. "I'm coming to watch. Someone needs to document your inevitable humiliation."
"Thought you said I'd die."
"That was before the noodles. Now I think you'll just get badly hurt."
They walked back toward the arena complex. The crowd had grown since morning—word of Wuya's match against Yan Feng had spread. People were curious about the nobody from Clearwater. Some pointed. Others whispered.
At the staging pavilion, officials called out names and assignments. Wuya found his on the board.
"Jin Wuya versus Feng Hua of Wandering Mist Sect. Arena Three."
"Arena Three," Liya read over his shoulder. "One of the smaller rings. They're not giving you the main arena this time."
"Makes sense. First match was against Emerald Peak. This is just another preliminary."
"Wandering Mist Sect..." Liya frowned. "Don't know much about them. Mid-tier, I think? Somewhere in the eastern provinces."
They made their way to Arena Three. Smaller than the main arena—maybe a few hundred spectators instead of thousands. The crowd was a mix of curious onlookers and what looked like Wandering Mist disciples in pale gray robes.
Wuya stepped into the ring. Packed dirt, worn smooth by countless matches. Across from him, a woman in gray robes entered from the opposite side.
Feng Hua was maybe thirty. Hair tied back in a simple braid. She moved with careful economy—someone who'd spent years refining technique. Her sword was slightly curved, designed for swift draws and cuts.
The referee stood between them. "Standard rules. Yield, knockout, or ring-out. Both fighters ready?"
"Ready," Feng Hua said. Voice calm. Professional.
"Ready," Wuya said.
"Begin!"
The referee retreated. The small crowd leaned forward.
Feng Hua didn't charge. She took a measured stance, hand resting on her sword hilt but not drawing. Her qi circulated visibly—not massive like Yan Feng's, but controlled and precise.
"I watched your match this morning," she said. "Impressive footwork. Clean movement. But you fought someone who relied on power over technique."
"You're different?"
"Let's find out."
She drew in a flash—fast, almost too fast to see. The blade sang through the air in a horizontal cut aimed at his midsection.
Wuya leaned back. The sword passed inches from his chest.
Feng Hua was already moving, blade redirecting mid-swing into a downward slash. When that missed, she flowed into a thrust, then a rising cut, each strike building on the last with minimal wasted motion.
*Better.* Wuya watched her technique unfold. *Much better than Yan Feng. No telegraphing. No excess movement. Just clean, efficient strikes.*
He wove between her attacks, hands in his sleeves. Unlike Yan Feng's aggressive barrage, Feng Hua's style was measured. She wasn't trying to overwhelm—she was testing, probing, looking for openings.
After a dozen exchanges, she leaped back and lowered her sword slightly. "You're good. Really good. But you're still not using qi, and you still haven't drawn your sword."
"Don't need to."
"Pride?"
"Practicality."
Feng Hua's eyes narrowed. Then she smiled—small, genuine. "Alright. Let's see how practical you are."
Her qi surged, but instead of another direct attack, she moved laterally, circling. Her sword traced patterns in the air, creating afterimages—Wandering Mist technique, probably. The images multiplied, making it hard to tell which was real.
The crowd murmured. This was proper technique, not just brute force.
Wuya watched the afterimages, noting how they moved. *The real sword drags slightly. Creates a small distortion. There—that's the real one.*
Feng Hua struck from three directions simultaneously—or seemed to. Wuya stepped through the gap where none of the images were. Suddenly he was behind her guard.
She spun, blade coming around in a defensive arc. Fast reflexes.
Wuya tapped her wrist—same move he'd used on Yan Feng—but Feng Hua was ready. She released tension in her arm, letting the tap slide off, and immediately countered with a low sweep.
*Smart.* Wuya hopped back. *She adapted. Learned from watching the first match.*
They exchanged another series. Feng Hua's technique grew more complex as she tried different approaches. Clearly skilled, with years of training behind every strike. But there was something... limited about it. Like she was following a script she'd memorized perfectly but couldn't deviate from.
Wuya found himself analyzing almost unconsciously. The way she committed to each strike just a fraction too much. How her weight shifted predictably before certain moves. The slight pause between combinations where she reset her stance.
*There. When she finishes the triple-thrust sequence, she always steps back with her left foot. Leaves her right side open for half a breath.*
Feng Hua launched into the sequence. Three rapid thrusts, each forcing Wuya to dodge. Then she stepped back with her left foot, exactly as predicted.
Wuya moved forward, hand emerging from his sleeve to tap her shoulder—gently, barely contact.