The arena had become utterly silent, yet every soul watching could feel the thunderous anticipation hanging in the air.
Elder Yan Dao stepped forward once more, his sword humming with Sword Qi. This time, there was no testing strike, no gentle probe. His movements were fluid and swift, like a river fed by the torrents of countless seasons, each motion honed by centuries of sword practice.
And Lin Mu—still without a weapon—met him bare-handed.
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
Sparks burst with each impact as Lin Mu parried strikes with the back of his hand, his forearm, even his palm. Sometimes he would even use a single finger to deflect a strike, or use his finger nail to poke as if it were the tip of a sword.
Each block echoed like hammer on anvil, the sheer power of Yan Dao's strikes scattering Sword Qi in gales that made the outer disciples clutch their robes.
But Lin Mu remained steady.
He did not budge. He did not falter.
