The others said nothing. But the tension in the room sharpened.
Time was running out.
And yet, Quinlan and everyone else knew… he still had more to learn.
…
Stone echoed beneath heavy footsteps, each one as patient and ponderous as the man behind them.
In the center of the arena, Rongtai stood like a statue—broad, bare-chested, legs rooted deep into the tiled earth as though he had sprouted from it. Each breath he took moved his mountainous chest, and when his fist moved, the wind howled from the sheer pressure.
Quinlan met him head-on with fire, water, and wind swirling at his command, his robes singed and torn from earlier exchanges. Sweat glistened across his frame while his muscles were taut with exertion.
And yet…
Rongtai didn't budge.
A flame-coated strike crashed into the monk's ribs. Dust sprayed out from beneath his feet. But the man didn't even grunt.
"Again," Rongtai said. His eyes never wavered.
