Her breath caught, but her body was too late.
In one flick of motion—no shout, no light, not even a gust of wind—Yanwei was simply there.
Not approaching.
Already arrived.
His smirk barely curved, subtle and infuriating.
"Yum."
Then the dagger slipped in.
Straight into her shoulder.
The same shoulder.
The same wound.
Same angle. Same depth. Same intention.
Her body convulsed.
A lightning shot of pain surged through her entire side, igniting her nerves in a white flash. Her sword dipped. Her posture collapsed for a breath.
She didn't scream. But the gasp tore out on its own.
Her body remembered this pain. But this time, it wasn't surprise—it was humiliation. Her flesh parted too easily, like it had never healed. Like it had been waiting to fail again.
Blood poured down her robes again, retracing the stain it had made before. An ugly reminder.
But it wasn't the bleeding that undid her.
It was the clarity.
He didn't strike somewhere new.
He didn't test her guard.
He didn't explore her defenses.
He repeated.
Perfectly. Deliberately.
He wasn't improvising—he was proving something. That she had learned nothing. That her elegance, her technique, her stance—none of it closed the hole he'd opened the first time.
And if it was open once?
It would always be open.
She stumbled back, half from the pain, half from the shock sinking into her bones. Her aura flared as if it could protect her. As if it could compensate for the cold bloom of awareness rising in her chest.
Yanwei didn't follow.
He didn't need to.
He stepped back. One pace.
Slow. Unhurried. Calm.
The dagger in his hand hung loose again, trailing her blood like an afterthought.
No finishing blow.
No chase.
No pressure.
He gave her space.
And that space… devastated her.
Because in it, her mind was forced to speak the truth.
He could've killed her.
She couldn't even see him move.
She didn't react. Didn't twitch. Didn't know it was coming until the pain bloomed in her shoulder.
If he wanted—he could've aimed higher.
Her neck.
Her throat.
Her head.
A dozen killing points were there, unguarded, and she hadn't flinched fast enough to stop any of them.
The only reason she was still standing… was because he let her.
Not out of mercy.
But to show her.
That death wasn't avoided.
It was withheld.
By his decision.
Not hers.
Not her talent.
Not her sword.
Him.
That dagger could've been the end of her. Instead, it was a signature.
A second mark on the same canvas.
And in doing so, he told her—quietly, cruelly:
"You're not in danger because I'm trying to kill you. You're in danger because I'm not."
Her knees nearly gave.
Not from pain.
But from understanding.
She wasn't fighting someone at her level.
She was standing before someone who had already won—and was simply showing her why.
He wasn't finishing the fight because it didn't need to end yet.
Because the real wound wasn't in her body.
It was in her belief.
He wasn't just showing her she could be killed.
He was showing her that she doesn't even belong in the same tier of consequence.
That if she wanted to live, it wasn't because she fought for it—it was because he allowed it.
She clenched her jaw, tasting iron in her mouth. Her aura cracked with unstable frost, but it meant nothing.
She wasn't cold anymore.
She was numb.
And that, she realized, was worse.
Wounds can heal.
Pride?
That's harder.
Especially when someone doesn't break it with strength—
But with a single repeated strike.
In the exact same place.
As if to say:
"You weren't a threat. You were just… a proof."
And the most terrifying part?
He hadn't even started trying.
Her knees hit the ground with a hollow thud.
The pain in her shoulder throbbed like a second heartbeat—raw, jagged, echoing up her spine—but it wasn't what held her there.
It was the quiet.
The moment that stretched far too long after the strike, where nothing happened. No follow-up. No killing blow.
Only footsteps.
Soft, deliberate footsteps crushing frost beneath them.
And then—
A whistle.
Low. Casual. Unmelodic.
He was whistling.
Yanwei was walking toward her like someone strolling through a garden, the same dagger still slick with her blood dangling from his fingertips—and he was whistling.
Each note drifted through the frozen air, clear and aimless. No rhythm. No tension.
Just a simple, lazy sound.
Unbothered.
Too unbothered.
He wasn't advancing like a predator now—he was just moving forward, like gravity, like routine, like her collapse was a natural event, and he was merely walking through the aftermath.
She looked up.
And saw him.
Truly saw him.
The whistling stopped, but its echo stayed behind, embedded in her nerves.
Yanwei stood there in the open light—bald, with a weather-worn face, cracked lips, a crooked nose, one eyebrow barely hanging on, patches of old scars dotted across his jawline.
He was… ugly.
Not monstrous—just laughable. An unimpressive man by all accounts. His posture didn't scream danger. His expression was bland. His movements were too loose, too untrained, too accidental.
And that made it worse.
He looked like a parody of a threat.
A man you'd expect to flinch in a real fight, to die in a real battle.
She should have laughed.
If she had seen him before—sitting on a bench, passed out in a tavern, loitering at the edge of a duel—she might've whispered something cruel to a friend beside her.
But now?
Now, her mouth wouldn't move.
Now, her breath stayed caught in her throat.
Because when her eyes locked with his—
She didn't see a man.
She didn't see a joke.
She saw a demon.
Not the mythical kind—horns, fangs, fire—but something colder. Smaller. Realer.
A force that didn't roar, didn't threaten, didn't posture.
Something that simply existed, and by doing so, unmade everything she believed in.
A demon born not from hatred, but from absence.
No emotion.
No struggle.
No effort.
He had already broken her, and now he was just walking through the remains, humming a tune that didn't even belong here.
Her pride tried to ignite, to scream that this was a joke, that this man wasn't real, that he didn't deserve to be winning.
But even that pride felt… quiet now.
Because the truth was louder.
He had struck her once.
Then struck her again—in the same place.
He could've aimed for her throat, her heart, her head. She wouldn't have stopped him. She wouldn't have seen it coming.
And now—he stood before her, having chosen not to end her.
Which meant—
He wasn't just stronger.
He was above the fight entirely.
Her body shivered—not from pain, not from the cold—but from the simple, horrifying realization:
He could end her right now.
And she couldn't do a damn thing about it.
Yanwei tilted his head slightly, as if examining something broken and oddly interesting.
A short, low whistle left him again.
Then he smiled.
Not wide. Not cruel.
Just that same unfitting, quiet smile on a face too worn, too plain, too human.
And yet—
She couldn't look away.
She couldn't laugh.
Because no one laughs at the demon that chose to let you live.
Yanwei finally stopped.
Right in front of her.
His shadow draped over her bloodstained form like a curtain, cold and heavy. For a moment, he didn't move. Just stood there, quiet, still whistling softly under his breath. Then—
He bent.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The blade in his hand dipped downward, loose and forgotten, as if he no longer needed it.
His knees didn't touch the ground, but his body lowered until his face was level with hers—eye to eye.
Too close.
Far too close.
Their noses just inches apart. Breath meeting breath.
So close she could see the faded crack in one of his teeth. The frost clinging to the corner of his lashes. The faint scent of rust and earth clinging to him like old blood.
For a flicker of a second, it almost looked like he might kiss her.
But instead—he spoke.
Coldly.
Without triumph.
Without gloating.
Just the truth, spoken softly enough that the wind didn't dare carry it.
"How does it feel?"
His breath brushed her cheek.
"I told you, didn't I?"
His eyes didn't waver.
"You were always going to kneel before me."
A pause. No shift in tone.
"Not because I'm strong."
"Not because you're weak."
"But because I'm absolute."
His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. It settled in her skull like a fact she'd always known but never accepted.
"I don't chase victory."
"I decide when it happens."
"You're not losing right now."
"You already lost."
He leaned in, just slightly—close enough that his next words felt like a sentence, not a statement.
"I'm not ahead of you."
"I'm beyond you."
Then he stood.
And that truth stayed.