The wind in Wind Shear Valley did not relent. If anything, it had grown stronger, as if stirred by the mounting tension.
The first round had ended, and the second had begun without pause. Now, with nearly a hundred disciples already eliminated, the crowd was no longer murmuring—they were holding their breath.
The dueling platform stood at the center of this storm, surrounded by shifting light as protective formations shimmered like translucent shields. The judges watched closely, occasionally noting down performance scores. Elders remained mostly silent, yet every now and then, a raised eyebrow or a quiet hum of interest would pass between them.
Those who remained now stood taller, steadier—their eyes sharpened not only by ambition but by the harsh taste of real combat.
Li Qingyun stood beneath the same plum tree, its petals gently caught in the restless air. His victory had drawn attention—quiet whispers, sideways glances—but he paid them no mind. His mind was clear.
The system interface was closed. His sword remained sheathed. He simply waited.
"Li Qingyun versus Lin Feiyan!"
He stepped forward.
Lin Feiyan was known for his unpredictable sword rhythm. Slender, with eyes like foxfire and a flexible willow blade, his technique was less about power and more about disorienting tempo.
The moment the barrier activated, Lin Feiyan grinned. "Let's see how graceful you really are."
He lunged—no warning, no chant. His sword twisted mid-air, like a snake shedding skin. The blade arced unnaturally, aiming from an angle that defied traditional strikes.
But Li Qingyun's eyes didn't even blink.
He moved like drifting mist. Phantom Step Art manifested again—his form shifted a hair's breadth, enough to let the strike pass by like wind through an empty corridor. His feet made no sound. His breathing was inaudible.
He drew.
Not a flash, not a storm—just a single clean sweep. Shadowfang whistled once.
Lin Feiyan blocked—barely. Sparks flew.
But Li Qingyun didn't stop. He advanced with an eerie rhythm: two steps forward, a half-turn, pivot, then a rising cut. His Voidcleave Sword Manual gave every move weight, not in force, but in pressure—an intent that seemed to push down upon Lin Feiyan's heart.
The flexible sword snapped out again, curling like a whip—
—but Li Qingyun deflected it not with his blade, but with the sheath of Shadowfang.
Metal met wood.
He twisted, kicked, then delivered a horizontal strike with sharp precision.
This time, Lin Feiyan couldn't follow.
His sword flew from his hand, clattering to the floor. A thin line of red appeared on his sleeve—shallow, controlled.
"I concede," he said through clenched teeth.
Li Qingyun lowered his sword without a word.
Elder Nie gave the nod.
A second win.
---
At the same time, elsewhere on the field, another duel had captivated the spectators.
"Xia Shuying versus Duan Rong!"
Duan Rong was a tower of muscle, his blade broad and heavy—more cleaver than sword. But Xia Shuying, robed in gray, was elegance and force woven together. Her sword, gleaming silver, danced with the motion of falling leaves in a storm.
She didn't dodge—she flowed. Her strikes were neither wide nor fast, but precise. Her swordsmanship was surgical, born from terrifying composure.
When Duan Rong shouted and brought his blade crashing down like a boulder—Xia Shuying sidestepped and countered with a crescent slash, fast as lightning. The blow carved a tear through his sleeve and left his sword-arm numb.
He swung again in desperation, but she pivoted, reversed her grip, and brought her blade gently to his chest.
Match over.
The elders above exchanged glances.
"Her sword," one murmured, "reminds me of Elder Han's style in her prime."
"Sharper," another said. "More refined."
---
Other matches passed in flurries of motion and bursts of light. Several names were eliminated—some with grace, others in bruising humiliation.
Lu Yifan continued to dominate. His strikes were methodical, beautiful in their cruelty. Each duel ended before his opponent landed more than two blows.
But even in his victories, his eyes wandered.
Toward the plum tree.
Toward Li Qingyun.
The third round approached.
Fewer than forty disciples remained.
"Li Qingyun versus Bai Cheng!"
Bai Cheng had strength. Broad-shouldered, his sword style was known for its heavy suppression technique. Rather than duel, he crushed. One step forward, and the platform trembled.
But Li Qingyun didn't meet strength with strength.
He stepped sideways, always outside the radius of Bai Cheng's oppressive sword arcs. Each movement was deliberate. Calculated. Precise.
Bai Cheng roared, sending a wave of spiritual energy through the ground—
—but Li Qingyun jumped, flipped, and came down behind him like a feather.
Shadowfang slashed upward.
A clean line formed across Bai Cheng's back—his robe split, not his flesh.
Then, with the reverse swing, he disarmed Bai Cheng mid-turn.
The sword arced, clattered, spun—and landed at Elder Nie's feet.
Silence fell.
The elder picked it up and set it beside him.
"Begin noting performance scores," he said to a inner disciple who was by his side.
Li Qingyun returned to the base of the tree.
His breath was steady. Not a drop of sweat clung to his brow.
But his eyes… his eyes were sharper now.
The crowd was watching.
"Xia Shuying versus Qiu Zhan!"
The dueling platform thrummed with energy.
Qiu Zhan stomped up, cracking his knuckles. "I don't go easy on girls."
"Good," Xia Shuying said simply, sword already unsheathed.
Their duel was like wind against stone.
Qiu Zhan struck with thunderous blows, each one shaking the platform. Xia Shuying answered with flowing steps and razor-light counters, using minimal movement to redirect force.
Three minutes in, Qiu Zhan was panting. His strikes missed by inches, while shallow cuts now marked his shoulders and waist.
She ended it with a spiral step and upward slash, sending his sword spinning and placing her blade at his throat.
The crowd roared.
Elder Nie's brow lifted faintly.
"Victory to Xia Shuying."
___
Lu Yifan's blade clashed with a rising talent from the Iron Sword Peak. He dismantled the boy's sword style in three exchanges, ending with a single upward slash that echoed like thunder.
Xia Shuying fought with poise, her opponent landing only one glancing blow before she retaliated with a sword strike that split the earth at his feet and knocked him flat.
____
The final match of the day was called.
"Li Qingyun versus Wen Jie."
Wen Jie stepped up, his eyes calm and smiling.
"Be careful," he said, raising his sword. "This one may feel real."
The barrier closed.
The air shimmered.
Illusions.
The battlefield shifted. Duplicates of Wen Jie emerged, each one real to the eye, moving with different sword stances.
Li Qingyun closed his eyes.
He didn't need to see.
The Tranquil Void Heart Scripture formed a sea within.
Then—movement.
He stepped forward.
Shadowfang unsheathed.
The real Wen Jie staggered as Li Qingyun's sword grazed his collar.
The illusions shattered.
"What... how?" Wen Jie gasped.
"Your blade was real," Li Qingyun said softly. "But your killing intent had only one source."
"Victory to Li Qingyun."
And so, as dusk painted Wind Shear Valley in hues of fire and rose, the final sixteen were named.
Li Qingyun. Xia Shuying. Lu Yifan. Yun Ruo. Luo Xin. Zhang Lei. Nie Bao. Qing Xun. And eight others—strong, refined, dangerous.
The final round would begin the next morning.
And for the first time, the real duels would begin.
Each fight now was life-changing.