The next day, it was Zheng Xie's turn to wear the smug smile.
Because today wasn't about pills, cauldrons, or spiritual fire control.
Today was combat class.
And even though Zheng Xie's cultivation realm wasn't high—still lingering in the lower stages of the Qi Condensation Realm—he had something most of his peers didn't.
Experience. Real, hard-earned combat experience.
He wasn't some flower raised in the safety of a sect courtyard. Zheng Xie had been fighting for his life since the age of twelve, hunting wild spirit beasts, dodging fangs and claws, sometimes sleeping with one eye open and a dagger in hand.
The sheer number of battles he'd fought, injuries he'd taken, and beasts he'd killed had tempered his body and instincts to a degree no normal Qi Condensation disciple could match.
His soul cultivation, through countless life-and-death encounters, had reached shocking levels. It gave him mental clarity in battle, near-instant reaction time, and a kind of killer's intuition that couldn't be taught through scrolls or sparring drills.
Just from his raw combat ability, Zheng Xie could hold his own against those two or three minor layers above him. A 7th-layer Qi Condensation cultivator? He could take them.
And if he pushed himself—fought like every breath was his last, including activating his body tempering techniques to reinforce his skin—then perhaps even higher.
He wouldn't win easily. He'd be pushed to the edge, probably crawling away bleeding and half-conscious.
But he could do it.
That alone was more than what many of his inner court peers could claim.
They had cultivation levels, sure—but most of them had never seen actual battle outside sparring matches. They didn't know what it meant to kill something.
To fight something that didn't hold back. Something that could tear their arm off in one swipe. They had never felt what Zheng Xie had.
…
The inner court training ground was bustling with energy. A few disciples were already stretching or sparring lightly, getting ready.
Zheng Xie arrived with his usual group—Liang Yu, Yun Shi, and Wan Ruo—though this time, the smirk was on his face.
"Don't break too easily today," he teased, cracking his neck. "Some of you might need a stretcher."
"Someone's confident," Liang Yu muttered, rolling his eyes. "I hope you trip over your own sword."
Yun Shi sighed dramatically. "Great. The madman's in his element."
Wan Ruo gave a half-smile. "I bet he's been looking forward to this since the alchemy class ended."
"Damn right I have," Zheng Xie said, eyes glinting.
Their voices quieted as their instructor arrived.
Their Martial Master, a tall man with shoulders like twin mountains and a back as straight as a war banner, stepped into the training ground. His black robe was embroidered with white swords, his hair tied behind his back in a thick knot.
Despite no spiritual pressure leaking from him, his presence alone was enough to silence hundred and four disciples.
He scanned the crowd with hawk-like precision. Once he confirmed everyone had gathered, he took a deep breath and roared:
"Students!"
The air trembled.
"As you've been informed, the sect's examination is fast approaching. And this year, our opponent is none other than the Moonveil Palace."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Moonveil Palace. One of the top ten sects in the entire Central Continent. Famous for their graceful techniques and ruthless discipline.
The Martial Master didn't let the murmurs last.
"I'll make one thing very clear…"
He paused. His eyes were cold and unforgiving.
"You won't win."
Silence.
Complete and utter silence.
The disciples looked at each other—some in shock, others in resignation. But no one spoke. No one dared to refute. Because deep down, they all knew.
The last time they'd gone to the examinations, they'd been pitted against the Profound Sword Sect.
That wasn't a battle. It was a massacre.
Not a single disciple from Seven Strike Martial Sect had won a match. One disciple from Profound Sword Sect—just one—had effortlessly defeated everyone. Even their so-called elites. One after another, like toppling wooden dolls.
It had been a humiliation too painful to voice.
But that was the Profound Sword Sect. The top sect whose name alone silenced rooms.
The Moonveil Palace, though powerful, wasn't them.
This time, they had a chance.
Their master continued, voice calm but firm. "We still don't know what kind of examination it will be—duels, team battles, survival—it doesn't matter. What matters is this."
He raised one finger.
"You must win at least one match."
"Defeat at least one disciple."
His words weren't harsh. They weren't demanding. But they struck deeper than any scolding.
"If none of you can win a single match… then no, you won't be punished. It's not a crime to lack talent. It's not your fault you weren't born geniuses. But understand…"
He paused again.
"If you fail, it will be a stain on the Seven Strike Martial Sect."
The disciples clenched their fists. Their jaws tightened. They nodded, their hearts heavy, but their spirits unwilling to break.
Their master began to pace slowly, circling them like a general before war.
"Hard work," he said, "never goes to waste. Even if you don't have talent, you have your grit. Your will. Your unyielding drive. Don't let anyone say otherwise."
He stopped, facing them squarely.
"Cultivation isn't only about talent. Yes, a genius might break through three realms in a year. But when they hit a bottleneck? When they face a trial that cannot be overcome by technique alone?"
His voice turned hard.
"They'll crumble. Because they've never tasted hardship. They've never been forced to struggle. But you?"
He looked at each disciple.
"You've climbed from the dirt. You've fallen and gotten up. You've trained until your bones cracked and your bodies bled. That will matter."
Their Master stopped pacing, lifting his chin slightly. His chest expanded as he inhaled slowly, gathering his Qi deep into his dantian, then channeling it upward, concentrating it in his throat. The ground beneath him trembled ever so faintly.
And then—he roared again, this time like a thunderclap cleaving the skies.
"Then tell me—WILL YOU WIN?!"
It was as though a dam had burst. From the sea of disciples came a unified war cry—raw, loud, and unrelenting.
"YES, MASTER!!"
The voices shook the training ground.
Some disciples had trembling fists, others gritted their teeth, but they all shouted with eyes burning, refusing to look away from the intensity of their instructor's gaze.
A rare smile tugged at the Martial Master's lips. It was slight—just a subtle curve—but on his face. His gaze lingered on his students, and for a brief moment, a subtle smile bloomed on his face.
"Good work," he said, voice calm again. "Now… let's begin the duels."
A hushed tension followed his words, the calm before the storm.
He swept his gaze over them.
"Who wants to go first?"
Motivated and eager, dozens of hands shot up at once. The disciples surged forward with fire in their hearts, every one of them wanting to prove their worth.
The Martial Master couldn't suppress the full smile now. "Good. Good! At least you're not cowards!"
He raised a single hand and pointed decisively at two disciples. "You! And you! Step forward!"
The two selected disciples exchanged quick glances, then walked toward the center of the wide training field, nerves masked beneath forced confidence. The others instinctively stepped back, forming a wide circle around them.
The Martial Master gestured for the two to stop at the center.
"This is a practical match," he said. "Use whatever techniques you wish. Lethal, defensive, evasive—all is allowed. The fight ends when one of you yields. There is no time limit. Whether you drag it out or finish it in a flash, that's your decision."
His gaze sharpened.
"But remember—win with everything you have. No regrets."
The two disciples nodded. With a breath each, they settled into their stances.
Then—like the crack of lightning—the duel began.
Their figures blurred into motion, dashing toward one another, spirit energy flaring in controlled bursts. The clashing of palm strikes and weapon swipes echoed across the grounds.
But Zheng Xie barely noticed it.
His gaze was distant.
He stood with the others—Liang Yu, Wan Ruo, and Yun Shi—but his thoughts were far away, drifting down the stream of memory.
'The last examination…' he thought quietly. 'I was still out in the Serpent Plains… I didn't attend.'
He could still remember it vividly—hunting a wounded Greenback Boar under moonlight, the cold wind biting through his sleeves, the howling of beasts.
While others were fighting top sect geniuses in polished arenas, he was dodging venomous fangs in muddy fields, slitting throats, and roasting meat under a tree's shade.
'I missed my chance then,' he thought. 'But this time… I won't leave. I can't leave.'
The memory sank away, and reality returned.
The shouts and clashing of the duel pulled him faintly back to the present.
Beside him, Liang Yu had his arms crossed, eyes gleaming with excitement as he followed every movement of the fighters.
Wan Ruo stood with his hands behind his back like a self-proclaimed scholar watching a historical battle. Yun Shi, quiet and composed, watched with a more analytical expression.
Wan Ruo turned, raising a brow in curiosity.
"Liang Yu," he said, tapping a thoughtful finger against his chin. "Who do you think is the strongest inner disciple right now?"
Liang Yu, ever fond of fights and rankings, didn't answer immediately. He tilted his head slightly, watching the current duel unfold. The two disciples were using low-tier spirit techniques, nothing flashy, but precise enough to show their dedication.
After a moment, Liang Yu nodded to himself. "If we're talking purely about cultivation level… then it's probably Chen Lan. He's at the 9th layer of Qi Condensation. His foundation's solid. His spear arts aren't flashy, but they're efficient. I wouldn't want to fight him alone."
Wan Ruo nodded slowly like a sage who had just received a satisfactory answer. But of course, he wasn't done.
He gave a sideways glance at Zheng Xie, then casually faced Yun Shi. "What about you, Yun Shi? Who do you think is the strongest… among us?"
The question was loaded. Anyone could see that. It wasn't curiosity—it was a jab. A subtle dig toward Zheng Xie, who hadn't even been watching the duel seriously.
Zheng Xie didn't react. He remained silent, eyes half-lidded as if weighing something deeper than the present moment.
Yun Shi, however, wasn't in the mood for jokes.
He scoffed. "Wan Ruo, is that even a question?"
His voice was sharp, clean. Like the first drop of cold rain before a storm.
"Without a doubt, it's Zheng Xie."
Wan Ruo blinked.
Yun Shi continued. "His mastery of basic techniques is already at the Intent Manifestation Stage. His body is tempered through actual survival. I doubt anyone here could alone beat him. You think cultivation base alone wins battles?"
Wan Ruo gave a slow eye-roll. "Tch… killjoy."
His attempt to provoke Zheng Xie had backfired completely.
'I was just joking,' Wan Ruo grumbled inwardly. 'Yun Shi doesn't know how to have fun. Always so righteous.'
Meanwhile, Zheng Xie gave a faint breath of amusement—not quite a smile.
He appreciated Yun Shi's words. But he didn't need others to speak for him.
The duel ended not long after—one disciple slipping slightly in his footwork, the other exploiting it with a well-placed shoulder slam and pin.
Applause followed. Not loud, but respectful.
The defeated disciple staggered to his feet, rubbing his ribs and nodding with reluctant acceptance. The winner bowed lightly to the Martial Master before stepping aside.
Seeing the previous match wrap up, Wan Ruo elbowed Zheng Xie with a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Zheng Xie," he said smoothly, "do you want to go next? How about you and Yun Shi head up there and duel, right? Me and Liang Yu will cheer you two on from the back."
There was an exaggerated innocence in his tone, but Zheng Xie wasn't the kind of person to miss the bait hiding behind the smile.
He turned to glance at Wan Ruo, one brow raised, eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with a curve of his lips, he spoke slowly and deliberately, like laying out a trap with silk threads.
"Wan Ruo," he said, "how about you and I go instead?"
"I'm already getting bored watching all these half-hearted duels," he added, stretching a little. "A fight with you might wake me up. I'm sure you want it too, don't you?"
Wan Ruo froze for a moment.
Then chuckled under his breath.
'Damn it. Looks like I got caught.'
He scratched the back of his neck and tried to laugh it off. The truth was, yes—he wanted to fight Zheng Xie. He always had. But he also didn't want to outright challenge him in public.
Because if he lost—which he probably would—he'd get mocked and teased by the rest of the inner disciples for weeks.
Not by Zheng Xie, of course. No, Zheng Xie never rubbed his victories in. But the others? Oh, they'd feast on it like vultures.
So Wan Ruo had tried to take the indirect route. A playful suggestion. A casual nudge.
But Zheng Xie saw through it all, and played along anyway.
'How generous of him to indulge me,' Wan Ruo thought, sighing internally.
He had dueled Zheng Xie plenty of times before. Back when he was at the fifth layer of Qi Condensation and Zheng Xie was still at the second.
Even though they were friends, some level of competition between them was valid. Especially for Wan Ruo who had a personal grudge against Zheng Xie.
The reason for the grudge was simple. Zheng Xie was handsome while he wasn't.
He had won a few times. But only a few.
After the fifth duel?
He never won again.
Not once.
It was as if every time they fought, Zheng Xie absorbed his style, learned his rhythm, studied his flaws—and then outclassed him. Technique by technique. Step by step.
Now, Wan Ruo was at the sixth layer, and Zheng Xie had only just stepped into the third—but that gap didn't reassure him.
If anything, it made him more uneasy.
'Strength isn't just cultivation base,' he reminded himself bitterly.
The others around them had already begun to catch on.
Yun Shi leaned in behind Wan Ruo, patting him on the shoulder in mock sympathy. His smile was far too bright to be genuine. "Brother Wan, please try not to cry halfway through. But if it gets bad—scream. I'll have the physician on standby."
Then he turned to Zheng Xie with a grin. "And brother, if you could… please break at least a few of his bones. He's been far too smug this past week."
Zheng Xie laughed, genuinely amused.
He glanced at Wan Ruo. "You heard him. There's demand."
He stretched his shoulders, cracking his neck left and right. "And don't expect me to hold back. If you get hurt, well… it's not my fault. I gave fair warning."
Wan Ruo scoffed and waved a hand dismissively. "You never hold back! You vicious demon—everyone in the sect knows you're merciless in sparring matches! It's your reputation!"
Liang Yu barked a laugh. "He's not wrong."
Zheng Xie smirked. "What can I say? I fight to improve, not to coddle."
Wan Ruo groaned theatrically. "See? See?! This is what I mean!"
But despite his complaints, everyone could see it.
Wan Ruo was excited.
He was puffing out his chest, rolling his shoulders, putting on a show of mock confidence. His eyes, though, carried a genuine spark—the thrill of rivalry. That need to prove himself, even if the odds were stacked.
Zheng Xie could respect that. In fact, it was one of the things he liked about Wan Ruo.
He was envious, petty, dramatic—and also loyal, determined, and always willing to challenge someone stronger than him. No matter how many times he lost, he came back with that same stubborn fire.
Zheng Xie clasped his hands behind his back and began walking toward the center of the training ground. His pace was unhurried, casual. The wind caught his robes slightly, fluttering them at his sides like drifting clouds.
From the edges of the training field, the watching disciples began to murmur excitedly.
"Zheng Xie and Wan Ruo?"
"They're really going to fight?"
"They've dueled before, right?"
"Yeah, but it's been months. I think Wan Ruo's been avoiding it ever since the last few beatdowns."
"Can't blame him."
The Martial Master, hearing the shift in atmosphere, turned his gaze toward the duo. He had also heard the chatter—he even raised a brow in slight surprise. But then, as the last duel finished, he waved his hand toward the field.
"Zheng Xie. Wan Ruo. You two are next."
The crowd parted as Wan Ruo made his way forward.
He was walking with exaggerated confidence now, giving fist bumps to a few disciples, even flexing slightly. It was a complete act.
Liang Yu shouted behind him, laughing, "Don't die too quickly, Wan Ruo! At least let us get a good show!"
"You bastards," Wan Ruo muttered under his breath. "Laugh it up now. Just you wait till I land a hit."
"Sure," Yun Shi called out. "If you land a hit!"
The spectators erupted into laughter.
Zheng Xie stood in the center, his arms loose at his sides, a quiet intensity behind his eyes. His expression was unreadable. Not cold, not smug—just… calm. Wan Ruo took his place opposite him.
The Martial Master raised his hand, gaze moving between the two of them. "Same rules. Use any technique. Lethal or not—it doesn't matter. Fight until one yields."
He stepped back and raised his palm.
"Begin."