The moment their master's hand dropped, the two figures exploded into motion.
Wan Ruo dashed forward with the momentum of a charging beast, his speed outclassing Zheng Xie by a thin but clear margin. His right fist, coated in a thin sheen of pale blue qi, arced through the air and drove straight toward Zheng Xie's chest.
But Zheng Xie didn't block it.
He shifted.
With a calm tilt of his wrist and a subtle step, he guided the fist's trajectory away from his body—just barely redirecting the blow. Wan Ruo's knuckles sliced through air, his momentum carrying him forward too far, his balance disrupted.
"Tch!"
He cursed under his breath as his feet scrambled for grip on the ground. In one smooth turn, he pivoted, pushing off with his left leg and launching himself back at Zheng Xie. This time he raised his right knee slightly—a feint to mask the strike he was preparing.
Zheng Xie saw through it instantly.
'Too shallow,' he thought.
He stepped in and retaliated—not with a block, but with a counter.
His shin struck Wan Ruo's exposed leg with a sharp crack. The pain made Wan Ruo wince and stumble.
In that split-second, Zheng Xie surged forward. He grabbed Wan Ruo's outstretched right arm, spun, and slammed him directly into the ground. The dull thud echoed across the training grounds.
"Guh!"
Air whooshed from Wan Ruo's lungs, but his body wasn't weak. His physical strength, while not monstrous, was far sturdier than his peers.
He grunted and rolled away, immediately springing to his feet. There wasn't even a full second between the slam and his recovery.
The watching disciples clapped and hollered. They weren't cheering sides. They were just excited. This was a proper fight.
Wan Ruo put some distance between them, breathing deeply. His stance reformed, fists up, knees slightly bent. His sharp eyes locked onto Zheng Xie's with growing focus.
They circled each other slowly, like wild beasts sizing up prey—but both were hunters.
Then Wan Ruo moved again.
This time he wasn't reckless. He activated a movement technique—his qi wrapped around his limbs, reinforcing the fluidity of his steps. He danced forward, blurring slightly, then twisted into a strike with his left palm glowing faintly.
It was a martial technique—[Piercing Flow Palm.]
Zheng Xie didn't dodge.
He let the blow land.
Wan Ruo's eyes widened. 'He's letting me hit?!'
But in the very moment their skin connected, Zheng Xie's fingers latched onto his wrist like iron chains. Then came the retaliatory technique.
"[Stone Palm]," he muttered.
His arm was suddenly coated in dense amount of qi. The surface of his forearm hardened like rock—mimicking the ground beneath their feet. A radiant white light burst from it, blinding in its intensity.
Boom!
His fist buried itself deep into Wan Ruo's gut.
"GAAH—!"
Wan Ruo's feet lifted from the ground. His body arched backward, water spraying out of his mouth in a mist. He gasped—lungs screaming for air—but Zheng Xie didn't stop.
Not yet.
Another strike.
And another.
Then another. And another.
Five. Six. Seven.
Each blow reverberated through Wan Ruo's body like a hammer smashing through bone. Each strike was calculated—never fatal, but always punishing.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
Wan Ruo was barely conscious, eyes rolling, muscles spasming.
Then, out of instinct alone, he lashed out.
His right leg struck low—slamming into Zheng Xie's shin.
Zheng Xie grunted. He'd tanked it, but it forced him to slide back a few steps. A well-placed blow.
Wan Ruo dropped to his knees, gasping like a drowning man. He coughed, spat onto the ground, and dragged in air like it was gold.
But he didn't quit.
Not yet.
Zheng Xie didn't press. He respected the effort.
For a moment, there was silence.
Neither mocked. Neither spoke.
Then they moved again.
Wan Ruo took a defensive stance this time, wary of Zheng Xie's brutal counterattacks. He shifted his footing, keeping low, fists tucked closer to his chest. His expression was focused, all traces of impatience gone.
Zheng Xie smirked.
'Finally getting serious, huh?'
He lunged forward—this time taking the offensive.
His left leg whipped around in a high arc, aiming directly for Wan Ruo's head. It was fast, but not unstoppable. Wan Ruo ducked beneath it, bending like a reed in wind.
But Zheng Xie didn't retract his leg.
Instead, he bent his knee mid-air—and hammered the leg back down onto the top of Wan Ruo's skull.
Crack!
Wan Ruo stumbled. He tried to counter, throwing a wild jab at Zheng Xie's side, but the rhythm was broken.
Zheng Xie stepped in like a shadow.
He grabbed Wan Ruo's arm, twisted it behind his back, and drove his elbow into Wan Ruo's shoulder blade.
Thud.
Again.
Thud.
Again.
Thud.
Again. And again. And again.
Ten strikes. Fifteen. Twenty.
Each one was deliberate. Brutal and measured.
Had it been a real battle—an enemy rather than a friend—Zheng Xie would've gone for the spine.
But this was a duel. He showed restraint.
Finally, Wan Ruo's legs buckled. His body collapsed forward, arms limp, breath ragged and uneven. He didn't rise again.
A wave of murmurs swept through the disciples.
Zheng Xie stepped away silently.
He gave the physician a nod as the man rushed forward and began checking Wan Ruo's vitals.
"Nothing serious," the physician confirmed, waving over a few others. "We'll get him treated."
Zheng Xie dusted his hands, shook the ache out of his wrist, and turned to leave.
The crowd parted for him.
Until someone stood in his path.
Chen Lan.
Tall, sharp-eyed, with a cultivation base at the ninth layer of Qi Condensation. The highest among the inner disciples. His clothes were spotless, his demeanor calm.
He looked at Zheng Xie without a hint of mockery or disdain.
"You fought well," Chen Lan said.
Zheng Xie's brows rose. "Thank you."
Then Chen Lan continued, "But I'd like to test you myself."
The training field quieted again.
Some disciples inhaled sharply. Some whispered.
Chen Lan stepped forward, not with arrogance—but quiet pressure. He didn't need to boast.
"I want to see if the rumors are true. About your technique mastery. About your instincts."
Zheng Xie tilted his head.
He was tired. A bit sore.
But inside, a quiet smile formed.
"I suppose," he said, "I have enough strength left for one more."
Their Master raised a hand, stepping in between the two young disciples before the next challenge could proceed.
"Zheng Xie," he began with a hint of reproach in his voice, "you've just had a duel with Wan Ruo. You should rest. Resting one's body is also the sign of a great fighter. Don't forget that."
But Zheng Xie only smiled, the sweat still fresh on his brow, yet his eyes burned with a quiet, stubborn flame. He shook his head with no hesitation.
"I understand, Martial Master. But this student of yours wishes to test his strength… against someone like Senior Brother Chen Lan. Please, allow me this match. I want to see how far I can push myself."
Their Master's brows furrowed slightly. He looked down at Zheng Xie, half impressed, half worried. But… There was something admirable about the boy's spirit. A reckless courage that was far too rare among the disciples.
He sighed inwardly. 'Kids these days… always burning too fast. Let this duel be a lesson to him. If he gets beaten bloody, he'll at least learn to pace himself.'
After a moment of silence, their Master gave a slow nod. "Very well. You both have my permission. The rules remain the same: anything goes. There's no such thing as going easy. If you lose, you lose. Any injuries sustained will be treated immediately after. Understood?"
Chen Lan stepped forward and cupped his fists respectfully. "Thank you, Master."
Without another word, he walked toward the weapon rack at the side of the training ground. He reached out and picked a long, dark-handled spear with a silver-pointed blade. Spinning it once in his hand, he stepped onto the field, the tip of the weapon slicing the air with practiced ease.
He turned to Zheng Xie, brow furrowed, his voice steady. "Brother Xie, for fairness' sake, I request that you choose a weapon as well. As you know, I've trained solely in the art of the spear. It would feel like I'm dishonoring you if I fought unarmed against someone barehanded. Please… pick a weapon. Any."
Zheng Xie shook his head slowly, though his lips curved in a faint smile.
"There's no need, Brother Lan. This Zheng Xie has never favored a particular weapon. My fists—" he raised them, lightly clenching his hands, "—have always been my blades. I've trained them more than any sword or spear. Not that I cannot use one… but I'm better like this. I hope you'll allow it."
Chen Lan looked puzzled, the idea clearly bothering him. It was their Master who answered instead.
"Chen Lan," he said in a stern tone, "you shouldn't feel conflicted. A man who uses fists is no less dangerous than one who wields a spear. Think of the body cultivators out there. Their bodies are their weapons—iron bones, steel skin, mountain-crushing fists. If you doubt your opponent simply because he's unarmed, then you're insulting every cultivator who's chosen that path."
Realizing his mistake, Chen Lan lowered his head and cupped his fists once more. "This disciple understands. Thank you for the guidance, Master. Brother Xie, I hope you forgive my shortsightedness."
Zheng Xie only waved a hand dismissively. "There's no need to apologize. You were being considerate. No one should feel ashamed for that."
Both took their positions. The training field grew quiet. The crowd of disciples stood at the edges, barely daring to breathe.
Their Master raised his hand. "Begin."
The moment his hand dropped, Chen Lan surged forward.
A single step. A burst of qi. A sharp whistle in the air.
His spear blurred with motion as he circled Zheng Xie in a wide arc. Before Zheng Xie could fully react, Chen Lan reappeared behind him. A cold, deadly gleam flashed in his eyes. The spear shot forward, fast and precise, aimed right for his back.
Zheng Xie barely managed to twist aside. The blade only grazed him, but it still tore through his robes and skin with a wet slice.
"Agh—"
He winced. Blood dripped freely down his back, soaking into his already stained robes. Just a graze… but it burned.
Chen Lan didn't pause. He pressed forward with relentless precision, spear dancing in his hands like a silver serpent. His strikes came from above, from the side, low sweeps, sudden thrusts. Every angle. Every opening. And Zheng Xie had no weapon to block with.
Zheng Xie evaded where he could, but most blows landed—none fatal, but enough to bleed him. His robe was shredded, his flesh battered, and still, Chen Lan hadn't landed a true hit. Zheng Xie always moved just enough to keep it from becoming critical.
Then it happened.
Chen Lan suddenly hurled his spear.
The sound split the air. A high-pitched whistle. The spear became a silver blur, straight toward Zheng Xie's chest.
Too fast for a 3rd-layer like him, he shouldn't have been able to dodge that.
But he did.
Twisting his body unnaturally to the side, Zheng Xie let the spear miss his heart by inches—but it raked across his torso, carving a deep, bleeding wound across his ribs.
He stumbled, breath sharp and uneven.
"Hah… haah…"
His chest rose and fell rapidly. Sweat glistened on his brow. His body screamed at him to stop, to lie down, to rest. But he grit his teeth, his eyes refusing to look away from Chen Lan.
Pain.
He hated it. Always had. Zheng Xie wasn't someone who could endure pain as if it were nothing. He feared it. He dreaded it.
But he didn't run from it.
'It hurts. Damn it hurts. But I haven't lost… not yet. No... I still have breath in me. Just a little more. Just a bit more… I'll endure.'
'I won't lose… not here… not anywhere… Not ever.'
But Zheng Xie's conviction—blazing, defiant, and proud—was short-lived.
Chen Lan hadn't moved to retrieve his thrown spear.
He didn't need to.
Instead, he advanced with steady steps, his eyes focused and unshaken, his right fist wrapped in a shimmering film of qi.
Without any hesitation, Chen Lan's qi-coated punch slammed straight into Zheng Xie's face.
The impact landed with a sickening thud.
Zheng Xie's head jerked back violently as his entire body lifted off the ground. He flew several meters through the air like a ragdoll, hitting the training field with a harsh skid that tore more blood from his already battered form. He rolled once, then twice—his body crumpling in the dirt with a low grunt of pain.
A hush fell over the onlooking disciples.
Chen Lan, without so much as a pause, walked toward the spear stuck on the ground and retrieved his spear again. He spun it in one hand, the blade whistling through the air with practiced ease as he strode toward Zheng Xie's prone form.
Zheng Xie groaned and forced himself upright, trembling arms pressing against the ground. Blood dripped from his lips. His vision spun.
And just as he rose to his feet—
CRACK!
The thick end of the spear crashed into his face.
Spurt!
A jet of blood exploded from his mouth, splattering the stone floor.
Zheng Xie staggered back. The stinging pain throbbed through his cheek and jaw. His brows furrowed, body stiffening in instinctive reaction. But his eyes didn't waver.
Another strike came.
But this time, as Chen Lan thrust his spear forward, Zheng Xie's hand darted up. His fingers wrapped around the shaft—and he bent it.
Gasps erupted from the watching disciples.
It wasn't rare for a cultivator to bend a weapon with raw strength. What shocked everyone wasn't the act—it was the speed.
It didn't even take him three seconds.
It was as if the spear simply warped in his grip like a branch of bamboo.
Even Chen Lan's eyes widened. He hadn't expected that. Before he could react, he tried to snatch the spear back—but Zheng Xie yanked it toward him instead.
Chen Lan was pulled off-balance, stumbling forward.
That's when the fist came.
Zheng Xie's knuckles slammed straight into Chen Lan's face, snapping his head sideways.
The grip on the spear loosened.
Zheng Xie didn't waste the moment.
He threw the spear aside and lunged.
His fists became a barrage—vicious and focused. He hammered into Chen Lan's ribs, pounded into his liver, slammed fists into his shoulder and stomach. He rotated the strikes with ruthless precision, over and over, not stopping to breathe, not pausing for rhythm.
Ten strikes to the ribs. Ten to the liver. Ten to the stomach.
Every hit sent ripples of force into Chen Lan's body.
But even so—
Chen Lan didn't fall.
He endured.
Zheng Xie's punches started to slow. His breathing grew heavier. His limbs—already damaged from his earlier fight—ached from exertion. The edge dulled.
And that single second of dullness… was all it took.
Chen Lan moved like a veteran fighter. Despite his lack of formal training in hand-to-hand combat, he had fought many battles before. He knew when to strike.
He raised his arm and blocked the next punch, knocking Zheng Xie off-balance—and then his palm slammed straight into Zheng Xie's throat.
Zheng Xie gagged, stumbling back.
Instinct screamed at him to retreat. To gain space.
But Chen Lan was already closing in.
Faster.
Stronger.
He took the initiative once more. And in a flash—
[Piercing Flow Palm]
A palm strike infused with qi struck Zheng Xie's body dead center.
It was nothing like Wan Ruo's attack from before.
This was refined. Controlled. Devastating.
The impact echoed across the field like a thunderclap.
Zheng Xie's body jerked and spasmed.
He vomited a mouthful of blood, red and thick, staining his chest.
His legs gave way beneath him.
He collapsed onto his knees, chest heaving with ragged, desperate breaths.
Chen Lan, too, was panting—sweat clinging to his brows, his chest rising and falling.
Both fighters were worn, bruised, and drenched in sweat. Zheng Xie in blood too.
But that was what made it remarkable.
Zheng Xie had fought Chen Lan—a ninth-layer Qi Condensation cultivator.
Six minor realms separated them.
And still, Chen Lan was forced to go all out.
Still, he was left gasping for breath.
Still, he had struggled.
The disciples around them erupted in wild cheers. Voices called out Zheng Xie's name again and again, chanting it like a mantra. Even their Martial Master looked impressed, nodding silently with a hint of pride in his eyes.
But all of it… was deaf to Zheng Xie.
The cheering. The praise. The astonished stares.
He couldn't hear any of it.
His ears were ringing.
His thoughts scattered, thrown into chaos.
'Useless.'
'Pathetic.'
'Garbage.'
'You dare think you can challenge geniuses? That you would never lose? Look at yourself. Filthy. Broken. Humiliated. Shameless.'
The words clawed through his head like thorns. Even though he wasn't going all out, even though he was scarred from the previous duel. The self deprecating thoughts came to gnaw at him. It didn't matter if he was injured, it didn't matter if he was exhausted, it didn't even matter if he gave his all.
He had lost. All that mattered was his lost.
And then—
A flicker.
A distant memory.
A man's face—middle-aged, hardened, unreadable.
Then another.
A boy, younger. Familiar eyes. A soft smile.
He blinked.
Then shook his head violently.
He buried the memories. Forced them down.
But when his eyes opened again—something had changed.
They were cold now. Not the cold of defeat or despair. But the cold of clarity.
Of resolve.
'I shouldn't let a single loss break me this much.'
'Losing was inevitable. That's how the path begins. Every cultivator walks through blood, pain, and defeat.'
'What matters… is that I become stronger than yesterday.'
His fists clenched in the dirt. Blood trailed from his lips.
'Orthodox cultivators… demonic cultivators… sect geniuses… heaven-favored sons… the heavens themselves… I don't care.'
'One day—I'll face them all.'
'Head on.'
'And.'
'Win!'