Lao Xie didn't respond, but the faint upward curve at the edge of his lips said enough.
For a heartbeat, the arena fell silent. The crowd expected another surge of sword qi, another explosion—but what they saw instead was quieter. The air around the two men pulsed softly, steady as a heartbeat.
Ling Ruxin clasped her hands tightly, unsure why her chest felt heavy. Elder Yao's brows knitted slightly, torn between awe and unease. "It's not about speed or power anymore…" she murmured. "They're fighting over rhythm itself."
Back on the stage, Shen Yun exhaled slowly, lowering his stance once more. "You know," he said, his tone faintly amused, "most people panic when I take control of the tempo. But you… you're dancing to it."
Lao Xie raised his sword, the faint shimmer along its edge pulsing once more. "Maybe I prefer to see where the dance leads."
Clang.
The next strike came, not fierce—but perfectly timed.
Shen Yun's blade met his again, their movements synchronized like reflection and shadow. The two exchanged a flurry of strikes that blurred into one fluid rhythm, their swords no longer clashing, but weaving together—each move answered in kind.
No shouting, no fury—only focus.
And for the first time, Shen Yun's calm eyes flickered with genuine admiration. "You're dangerous, Lao Xie," he murmured, voice almost too soft for the crowd to hear. "If you can copy my rhythm in a single fight… I can only imagine what you'd do after a hundred."
Lao Xie's gaze lifted slightly, his tone quiet but edged with meaning. "Then you'd best not give me that many chances."
Shen Yun chuckled under his breath, the faintest trace of delight flickering across his face. "Sharp tongue, too. I like that."
Lao Xie exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing a fraction as the corners of his lips tugged—not quite a frown, not quite amusement. "You actually talk too much," he said at last, his tone light, yet laced with quiet indifference. It wasn't a jab meant to offend. More like a remark one makes to a fly that won't stop circling.
Inside, though, there was a flicker—interest, faint but growing. Shen Yun's constant chatter wasn't mere arrogance, it was rhythm, a way to control the tempo of both the fight and the mind. Every sentence timed between his strikes, every smile masking calculation. It reminded Lao Xie of a tactic he once used himself—long ago, in a memory buried so deep he couldn't tell if it was truly his.
His grip on the sword shifted slightly. "He fights well enough—if only he'd shut up once in a while."
He didn't like it.
Or perhaps he did—just not enough to admit it.
Still, beneath that faint annoyance lay something sharper—curiosity.
The more Shen Yun moved, the more Lao Xie saw the faint threads between motion and intent. The shift of breath before each attack, the minute twitch of muscle guiding the flow of qi along the blade's edge. Subtle, almost invisible—but not to him.
It was as if the fight itself was speaking a language, and for the first time, he could almost understand it.
His heart didn't race. His expression didn't change. But deep down, something coiled awake—a quiet hunger, a realization that this ''talkative' opponent might unknowingly be revealing something far more valuable than victory.
"So that's what sword qi feels like… that faint hum behind each strike. Not brute force, but refinement."
Sword qi.
He had heard of it, glimpsed hints of it through others' strikes, but now, feeling it so directly, it was different. It wasn't power forced outward—it was presence, refined to a line so thin it cut through silence itself.
Clang.
Another strike met, and his wrist trembled slightly, not from strain, but adjustment. His breathing slowed, his movements grew quieter. What once felt like a pattern to follow now became something he could hear, something he could speak back.
Around the stage, murmurs began to rise.
"What's going on? Their speed—did it slow?"
"No, it's too smooth to follow…"
"Are they… matching each other?"
Elder Yao's gaze didn't waver. Her eyes followed the subtle exchanges—the faint ripples where force met air, the invisible threads that trailed behind each motion. A sheen of sweat clung to her temple.
"He's matching Shen Yun's pseudo sword qi," she whispered, her voice low, almost reverent. "No… it's more precise than that. He's walking the same path without releasing any of his own."
Ling Ruxin turned, startled. "But that's impossible, isn't it? Without sword qi, how can he—"
"He's still learning in the middle of battle," she continued softly. "His attacks aren't slowing—they're growing sharper with every breath."
Ling Ruxin blinked, her confusion deepening. "But Elder, his attacks don't look weaker. He's always been strong—how can they be below his realm?"
A faint smile touched Elder Yao's lips. "They aren't weak. Just restrained. His cultivation base is higher than what he shows—he's been hiding it all this time." She paused, gaze steady on the stage. "But that's not what frightens me."
Ling Ruxin's breath caught. "Then what is?"
"That he's still learning in the middle of battle. His attacks aren't slowing, they're becoming more refined. He could have ended this in a few moves… yet he's choosing not to."
The young woman's brows drew together. "So he's… enjoying it?"
Elder Yao's eyes darkened slightly. "No. He's seeking something. A comprehension, perhaps. He's fighting not for victory, but for understanding."
Back on the stage, Lao Xie stepped lightly, his blade moving almost lazily now. Shen Yun's rhythm pressed against him—smooth, practiced, dominant—but every time it should have overwhelmed him, Lao Xie slipped through, his motion neither retreat nor defense.
Shen Yun noticed.
"Your strikes are changing," he said quietly, a grin tugging at his lips. "It's like watching a mirror that keeps learning to reflect better."
Lao Xie's eyes half-lidded, calm and unreadable. "Then you might want to stop looking."
The next sound was barely audible—ting—so soft that only the sharpest ears caught it. But Elder Yao felt it. A faint pulse rippled through the air, cold and precise.
Her heart skipped a beat. "He's stabilizing it."
For the briefest instant, the glow along Lao Xie's blade shimmered—not with light, but with intent. It faded as soon as it came, but Shen Yun's expression shifted, the smile faltering ever so slightly.
His voice lowered. "So… you've touched it."
Lao Xie tilted his head, as if bored. "Touched what?"
Shen Yun's answer was a quiet laugh. "The edge between man and sword."
The crowd didn't understand what they were seeing, but Elder Yao did. And the faint tremor in her chest told her that this fight was no longer about victory. It was about revelation.
And somewhere deep in the silence between blades, Lao Xie felt it too—an understanding forming quietly, like a whisper beneath the roar of battle.