For a moment, the silence that followed their last clash felt heavier than any roar. The air shimmered faintly between them, as if the sword intent still lingered—alive, breathing.
Lao Xie tilted his head slightly, the same unbothered expression resting on his face. "What's wrong? Did I move too slow?"
Shen Yun blinked once, the faintest twitch crossing his brow. "…Slow?" His tone was calm, but his eyes told a different story.
Because he could feel it. That thin thread of sword qi running through the air—it wasn't the same as his own. It was clearer, steadier, and frighteningly pure. He had trained years to condense his pseudo sword qi, grinding through sleepless nights just to touch the edge of it. But what he sensed now wasn't imitation—it was the genuine form. Refined, without impurities. The kind that only those who had touched the true essence of the sword could manifest.
It shouldn't have been possible.
Across the arena, Lao Xie remained still, the faint rhythm of his breath almost too calm for the moment. He could feel Shen Yun's gaze pressing against him, but his mind wasn't focused on showing off or proving anything. The sword in his hand felt light—too light. Like it was responding to something inside him rather than his command.
He didn't understand it fully either. Each time their blades met, something in him stirred, like the world itself was guiding his hand. The rhythm Shen Yun had controlled moments ago now felt distant, replaced by something deeper—an unseen pattern that his instincts simply followed.
Somewhere within the stands, murmurs began to rise. A few elders leaned forward, brows furrowed as they tried to sense the faint traces of qi that danced in the air.
"That… that's not pseudo sword qi," one muttered under his breath.
Another elder from Azure Edge Peak, his eyes narrowing, nodded slowly. "Impossible or not, that's the genuine form. Look at the stability of it. No fluctuation, no distortion… whoever that boy is, he's walking a path even most inner disciples can't reach."
The others exchanged uncertain glances. No records, no precedent—no outer disciple had ever done such a thing. Some argued that it had to be a fluke, that Shen Yun's own qi might've influenced the resonance. Others fell silent, too unsettled by what they sensed.
And yet, in the middle of that tension, Lao Xie just smiled faintly—almost lazy, almost mocking—as if he hadn't just shattered a limit no one else had crossed.
"Don't look so stiff," he said lightly. "You'll make me think I did something wrong."
Shen Yun didn't respond right away. His fingers tightened slightly around his hilt, and beneath the surface of his calm, a wave of disbelief and reluctant awe rippled through him.
This wasn't just a strong opponent.
This was someone the sword itself seemed to acknowledge.
Up in the outer disciple stands, Ling Ruxin's gaze hadn't left the stage for even a second. Her hands were clasped together, knuckles pale beneath the fading lantern light.
Beside her, Elder Yao's eyes had narrowed slightly, her expression unreadable. For a long moment, she said nothing, watching the faint shimmer that trailed behind Lao Xie's sword—so faint it almost vanished the instant it appeared. Then, she exhaled quietly, more to herself than anyone else.
"…Sword qi."
The words slipped out like a murmur, so soft that only Ling Ruxin caught them.
Her eyes widened. "Sword… qi?" she echoed, disbelief lacing her voice. The term alone carried weight—something that belonged to seasoned cultivators, not outer disciples.
Elder Yao didn't answer immediately. Her gaze stayed fixed on the two figures on the stage, her brows furrowing as if piecing together something she already knew but refused to accept.
Elder Yao didn't answer immediately. Her gaze stayed fixed on the two figures on the stage, her brows furrowing as if piecing together something she already knew but refused to accept.
Ling Ruxin turned back toward the fight, her heart thudding in her chest. Lao Xie—again. Every time she thought she had seen the limits of his strength, he tore them apart as if they were nothing more than mist. She should have been surprised, but at this point, she wasn't even sure she could be.
Still, a quiet thought slipped into her mind. "If he's showing something like that here… doesn't it mean everyone will know his trump card?"
Before she could voice it aloud, Elder Yao spoke, her tone suddenly low and serious.
"No. Most of them won't notice."
Ling Ruxin blinked. "What do you mean?"
Elder Yao's eyes softened, but her voice carried quiet gravity. "His control is too refined. The flow of his sword qi is so pure that it blends into the natural rhythm of the world. To untrained eyes, it's invisible—just the shimmer of light or a trick of the wind." She paused, her gaze flickering toward the higher seats where the inner elders sat. "But that won't fool them."
Ling Ruxin followed her gaze and felt a faint chill crawl up her spine.
"The elders…" Elder Yao murmured, almost as if confirming her own thoughts. "They've noticed. Especially the ones from Azure Edge Peak. To them, something like this isn't just a surprise—it's… probably a threat."
The air between them grew still for a moment. Down below, the clash of blades resumed—quieter now, sharper, every sound more deliberate than before.
Ling Ruxin looked at Lao Xie again, a strange mix of admiration and worry stirring in her chest. "You're really not afraid of anyone, are you?"
And far below, as if he could somehow hear that thought, Lao Xie's sword moved again—calm, effortless, and utterly unshaken.
The moment their blades crossed again, the rhythm changed. The quiet poise that Lao Xie had been holding until now began to fade, replaced by a different kind of calm — one that carried focus sharper than any intent before.
Shen Yun's steps faltered ever so slightly as he realized Lao Xie's movements were no longer predictable. Every clash came from an angle he didn't anticipate, each strike timed precisely to intercept his next step. It wasn't brute force. It was rhythm — one that bent to Lao Xie's will.
Sparks flickered between them as sword met sword again and again. The clang of metal echoed like drumbeats, too fast for the eye to follow.
At first, Shen Yun thought it was his fatigue clouding his perception. But then, when their swords met once more, the pressure behind Lao Xie's blade was heavier. Not in strength, but in intent.
"This weight… it's not physical," Shen Yun realized, gritting his teeth. Every parry rattled his bones, the vibrations running deep into his arms. His breathing grew unsteady, not from exhaustion but from the sheer suppression that pressed against him.
Each time their blades met, Lao Xie's eyes seemed to grow colder. Yet behind that calm, there was something else—an almost curious gleam, as if he were dissecting Shen Yun's movements one by one, slowly understanding them, then adapting to them without hesitation.
"You've got good form," Lao Xie said softly, their blades sliding apart with a ring that cut through the tension. "Precise, steady… but a little too clean."
Shen Yun's jaw tightened. "And yours?"
Lao Xie's sword turned slightly, the tip tracing the air with an effortless flick. "Messy enough to win."
Before Shen Yun could respond, Lao Xie stepped in again, his pace doubling in an instant. The air between them cracked. Their silhouettes blurred across the stage, the clash of steel echoing in rhythmic bursts.
Shen Yun blocked a low sweep, but the impact sent a jolt up his arm. He's getting faster… no—he's holding back less.
He tried to adjust, shifting into defense, but the tempo no longer belonged to him. Lao Xie's attacks came like flowing water — smooth, seamless, relentless. Each strike carried weight, each feint led to another that forced Shen Yun off balance.
For the first time, Shen Yun's expression turned grim. "So that's why Zhang Weiren was cautious about him… he reads through his opponent mid-battle."