Then came a faint voice between the flurry of strikes.
"You were waiting for me to slip, weren't you?" Lao Xie's tone was calm, almost conversational. "But patience can be dangerous if you don't realize who's leading the rhythm."
His next strike crashed down with a sharp ring, pushing Shen Yun back several steps. The floor trembled under the weight of the blow.
A faint murmur rippled through the crowd as some disciples leaned forward, their expressions mixed between awe and disbelief.
From the stands, Ling Ruxin's breath caught. The shift in aura was undeniable now—his movements were too refined, too precise. She turned toward Elder Yao, whose gaze remained still, but her voice dropped low enough for only Ling Ruxin to hear.
"…He's using sword qi."
Ling Ruxin's eyes widened. "Sword qi?" she whispered back, astonishment flickering across her face. But then she shook her head faintly, a soft sigh escaping her lips. "It's him… I shouldn't be surprised anymore."
Still, one thought lingered. "If he revealed it now, wouldn't everyone know his trump card?"
Before she could finish that thought, Elder Yao's voice cut in quietly, but her tone carried weight. "Not everyone can see it. His sword qi is refined—too refined. The disciples won't notice it unless they understand the blade."
Elder Yao's gaze turned sharp. "But the elders will."
Back on the stage, Shen Yun's breathing deepened, sweat sliding down his temple. His sword hand trembled slightly from the constant force pressing down on him. Lao Xie's expression, however, remained almost tranquil.
The air between them pulsed faintly, rippling with invisible pressure.
"You're slowing," Lao Xie murmured, voice low and steady. "Careful, Shen Yun. The moment your footing slips, everything falls apart."
Shen Yun's eyes flashed with defiance, his aura flaring around him. "Don't think I'm done yet!"
He charged forward again, his pseudo sword qi erupting like a silver wave, crashing toward Lao Xie from all sides. The crowd gasped as the stage filled with blinding light.
Lao Xie didn't retreat. He raised his sword slightly, tilting it to the side, his gaze never leaving Shen Yun.
Then, he smiled faintly — that quiet, unnerving smile. "So this is your full strength?"
His next words came like a whisper. "Then allow me to return the favor."
The sword qi around Lao Xie shifted—silent, invisible, yet it cleaved through Shen Yun's wave of qi like wind cutting through mist. The remaining light scattered, the sound of it collapsing into silence.
When their swords met again, the pressure reversed completely. Shen Yun's feet scraped backward, his aura faltering as his pseudo sword qi shattered upon contact.
Lao Xie's tone remained calm, almost too calm. "You said earlier that I was dangerous… you might be right."
He stepped forward once more, his voice barely above a whisper, but it carried clearly through the stunned crowd. "Because unlike you, I don't hesitate."
The next instant, their blades collided again — the impact echoing like thunder across the arena, the force sending a ripple through the air that silenced even the wind.
The silence that followed that impact stretched thin, trembling with invisible tension. Dust lifted gently from the arena floor, swaying in the lingering shockwave.
Lao Xie straightened slowly, his eyes never leaving Shen Yun. "Still standing," he said quietly. "Good."
Shen Yun's breath came harsh and uneven. His hands trembled slightly, but he forced his stance firm, stubborn pride holding him upright. "You think this is enough to make me yield?"
Lao Xie's gaze softened, almost pitying. "Yield?" He tilted his head slightly, his tone light but carrying an undertone of danger. "Who said I was finished?"
The air seemed to tighten instantly. Even the faintest breeze that brushed the stage turned heavy, like the atmosphere itself resisted movement. Lao Xie lifted his sword, the tip gleaming faintly under the arena lights.
"You've seen me play along long enough," he murmured, voice low and almost languid. "How about I show you a little of what true power sounds like?"
A faint vibration pulsed through the ground. It wasn't loud—more like a distant chime, faint yet persistent. Shen Yun's eyes narrowed. "What are you—"
Before he could finish, the sound multiplied. Another pulse answered it, then another, until the entire arena seemed to hum faintly in rhythm, like countless invisible blades resonating in the air.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"W-What's happening?"
"It's that move again!"
"That strange sword art—he used itbefore!"
"I've never seen a technique like that in the sect…!"
From the elders' seats, several pairs of eyes sharpened. The Azure Edge Peak elder leaned forward slightly, his expression darkening. "That's no technique I've ever encountered within our archives…"
Elder Yao's lips pressed together in silence. The faint resonance brushed her senses, and her fingers curled over her robe's edge. "He's doing it again…" she murmured. "That isn't sword intent alone—it's the sword answering his intent."
Down below, Shen Yun's instincts screamed. The moment Lao Xie's sword began to glow faintly—not bright, but with an internal depth that seemed to pull the light inward—he realized this wasn't something he could block.
"Let's end this," Lao Xie said softly.
He stepped forward once, and the air moved.
The Heavenly Echoing Sword Arts unfurled without roar or explosion—only a clear, resonant tone that vibrated deep within the chest. The qi around his blade gathered in perfect harmony, neither wild nor forceful, but balanced, unified, and absolute.
When he swung, the sword didn't release light—it released stillness.
The shockwave came a breath later, slicing through Shen Yun's pseudo sword qi as if cutting through mist. His defense shattered, the fragments of his energy dispersing in a faint shimmer. His sword arm went numb; his weapon nearly flew from his grip.
A deep crack split the stage beneath them, a long, echoing line of silence following it.
When the dust settled, Shen Yun was on one knee, breathing heavily, eyes wide with disbelief. His blade was trembling, the faintest fracture running down its length.
Lao Xie lowered his sword, exhaling quietly. "You fought well," he said, voice calm and measured. "But the sword only yields to those who truly listen."
He turned slightly, the faint hum of his qi fading away like a distant note that finally came to rest.
No one spoke.
Then, the whispers began to spread across the arena.
"That move again… what is that technique?"
"It's not from any sect I know…"
"Even the elders can't identify it!"
Up in the stands, Ling Ruxin's chest rose and fell faintly. The awe on her face was mixed with something quieter—perhaps concern.
"You really don't know when to stop, do you…" she murmured under her breath.
Elder Yao, however, didn't take her eyes off the stage. "That sword art," she said quietly, voice low but certain, "it's obviously doesn't belong to this sect."
And on the stage below, Lao Xie simply turned his head toward the crowd, his calm expression unreadable beneath the falling dust, as if none of it—neither the victory nor the shock—mattered in the slightest.