The thin line of steel hovered at Zhang Weiren's throat for only a breath longer before withdrawing, retreating not because of hesitation, but because it had already accomplished what it was meant to. Lao Xie's wrist turned slightly, and the blade lowered at an unhurried angle, its edge slipping away from skin as though it had never intended to draw blood at all.
That absence of pressure felt heavier than the threat itself.
Zhang Weiren instinctively tightened his stance, boots grinding against the fractured stone as he forced stability back into his footing. The golden shimmer along his arms flared again, but it no longer burned wild. Now it compressed inward, dense and stubborn, like a fire trying to burn through a wall it could not break. He could still feel where the sword had hovered, not as pain, but as a quiet reminder pressed into his nerves.
Lao Xie watched him without hurry, without urgency. The tip of his blade tilted slightly aside as if danger were no longer necessary. His posture remained relaxed, but there was no looseness in it, no carelessness. The calm had shifted. It was no longer distant.
It was present.
"You moved faster just now," Zhang Weiren said, forcing a rough breath through his chest as he lifted his gaze again. "That wasn't dodging. You were already there."
Lao Xie's eyes lifted faintly, the light in them barely shifting. "You caught that?" he replied, his tone soft, almost conversational, as though they were discussing weather rather than walking the line of a blade. "That's good. It means you're still thinking."
Zhang Weiren let out a slow breath, unwilling to let the words settle too deep. His fists clenched, golden qi tightening along his veins, and though his stance remained firm, there was no denying that the battlefield felt different now. The rhythm he had trusted did not answer him the same way. Every movement felt delayed by half a thought, every strike returned to him just slightly misplaced.
The arena had not changed.
Only the current had.
Lao Xie stepped forward without the smallest flare of power, closing the fraction of space between them as naturally as walking through still water. His blade remained lowered, but its presence was unmistakable, drawing thin lines through the air as he moved.
Zhang Weiren shifted with him, but the adjustment felt wrong. He was no longer chasing. He was responding.
"You're frowning," Lao Xie remarked quietly, eyes resting on him with faint curiosity. "You didn't look like that when you thought you were winning."
Zhang Weiren's jaw tightened, the faint hum of qi deepening along his arms. "Don't talk like you own the stage yet," he answered, voice rough but controlled. "You haven't finished me."
Lao Xie's lips curved slightly, not in mockery, not in arrogance, but in quiet interest, as if he were watching the last flicker of a flame refuse to go out. His fingers loosened around the hilt by a fraction.
"I know," he said calmly. "That's why I stepped closer."
The air around them tightened again, not with explosive force, but with the kind of pressure that belonged to things deciding which side of the world they stood on.
And this time, it was no longer Zhang Weiren guiding that decision.
Zhang Weiren steadied his breath, though the tension drawing tight across his shoulders betrayed just how close the blade had truly been. The qi around him trembled faintly as it gathered beneath his skin, no longer spilling outward in wild bursts, but compressing instead as though he were trying to force himself into a rhythm that no longer answered to him.
Lao Xie shifted his stance, lowering the sword in a slow, unhurried arc. There was no urgency in the motion, no trace of reckless hunger for advantage, only the quiet posture of someone who had already seen where this battle was turning.
Zhang moved first again.
He drove himself forward with a heavy step, his fist arcing toward Lao Xie's shoulder with the weight of burning metal behind it, the air fracturing under the force as the stone beneath his feet split in a jagged line. Even as he moved, his voice slipped out between clenched teeth.
"Don't start acting like you've won already."
The moment his strike entered Lao Xie's range, the world seemed to loosen around it. Lao Xie stepped in, blade tilting just enough for the punch to slide away from its intended path by the width of a breath, the blow grazing nothing but displaced air as he turned smoothly to the side.
"You're the one tightening," Lao Xie replied calmly, the sword tracing a faint silver line through the air as he spoke. "I'm just following you."
Zhang's teeth ground together as he swung again, faster this time, his second punch carrying heavier weight, more stubborn will behind it.
"Then stop following and face me."
Lao Xie's sword slipped past the attack like wind brushing a drifting sleeve, the edge gliding toward Zhang's ribs in a controlled, effortless sweep. Zhang twisted sharply and blocked with his hardened forearm, though even as he succeeded, he felt the force of the contact slide through his guard, slipping through his balance like sand that refused to stay in place.
"You're forcing it," Lao Xie murmured, close enough now that his voice rode along the tremor of their qi. "That's not how your fists used to move."
Zhang's breath came heavier, frustration curling behind his eyes as he pulled his arm back and answered in a harsh whisper.
"You talk too much for someone who hasn't put me down."
A faint curve touched Lao Xie's lips as he turned with the space between them, blade drawing another soft arc.
"You're slowing," Lao Xie murmured, his voice quiet and without triumph.
Zhang forced a breath through his chest. "You're getting faster."
"That's also true."
Their next exchange blurred the dust around them, but the difference was undeniable now. Zhang's punches still carried weight and discipline, yet every strike met the air a heartbeat too late, every pivot found Lao Xie already in a place where he shouldn't logically be. Lao Xie did not strike with heavy blows; he allowed Zhang to bleed momentum with each exchange, draining strength with touches that forced the body to falter rather than the flesh to break.
Zhang tried to adjust—he shifted his stance, widened his guard, added faint feints to his footwork—but Lao Xie matched every change with quiet ease. His sword traced small, precise arcs across the air, shaping the battlefield around Zhang one inch at a time.
"You're stubborn," Lao Xie said lightly as another of Zhang's blows slid past him. "That's a good trait. But if you want that title to mean something, you should stop clinging to a rhythm that's no longer there."
Zhang's breath trembled, his jaw tightening. "Don't act like you've seen through me."
"I already have."
The audience felt the shift more than they understood it.
From above, voices rose in startled confusion.
"What happened? The flow—did it just flip?"
"He was struggling a moment ago, but now it feels like he's leading everything…"
"He didn't get stronger—he just stopped hiding. How does someone fight like that without revealing it earlier?"
"Even his breathing changed. It's like he slipped into a different layer of the fight."
Some disciples clenched the railing with white knuckles, trying to follow movements that blurred into dust and shadow. Others stared with wide eyes, refusing to blink in fear of missing even a heartbeat.
But not everyone spoke.
Up in the inner disciple platform, Ling Ruxin leaned forward slightly, her fingers frozen above the strings of her guqin. Her eyes were steady, fixed on Lao Xie's expression with unusual focus. She didn't speak, she didn't blink, she simply watched—her breath quieter than the breeze brushing past her sleeves.
Beside her, Elder Yao remained equally still. Her fingers, previously wrapped around a porcelain cup, had loosened slightly, though the faint tension in her shoulders never faded. She didn't comment, didn't exhale sharply like some elders above—her mind moved beneath her calm, but her gaze never left the boy who now shaped the battlefield so effortlessly.
On the elders' highest platform, silence replaced the earlier murmurs. The elders had leaned forward in unison without meaning to, their eyes sharp, tracking every faint shift in the rhythm below.