The World of a Thousand Cuts was not a single attack; it was a localized blizzard of pure, destructive energy. A thousand slivers of sword qi filled the air, shredding everything within their domain. To the horrified spectators, the purple-robed figure of Yue Qingqian was instantly engulfed, disappearing within the maelstrom of shimmering, icy light.
This was it. The dance was over.
But inside the storm, Yue Qingqian was not panicking. The tiny device in her ear relayed her director's final, calm instruction: "Now."
She could not evade the unavoidable. So, as Lin Fan had coached her for hours, she did not try. Instead, she yielded to the storm itself.
She embraced the chaos, using the Willow Catkin Body Technique to its absolute limit. She became one with the tempest, flowing with the violent currents of qi instead of resisting them. She allowed the storm to toss and turn her, minimizing the direct impact, letting the brunt of the thousands of cuts glance off her protective robe. It was the difference between being a stone wall shattered by a flood, and being a piece of driftwood carried along by it.
A moment later, the storm of qi dissipated.
The audience held its breath.
Jian Wuchen stood panting in the center of the arena, his face pale from the exertion, his eyes fixed on the outcome.
Yue Qingqian was thrown clear from the storm's edge. She landed, not in a heap, but with a practiced,踉跄 (liàng qiàng - staggering) grace that ended with her kneeling on one knee, her head bowed. The magnificent purple robe was now marred by dozens of tiny, superficial cuts. A single, thin line of red trickled from a shallow gash on her arm—a perfectly executed, minor injury.
The arena was utterly silent.
She slowly lifted her head, not looking defeated, but with an expression of peaceful contemplation. She looked at Jian Wuchen, her eyes holding not fear or anger, but a profound, almost pitiful sadness.
"Your sword's song," she said, her voice soft but clear in the silence, "is very lonely."
Then, she bowed her head again. "I have lost."
The referee, shaking himself out of his stupor, raised his hand. "The victor... is Jian Wuchen!"
A scattered, uncertain applause broke out. Jian Wuchen stood victorious on the stage, the undisputed winner of the duel. But his face was a mask of pale fury and utter humiliation.
He had won. But he had not defeated her. He had been forced to unleash his ultimate technique, a move meant for battling multiple opponents, just to land a single scratch on a girl who had refused to even draw a weapon. His victory felt hollow, empty, and deeply shameful. With a guttural snarl of frustration, he sheathed his sword, turned his back on the crowd, and stormed off the stage.
Yue Qingqian, the loser, became the center of all attention. Elder Liu rushed onto the stage, fussing over her like a frantic mother hen. But Yue Qingqian simply stood up, offered a polite bow to the elder's seat, and walked off the stage with the same serene dignity with which she had arrived.
The message was clear to everyone. His Dao of Power had been utterly unable to touch her Dao of Harmony. He had won the battle, but she had, unequivocally, won the argument.
From a high, unseen chamber overlooking the arena, the Sect Master stroked his beard, a deep, thoughtful expression on his face. He had seen everything. He saw not a fraud, but an enigma. A new path. A philosophy that could not be dismissed by simple violence. His suspicion was replaced by a profound, scholarly curiosity. This disciple... was far more interesting than he had imagined.
Back on the quiet slopes of Xiao Xiao Peak, Lin Fan was waiting at the courtyard gate, a small bottle containing a potent healing potion in his hand.
When Yue Qingqian arrived, looking tired but otherwise unharmed, he let out a long, slow breath of relief. He quickly inspected the cut on her arm, applied the potion, and watched it heal almost instantly.
"The bleeding was a nice touch," he commented, his voice returning to its usual lazy drawl. "Perhaps a little dramatic, but effective."
Yue Qingqian finally allowed herself a small, exhausted smile. "Did... did I do well, Senior Brother?"
Lin Fan looked at her, then back in the direction of the now-distant, buzzing sect. They had survived again. But in doing so, they had transformed the quiet mystery of the Ninth Peak into a full-blown legend. Their quiet life was further away than ever.
"A flawless defeat," he said, patting her on the head. "I couldn't have directed it better myself."