The forest opened slightly ahead.
Not into a clearing, not fully—just enough for the trees to loosen their grip, branches drawing back a fraction as if allowing space without offering it. The ground there was bare and firm, packed earth broken by scattered stone and the remnants of roots long since buried again.
Lin Chen stepped into it without slowing.
Behind him, footsteps hesitated.
Then stopped.
Lin Chen halted a few steps later, sensing the absence of movement not as danger, but as intention. He did not turn immediately. The forest remained quiet, as though waiting to see whether anything worth remembering would occur.
Dao Xuan stood at the edge of the space, gaze fixed not on Lin Chen, but on the way the ground failed to respond to him. Qi still moved at his command, but imperfectly, as if the world here insisted on distance between intent and outcome.
He inhaled once.
Then spoke.
"I would like to ask something."
Lin Chen turned.
His expression was calm, unreadable, neither inviting nor dismissive.
"What is it?"
"A spar," Dao Xuan said.
The words landed without force.
No challenge accompanied them. No pressure followed. They were spoken plainly, without elevation or concealment.
Lin Chen regarded him for a moment.
"A spar," he repeated.
"Yes," Dao Xuan said. "Nothing formal. No witnesses. No stakes."
The forest listened.
Lin Chen did not answer immediately. He looked past Dao Xuan instead, at the way the trees leaned inward, at the thinness of Qi in the air, at the quiet that refused to deepen or break.
"Why?" he asked.
Dao Xuan answered without pause.
"Because this place restricts me," he said. "And yet it does not touch you."
There was no accusation in his voice.
Only fact.
"And because I do not understand that."
Silence followed.
The Void Scripture observer, still leaning against the half-buried stone at the edge of the space, did not move. His expression remained faintly amused, but his eyes sharpened just enough to show interest.
Lin Chen considered Dao Xuan.
He did not sense hostility.He did not sense eagerness.
He sensed something rarer.
Honest uncertainty.
"If we spar," Lin Chen said, "you will not be using what usually answers you."
Dao Xuan inclined his head. "I would not ask otherwise."
That was not humility.
It was acknowledgment.
Lin Chen nodded once. "Very well."
Dao Xuan exhaled.
He did not form seals.
He did not summon symbols.
He simply stood still and let something go.
The faint clarity around him dulled, like a surface losing polish. Qi that had once aligned too easily loosened, circulation no longer snapping cleanly into place. Heaven's subtle reinforcement—the invisible thread that smoothed his movements and sharpened his timing—slipped away.
The forest did not resist the change.
If anything, it seemed to relax.
Dao Xuan opened his eyes.
"I will not use Heaven's alignment," he said. "Nor cultivation beyond what this place permits."
Lin Chen felt it then.
Not pressure disappearing.
But something unnatural leaving.
"Begin," Lin Chen said.
Dao Xuan moved first.
No warning.
No flourish.
His foot slid forward, weight transferring cleanly, body aligned with practiced efficiency. His fist followed in a straight line, economical and precise, aimed not to overwhelm but to arrive exactly where Lin Chen stood.
Lin Chen shifted.
Not early.
Not impressively late.
Just enough.
The strike passed where his shoulder had been.
Dao Xuan adjusted instantly, momentum flowing into a second strike without pause. His movement was smooth, almost elegant, the kind born of thousands of repetitions refined under guidance and expectation.
Lin Chen raised his arm.
There was no clash.
Dao Xuan felt it—an absence of resistance, like striking water that did not ripple. His fist slid past Lin Chen's forearm without friction, redirected by nothing that felt like force.
They separated.
Neither breathed harder.
Dao Xuan's brows knit slightly.
Not in anger.
In confusion.
He advanced again.
This time, his approach changed. Less direct. A feint followed by a sudden shift in angle, footwork tightening, timing compressed.
Lin Chen stepped back half a pace.
The movement was inefficient.
Almost sloppy.
And yet Dao Xuan's strike still missed.
Not because Lin Chen was faster.
Because he was elsewhere.
Not spatially.
Presently.
Dao Xuan's fist cut through the space Lin Chen had vacated just a moment earlier. He pivoted, elbow following, but Lin Chen's hand was already there, resting lightly against his wrist.
Not gripping.
Not blocking.
Touching.
Dao Xuan withdrew instinctively.
The contact had carried no force.
And yet something about it unsettled him more than a solid blow would have.
They exchanged several more movements.
Short.
Controlled.
Dao Xuan's technique remained flawless. Each strike was timed correctly. Each adjustment precise. His experience showed in every transition, every shift of weight.
Lin Chen's responses were late.
Unrefined.
Occasionally awkward.
And always sufficient.
Dao Xuan began to feel it.
Not exhaustion.
Displacement.
His intent arrived cleanly, but the result did not follow expectation. It was as if the moment he committed, the space Lin Chen occupied quietly refused to be what it had been.
The Void Scripture observer watched without comment.
His amusement faded.
Dao Xuan stepped back.
He lowered his hands.
Lin Chen did the same.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
The forest did not intrude.
Dao Xuan exhaled slowly.
"You are not untrained," he said.
Lin Chen shook his head. "I am not aligned."
The forest did not correct either of them.
Dao Xuan closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, the clarity that usually surrounded him did not return. He did not attempt to reclaim it.
"That is enough," he said quietly.
At the edge of the clearing, the Void Scripture observer straightened.
He pushed away from the stone and took a few steps forward, stopping where the shadow of the trees cut across the open ground. His posture remained loose, casual, but his gaze no longer wandered.
"You stopped," he said lightly.
Dao Xuan did not turn. "Continuing would require what I set aside."
The observer hummed. "How considerate."
His eyes shifted to Lin Chen.
He studied him carefully now—not as a curiosity, but as a problem.
Dao Xuan's movements had been near perfect, even under suppression. That much was clear. Yet every exchange had felt… misplaced.
Not blocked.
Not countered.
Arriving where it no longer mattered.
The observer smiled faintly, then stopped himself, as though realizing that smiling was already too much.
"Nine Heavens uses alignment," he said conversationally. "Void Scripture uses absence."
His gaze sharpened.
"You use neither."
Lin Chen did not reply.
The observer chuckled softly. "Don't misunderstand. I'm not praising you."
He paused, then added with quiet honesty, "I'm identifying a complication."
Dao Xuan turned his head slightly. "For whom?"
The observer's eyes flicked toward the forest, then back.
"For anyone who needs the world to respond."
Silence followed.
Not heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Lin Chen turned away.
The spar was finished. The conversation was finished. The forest had already begun to forget.
He walked deeper among the trees, pace unchanged, breath even.
Dao Xuan hesitated, then followed.
The Void Scripture observer drifted alongside the treeline, maintaining just enough distance to claim he was not accompanying them.
Behind them, the clearing returned to stillness.
Not because nothing had happened.
But because the forest refused to keep record.