Wei Lun moved first, as expected.
He didn't charge like some brain-dead body cultivator; he stepped forward with the controlled glide of someone who'd actually practiced footwork. His sword came up in a classic Azure Sword Pavilion middle-guard—blade angled forty-five degrees, tip pointing at Lin Jian's throat, left hand extended for balance. Textbook. Predictable.
Lin Jian didn't meet him head-on.
He slid his right foot back half a step, pivoting the hips just enough to present a narrower profile. His own sword stayed low, almost dangling beside his thigh, point trailing in the dirt. It looked sloppy. It was deliberate.
Wei Lun lunged—straight thrust aimed at the hollow of Lin Jian's throat.
Lin Jian twisted his torso left, letting the point slide past his ear by the width of three fingers. He felt the displaced air kiss his cheek. Close. Too close. But close was better than skewered.
As Wei Lun's momentum carried him forward, Lin Jian snapped his blade up in a short, vicious upward cut. Not at the sword arm—too obvious. At the exposed forearm just above the wrist guard.
Steel met flesh with a wet smack.
Wei Lun hissed, jerking back. Blood immediately welled along the shallow gash—deep enough to sting, not deep enough to cripple. Yet.
"Fucking rat!" Wei Lun snarled, retreating two steps to reassess.
The other two moved in tandem now. The woman with the daggers—short, curved, wicked—darted low from Lin Jian's left, aiming to hamstring. The cleaver guy came high from the right, swinging in a brutal overhead chop meant to split skull.
Lin Jian didn't panic.
He dropped low—almost into a squat—letting the cleaver whistle over his head. The wind of it ruffled his hair. At the same instant he kicked out sideways with his left leg, boot connecting solidly with the woman's advancing knee.
There was a muffled pop.
She yelped, staggered, one leg buckling inward. Not broken—ligaments stretched, maybe torn. Enough to make her next step agony.
Lin Jian rolled right, coming up behind the cleaver wielder. He didn't waste energy on a fancy flourish. He simply drove the pommel of his sword into the small of the man's back—right over the kidneys—then hooked the blade around the man's right elbow from behind and yanked.
The cleaver dropped. The man roared, arm hyperextended.
Lin Jian didn't let go. He twisted, using the trapped arm as leverage, and slammed his knee into the back of the man's thigh. The cultivator went down hard on one knee, cursing.
Wei Lun was already recovering—blood dripping from his forearm, face twisted in fury.
"You think dirty tricks will save you, outer trash?"
Lin Jian released the trapped arm and stepped back, breathing steady despite the adrenaline hammering his pulse.
"Dirty tricks?" he said, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "I call it physics. You should try it sometime."
The woman was hobbling upright again, daggers trembling in her grip. The cleaver guy was back on his feet, cradling his arm, face red with pain and humiliation.
Three against one, and already two of them were limping.
Lin Jian felt a grim satisfaction coil in his gut. Not pride—pride got people killed. Just the cold realization that he wasn't dying today.
Wei Lun spat blood-flecked saliva onto the cracked tiles.
"Enough games. Kill him."
They came again—this time smarter.
The woman feinted low with her daggers while the cleaver guy circled wide, trying to flank. Wei Lun stayed central, sword weaving small circles, waiting for an opening.
Lin Jian let them close.
He parried the woman's first dagger thrust with the flat of his blade, then flicked his wrist to knock the second one aside. Sparks flew. She was fast—faster than him—but her injured leg slowed her recovery.
He stepped inside her guard, grabbed her wrist with his off-hand, and twisted hard.
Bone cracked.
She screamed—high, sharp—and dropped one dagger. Lin Jian didn't hesitate; he drove his elbow into her solar plexus, driving the air from her lungs in a whoosh. She folded, gasping, and he shoved her backward into the path of the cleaver guy.
The big man hesitated—fraction of a second—trying not to hit his own ally.
That fraction was enough.
Lin Jian spun, blade whipping in a horizontal arc aimed at Wei Lun's midsection.
Wei Lun parried—barely. The force of the blow vibrated up Lin Jian's arm, numbing his fingers. Their swords locked, cross-guarded, faces inches apart.
Wei Lun grinned through gritted teeth.
"You're dead, cripple."
Lin Jian smiled back—small, cold.
"Then why are you bleeding?"
He headbutted him.
Forehead met nose with a wet crunch.
Wei Lun staggered back, blood pouring from both nostrils. His guard dropped for half a heartbeat.
Lin Jian didn't waste it.
He lunged—simple, direct thrust to the right pectoral, just below the collarbone. Not a killing blow. A disabling one.
The tip punched through robe and flesh. Not deep—Lin Jian pulled at the last instant—but deep enough to grate against bone.
Wei Lun howled, sword clattering to the ground as his right arm went limp.
The woman was back up, limping, one dagger still in her good hand. Tears of pain streaked her face. The cleaver guy roared and charged again, swinging wildly.
Lin Jian yanked his blade free—blood sprayed in an arc—and sidestepped the cleaver's downward chop. The heavy blade bit deep into the stone altar, cracking it further.
Lin Jian reversed his grip and slammed the pommel into the side of the man's skull—once, twice. The third blow dropped him face-first, unconscious.
The woman hesitated.
Lin Jian turned to her, sword dripping.
"Walk away," he said quietly. "Or crawl. Your choice."
She looked at Wei Lun—clutching his chest, blood soaking his robe—then at her fallen comrade, then at Lin Jian.
She dropped the dagger.
She limped backward out of the pavilion without a word.
Silence fell, broken only by Wei Lun's ragged breathing and the drip-drip of blood on stone.
Lin Jian lowered his sword slowly. His right hand shook—not from fear, but from the aftershock of adrenaline leaving his system. His left knuckles were split open from the headbutt. His ribs ached where a glancing parry had landed earlier. Sweat stung the shallow cut on his cheek.
He looked down at Wei Lun.
The inner disciple's attendant was pale, eyes wide with shock and pain.
"You… you'll pay for this," Wei Lun rasped. "Huo Guang will—"
Lin Jian crouched, bringing his face level.
"Huo Guang can come collect the debt himself," he said softly. "Tell him Lin Jian sends regards. And next time, send someone who can actually fight."
He stood, wiped his blade clean on Wei Lun's robe—careful, methodical—then sheathed it.
He turned to leave.
Then paused.
The Dual Harmonies manual was still pressed against his chest, warm from body heat.
He glanced back at Wei Lun—now trying to stem the bleeding with his good hand.
"You didn't see a book," Lin Jian said. "You didn't see anything. Understand?"
Wei Lun glared, but the fight had gone out of him.
Lin Jian nodded once, satisfied.
He stepped out of the pavilion into the late morning light.
The forest seemed quieter now. Birds had stopped singing. Even the wind felt cautious.
He walked perhaps fifty paces down the trail before his legs nearly buckled.
He caught himself against a tree, breathing hard.
"Fuck," he whispered. "That was too close."
Three against one. He'd won—barely—but every cut, every bruise reminded him how fragile this body still was. Qi Condensation stage four. No core, no real reserves. Just muscle memory, dirty tricks, and a stubborn refusal to die again.
He touched the manual through his robe.
A dual cultivation scripture.
In a world where power came from pills, treasures, and bloody duels… this was a shortcut wrapped in silk and sin.
He laughed—low, shaky.
"Of course I'd find the pervert's cheat item."
He straightened, rolled his shoulders, and started the long walk back to the sect.
Behind him, in the ruined pavilion, Wei Lun managed to sit up. Blood soaked his front. His right arm hung useless.
He stared at the cracked altar.
Then at the trail where Lin Jian had disappeared.
Hatred burned hotter than the pain.
"This isn't over," he whispered.
Farther back, hidden among the vines on the pavilion's eastern wall, a pair of dark eyes watched everything.
Su Mei—outer disciple, stage six, yin physique quietly eating her alive—had come to investigate the same qi fluctuations.
She had seen the fight.
she had felt the faint, unmistakable pulse of yin-yang resonance when Lin Jian touched the manual.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
She melted back into the foliage.
The walk home would take another two hours.