The arena air felt heavier than before.
Zhao Yun's sword was already within striking distance — yet before the blade could touch cloth, Yue Chen moved.
Not dramatically.
Not violently.
Just one step.
A shift like wind brushing past stone.
The thrust pierced nothing but empty air.
A ripple of surprise moved through the crowd.
"He dodged it?"
Zhao Yun's eyes narrowed instantly. He twisted his wrist and slashed sideways in a sharp arc meant to trap his opponent mid-step.
Again—
Yue Chen was gone from its path.
His footwork flowed naturally, light and precise. His robes barely fluttered as he repositioned himself, as though he were not evading but simply choosing where to stand.
It resembled the movement technique taught recently in class — Flowing Mist Steps — but there was something deeper within it.
Something refined.
Something controlled beyond beginner comprehension.
"He's fast…"
"Since when was he this fast?"
"Wasn't he barely First Stage?"
Zhao Yun's frustration ignited.
"Stop dodging!" he snapped. "Stand and fight me!"
Yue Chen stopped retreating.
The arena seemed to hold its breath.
"Very well," he said calmly.
Gasps rose from the surrounding disciples.
Zhao Yun lunged forward again, sword flashing downward with far more force this time.
This time, Yue Chen did not step back.
He stepped forward.
His hand rose.
Two fingers.
Clang.
The blade halted between them.
Shock erupted across the arena like thunder after lightning.
"He caught it?!"
"Impossible!"
Zhao Yun felt resistance like iron gripping his sword. Before he could react, Yue Chen's free hand struck forward — not wildly, not angrily — but with deliberate control.
Bang.
The palm connected with Zhao Yun's chest.
Qi rippled outward in a contained shockwave.
Zhao Yun staggered backward, boots scraping against the stone floor before he regained balance.
"You're not First Stage…" Zhao Yun hissed, breath uneven. "You're near my realm. How did you advance so quickly?"
Yue Chen did not answer.
He did not need to.
He had rebuilt his cultivation from the ground up.
Every breath had cost pain.
Every step forward had torn against damaged meridians.
But Zhao Yun would never understand that.
Humiliation twisted Zhao Yun's pride.
"Fine," he growled. "Then face this!"
He leapt back and raised his sword high.
Spiritual qi surged violently, wind gathering around the blade in spiraling currents.
"This is my Storm Fang Strike!"
The wind howled.
Dust lifted from the ground.
Even some disciples instinctively stepped back from the pressure.
"If that lands, he's finished…"
But Yue Chen's expression did not change.
He unsheathed his sword slowly.
The motion was simple.
Unremarkable.
Almost plain.
Yet—
When Zhao Yun descended with full force—
Yue Chen stepped forward and executed the same foundational sword form taught yesterday in class.
Basic.
Clean.
Direct.
Steel met steel.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
Crack.
The wind formation shattered like glass.
Zhao Yun's blade was knocked off course.
Before shock could settle into his thoughts, Yue Chen's follow-through struck precisely at his wrist.
Pain shot upward.
His balance collapsed.
One final controlled push—
And Zhao Yun crossed the boundary line.
Out of the arena.
Silence.
Complete silence.
Zhao Yun lay on the ground, coughing blood, disbelief flooding his expression.
"How…? You're only Late Qi Gathering… I'm Peak… You cheated!"
Murmurs erupted, but they were uncertain.
Wei Jianhong stepped forward.
His Core Formation aura pressed down lightly, restoring order without aggression.
"We observed clearly."
"There was no cheating."
"Control and precision determined the outcome."
The murmurs died instantly.
Yue Chen returned to his seat without expression.
But inwardly—
He knew he had restrained himself heavily.
He had not used his death energy.
He had not revealed true sword intent.
Only those at higher realms — Wei Jianhong and perhaps a few instructors — had noticed the refinement hidden in that final strike.
The matches continued.
But attention had shifted.
Whispers followed him now.
—
At the same time…
In the Second Branch arena—
Ling Yue stood across from Mu Xue'er.
The training ground was wider, more formal, lined with stone pillars engraved with branch emblems.
Mu Xue'er's crimson robes fluttered in the steady wind.
She smiled faintly.
"Still trying to prove yourself?"
Ling Yue tightened her grip on Frost Whisper.
"This isn't about proving anything."
"Isn't it?"
Mu Xue'er's voice lowered slightly.
"Your father surpassed mine. My father was pushed aside. And yet… you're still weaker than me."
The words were deliberate.
Measured.
They were not shouted.
Which made them worse.
The signal was given.
They moved simultaneously.
Ling Yue struck first — Frost Veil Form unfolding in fluid arcs of pale-blue light.
Mu Xue'er deflected effortlessly.
Their blades clashed repeatedly, sparks scattering like fireflies beneath the morning sun.
Ling Yue used Cloud Drift Steps, gliding sideways and attempting to control rhythm.
But Mu Xue'er's movements were faster.
Sharper.
Her footwork cut angles that Ling Yue struggled to read.
"Too slow," Mu Xue'er whispered.
A sudden acceleration technique broke through Ling Yue's guard.
Her sleeve tore.
A thin line of blood marked her arm.
Laughter echoed faintly from distant observers.
Ling Yue's chest tightened.
But she did not retreat.
She stepped forward again.
Her breathing uneven.
Her sword trembling slightly.
"I won't… lose easily."
Mu Xue'er's eyes hardened.
"Then don't blame me."
A final surge of spiritual power erupted.
Ling Yue raised her sword to block—
The impact shattered her defense.
Her body was thrown backward.
Out of the arena.
The world felt distant for a moment.
"Winner — Mu Xue'er."
Su Meilin stepped forward, maintaining composure.
Ling Yue forced herself upright.
"I'm fine," she said lightly.
But her hands trembled.
Later, in Su Meilin's room—
Healing energy flowed gently around Ling Yue's wounds.
"You fought well," Su Meilin said softly.
Ling Yue smiled.
"Yes. Next time I'll win."
But inside—
She very sad.
—
Evening fell.
Back in Sixth Branch—
Yue Chen overheard whispers.
"She lost badly."
"Second Branch crushed her."
"She always talks big."
"She even made that blind guy promise to win."
His hands tightened slightly.
He did not speak.
He simply turned and walked.
He knew where she would go.
Moonlight Blossom Lake.
—
She sat beneath the white tree.
Petals drifted slowly around her like silent snowfall.
The lake reflected her bowed figure in soft silver.
Her sword rested beside her.
Her shoulders trembled faintly.
"I'm weak…" she whispered.
"I couldn't even win that…"
A tear fell quietly into the water.
Another followed.
The moon above looked distant.
Cold.
Unreachable.
The night wind brushed through the petals.
Then—
A shadow approached softly behind her.
She did not notice at first.
Until—
A hand rested gently on her shoulder.
Warm.
Steady.
She froze.
Her breath caught.
The lake reflected two silhouettes beneath the moonlight.
And for the first time that evening—
She did not feel alone.
End of Chapter 10...