Chapter 93: First Strike, First Lesson
"Begin!"
The arena fell into deathly silence—so still that even a pin drop would have echoed across stone and steel.
Master Huan stepped forward, expression solemn. "The Patriarch has spoken. At the count of three, this match officially commences." His gaze fixed on each combatant in turn—Su Tianhao, calm as still water, and Su Jian, his stance coiled like a spring compressed to its limit. "Remember the rules. Anyone who goes against them will be severely punished."
Su Jian gulped audibly, sweat beading along his temples despite the cool morning air.
Su Tianhao remained utterly still—unmoved, unshaken, as if the outcome had already been decided long before he stepped onto this stage.
'Just how strong has the Young Master truly become?' Master Huan thought, genuinely unsettled by the youth's composure. Even with the city's eyes upon him, even with public humiliation on the line—not a flicker of nervousness. Like a predator waiting patiently for prey to stumble into its hunting ground.
He coughed deliberately, collecting himself.
"Now—the moment we have all been waiting for! At the count of three, both opponents will begin!"
The viewing platforms fell into taut, collective stillness. Even the elders leaned forward slightly.
"Young Master... let's see how far you've truly come," Xie Ling murmured from the disciples' section, her voice barely above a whisper. Complex emotions warred across her face. The nine-year-old boy she had practically watched grow up had become an existence she could no longer comprehend.
On the stage, Su Jian reached into his robes and withdrew an ash-colored leather pouch. Reaching inside, he enveloped his hand in dark silver gauntlets that gleamed with cold, menacing luster under the morning sun.
The crowd's eyes widened.
Brutal, reinforced gloves of dark steel that seemed to drink in the surrounding light rather than reflect it. Jagged steel spikes adorned each knuckle like tiny razors. The articulated plates creaked softly as Su Jian flexed his hands—the metallic sound sending involuntary shivers through those close enough to hear it.
"High-grade Mortal Rank weapons!"
A wave of murmurs swept through the crowd.
"Gauntlets, no less—notoriously rare, even harder to forge properly."
Smugness settled back onto Su Jian's features like a familiar mask.
"Draw your sword," he sneered, fists tightening with a sharp metallic clink. "Or you won't even have a chance to fight back before I crush you."
Su Tianhao gave him a single flat glance. His hand rested lightly on Shadowfang's hilt—but made no move to draw it.
"I don't need it," he said simply. "I don't need external help to deal with someone who claims to fight with fists... yet hides his own weakness under steel and metal."
The words landed like physical blows.
"You—!" Su Jian pointed a trembling finger, his face flushing crimson. Confidence cracking, rage flooding through the gaps like water through a broken dam.
Before he could voice anything further, Master Huan stepped forward.
"I shall now begin the countdown."
Silence swept the arena.
"One!"
The word hung in the space between heartbeats.
"Two!"
Everyone held their breath.
"Three!"
Even before the word fully died—
Whoosh!
Su Jian's figure exploded forward in a flash of white, robes billowing like storm clouds given form. He closed the thirty-meter gap in moments—speed far beyond what most Martial Disciples could achieve.
"Tyrannical King Fist!"
His battle cry echoed across the arena as he surged forward with focused, burning intensity—determined to overwhelm Su Tianhao from the very first exchange.
Su Tianhao's golden eyes widened slightly—not in fear, but in sudden recognition as a wave of knowledge surged from the second layer of his inherited memories.
The Tyrannical King Fist—a peak Mortal Rank technique casually created by his father—Tunlong Chenyuan—during his hundred-year punishment in the mortal realm. Spontaneously developed, then handed to a young cultivator who had patiently guided him when he first arrived in this unfamiliar world, still adjusting to mortal limitations.
Though his father had created it almost as an afterthought, Tunlong Chenyuan was a Supreme Dragon Immortal—and the technique's true might was in no way inferior to the so-called ancient Mortal Rank techniques others suspected Su Tianhao of cultivating. While he had indeed created the technique, the name had been given by that grateful young cultivator—a testament to Tunlong Chenyuan's tyrannical dominance during his century of exile.
'Why would Father's technique appear in this small Oakwood City, in Su Jian's hands no less?' Su Tianhao thought, genuine surprise flickering through his normally composed features.
Seeing that surprise, Su Jian's confidence skyrocketed—already mistaking recognition for fear.
"First Form—Monarch's Advance!"
His entire momentum shifted. No longer simply charging, instead advancing like a conquering warlord seizing the battlefield.
His right arm cocked back, muscles bulging, veins lighting up beneath his skin like coiled serpents. The dark silver gauntlet groaned under the pressure being channeled through it, glowing faintly as the air around his fist shimmered and distorted.
Then—he struck.
His fist thundered forward with explosive force, tearing through the air with a sonic boom that made several young spectators flinch. The stage cracked in a spiderweb pattern beneath his feet, dust and debris flying outward in all directions.
The momentum of a stampeding army. The crushing pressure of a tyrant's decree. The gauntlet's jagged knuckles closed in rapidly on Su Tianhao's seemingly unmoving figure.
The crowd leaned forward. Some were already wincing in anticipation.
'As expected,' Su Tianhao thought, eyes narrowing slightly, 'it's not the true Tyrannical King Fist—but a diluted version, passed down through several generations until only a shadow of the original remains.'
Su Jian's lips curved into a triumphant smile, convinced his opponent had been frozen by the technique's might.
"Die!"
Hiss!
The crowd collectively sucked in cold air. The speed and power behind Su Jian's attack was simply too overwhelming to dodge—or so it seemed.
But in that single heartbeat before impact—
Su Tianhao vanished.
Not slowly. Not visibly. Simply... gone.
Su Jian's eyes widened in confusion and alarm, his confident expression shattering instantly. His fist continued forward, momentum carrying him like a runaway chariot with nowhere to stop.
BOOM!
He crashed into the reinforced arena floor with a thunderous explosion that shook the platform to its foundation. Dust and debris erupted outward in a massive cloud. The crowd gasped.
The durable stone held—though deep cracks spiderwebbed outward from the point of impact like a broken mirror.
As the dust began to settle...
"That's it?"
A calm voice drifted through the chaos—cold, crystalline, cutting deeper than any blade.
Su Jian scrambled to his feet and whirled around, eyes wide with alarm—moving like a startled rabbit suddenly aware it stood before a predator.
Su Tianhao stood perfectly still, a small amused smile gracing his features, golden eyes glowing with inner fire, completely indifferent to the destruction scattered around him.
"You're going to need to do a lot better than that if you wish to defeat me..."
The entire audience's eyes widened in collective shock. Gasps rippled through the crowd like waves crashing against stone, building in intensity as the full meaning of what they'd just witnessed began to sink in.
Those within the Martial Disciple Realm—especially the younger generation—were utterly stunned. It wasn't just the movement itself, but how effortlessly it had been executed, as if the very laws of motion bent to Su Tianhao's will.
The ones most shaken were the Su family disciples—those who had personally witnessed the fearsome power of the Tyrannical King Fist. They knew exactly how much force it carried... and yet Su Tianhao had not only avoided it—he'd made it look trivial.
"I didn't even see him move..."
"It's like he vanished into thin air!"
"How can someone move so fast?"
The older spectators were far more composed—a flicker of surprise, but nothing more. Most had long since surpassed the Martial Disciple Realm. To their enhanced perception, Su Tianhao's speed was comparable to a Peak-stage Martial Disciple—impressive for his age, but not extraordinary by their standards.
What truly startled them was his age. Sixteen years old!
They all arrived at the same conclusion:
The current Su Tianhao was not someone Su Jian could compare to.
On the highest platform, Su Yuntian leaned forward slightly, cold eyes narrowing. "I'm afraid Su Tianhao already possesses strength equivalent to an 8th level Martial Disciple... or possibly even the 9th level."
"Peak-stage Martial Disciple?!" Su Liang's face paled visibly. He didn't doubt her words. Though he held the position of Second Elder in name, in terms of actual strength and perception, Su Yuntian had already surpassed him years ago.
'If he's really that strong, Jian'er has no chance at all!' he cried inwardly, anxiety burning in his chest like acid.
The rest of the elders exchanged stunned glances. Speculation, yes—but the kind that settles like a mountain into the mind and refuses to move.
---
"Only two weeks—how did he grow so strong?!" Ye Wenjie cursed under his breath, fists clenched tightly beneath his dark robes.
Two weeks ago during their fight, while he had been unable to match Su Tianhao's movement, at least he was able to follow them. Now?
He hadn't seen anything at all.
"This Su Tianhao must be eliminated before he climbs any further," Ye Wenjie mumbled, slanted eyes narrowing into venomous slits. "Or he'll become a demon I can never overcome."
The Blood Shadow Assassin contract no longer felt like revenge. It felt more like survival.
---
In the disciples' section, Xie Ling stared at the stage with narrowed eyes, her thoughts racing.
She knew the Tyrannical King Fist better than most—had watched it being trained and refined during an entire year of serving Su Jian closely. It wasn't merely raw power. It actively forged battle instinct and fighting spirit, creating a strong martial foundation that would serve its practitioner for life. Only those with genuine potential to become Patriarch were even permitted to cultivate it.
'Su Jian is a 6th level Martial Disciple,' she thought carefully. 'Even someone at the 7th level would struggle to dodge that first strike at the last moment—it would require perfect timing and superior speed just to attempt it.'
The pieces clicked into place, slow and inevitable.
'For the Young Master to dodge it as if it were nothing... he must already be at the 8th level. Or higher.'
The realization hit like ice-cold water.
Images flashed through her mind—Su Tianhao as a child, as a rising star, as a fallen genius, as the boy she'd abandoned for better prospects.
And now... this.
What had she done?
---
On the stage, Su Jian faced Su Tianhao with an expression twisted between disbelief and mounting fury. The casual, almost lazy way that evasion had been executed—it was a humiliation he hadn't anticipated, one his considerable pride couldn't tolerate.
His breaths came harsh and uneven. Not from physical exertion, but from the sheer psychological pressure of Su Tianhao's presence pressing against his consciousness like an invisible hand around his throat.
Across from him, Su Tianhao stood relaxed—golden eyes carrying no mockery, no triumph. Just calm indifference. Somehow that made it worse.
Crack!
Su Jian stomped violently forward, shattering the reinforced ground beneath his heel.
"I won't let you humiliate me!" Su Jian roared, aura flaring like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
Su Tianhao tilted his head slightly—golden eyes narrowing with vague curiosity. The look of a teacher observing a student's first real effort. Distant. Unbothered. Expectant but not impressed.
"Tyrannical King Fist: Second Form—Imperial Suppression!"
His voice bellowed like a war drum. His entire presence transformed—no longer that of a charging warlord, but the cold, suffocating force of an emperor laying absolute claim over the battlefield.
With a deep inhale, Su Jian seemed to expand, not physically but in presence. The dark silver gauntlets glowed faintly, concentrated internal force surging into his arms like rivers of liquid power coiling to their limits.
He slammed both fists into the ground.
BOOM!
A massive shockwave exploded outward, spiderweb cracks racing across the reinforced stone. His figure launched forward like a meteor—twin fists outstretched, glowing, descending with the weight of absolute judgment. Each thunderous step left deep impressions in the fractured stone.
Enough to freeze ordinary 6th level Martial Disciples in their tracks. Enough to rattle even those at the 7th level.
But to Su Tianhao—the punch, the momentum, the carefully crafted illusion of dominance...
Not worth mentioning at all.
The displaced air pressure howled like a living thing, whipping Su Tianhao's azure robes wildly around his frame.
He simply raised his gaze slightly—and moved.
"Very impressive," his calm voice cut through the chaos. "But still not enough."
Whoosh!
He vanished—leaving only disturbed dust and afterimages in his wake.
"Su Tianhao!" Su Jian growled through gritted teeth, his eyes burning with hatred.
This time he was prepared. He'd anticipated the evasion. Without charging recklessly forward, he turned sharply toward the voice, enhanced senses tracking subtle disturbances in the air.
BOOM!
His aura exploded outward as he spotted Su Tianhao landing lightly behind him—graceful, effortless, infuriating in its ease.
"AAAARH!!!"
Su Jian launched himself forward with relentless fury, abandoning all pretense of technique or strategy in favor of pure overwhelming aggression.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Gauntlet-enhanced fists punched out in rapid succession—each blow sending visible ripples through the air, each strike somehow more desperate than the last. The pressure waves forced disciples near the stage to shield their faces, several stumbling backward.
Su Tianhao moved like a phantom through the barrage. Fluid, precise—not a single wasted motion, not one unnecessary step. Afterimages bloomed and dissolved in the eyes of weaker spectators. Even Su Jian struggled to locate his actual position among them, charging like a maddened bull and punching in every direction, the gauntlets groaning under the force of continuous assault.
Every single punch carried seven thousand pounds behind it.
Yet they all fell upon empty air.
Not one landed. Not one even came close.
Su Tianhao was like an eel dancing through shadows—untouchable, impossibly fluid, always precisely one step beyond reach no matter how Su Jian adjusted or predicted.
It was as if he were fighting a ghost—one that refused to be caught or cornered, yet stood calmly at the very center of the violent storm he himself had created.