“Begin!”

  Zhou Ming shot forward, his sword sheathed in streams of water qi.

  Even though it looked like Wu Kangming was less than a second away from being decapitated, he didn’t reach for his sword. Instead, he just stood there, staring directly at Zhou Ming with what looked like pity.

  “Yeah, he’s going to die,” Wei Lin whispered beside me. “There’s no way he can—”

  Whatever he was going to say was lost in the gasps of the crowd as Wu Kangming finally made his move. But it wasn’t the clumsy counter that everyone expected, he simply took a step to the side.

  It was barely a handspan of movement, but it was somehow enough to let Zhou’s perfect strike miss and overextend.

  “That was a lucky dodge! Let’s see how you deal with this,” Zhou Ming growled, regaining his footing.

  He didn’t get the chance to show us what he was referring to because Wu Kangming vanished.

  Zhou Ming looked left and right, but there was no sign of his opponent.

  “Coward!” he spat.

  Before he could congratulate himself, a perfectly horizontal slash aimed at his neck came from above.

  Zhou Ming must have sensed the distortion in the air because his eyes widened in fear and he tried to dodge, but it was clear to everyone that he wasn’t fast enough.

  Just when it looked like that Wu Kangming would pull off the upset, rocks erupted out of Zhou Ming’s skin, coating his body like living armor.

  The clash of steel on stone rang out across the arena.

  But the power behind the strike must have been higher than Zhou Ming expected because the force made him stumble back several steps before he regained his footing.

  One hand reached up to touch his neck, the part where the sword had struck, and his fingers came away red with blood.

  For a moment, Zhou Ming froze, staring at his bloodied fingers as if they belonged to someone else. His eyes then darted to the crowd where inner disciples and outer disciples were trying (and failing) to hide their grins at the spectacle unfolding before them.

  The shock and fear in Zhou Ming’s eyes turned to anger.

  One thing I learned in my last life that bullies cared what others thought of them at an unhealthy level.

  Right now, Zhou Ming had been publicly humiliated by someone everyone saw as a servant.

  And that was not something he could bear with.

  Zhou Ming eyes narrowed at Wu Kangming as the latter landed opposite him in graceful manner.

  I got a better look at the sword in his right hand.

  It had no formation arrays or spiritual patterns inscribed on the blade.

  It was completely ordinary.

  It begged the question how a sword like that could break through Zhou Ming’s Mountain Maker technique, a technique known for its defensive capabilities.

  No one below the 7th stage of Qi Condensation should be able to cut through it like that.

  Especially not with the kind of weapon you could find in any mortal city’s weapon shop.

  But instead of using his brain and asking these kind of questions, Zhou spat on the arena floor.

  “I’m going to take your head for that,” he snarled, raising his sword. “And then I’ll mount it on the sect gates as a warning to the other servants so they don’t forget their place in this world!”

  With that, his blade began to weave through a complex pattern.

  Nine intertwining dragon-shaped steams of water qi spiralled outward, creating a cage of water that could attack from multiple angles while defending against counterstrikes. This was the level of technique that Inner Disciples had, they could combine offense and defence in a way that most Qi Condensation cultivators could only dream to match.

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  “That’s the Flowing Rivers Art: Nine Dragon Streams,” Wei Lin explained, noticing my impressed expression.

  But it seemed that Wu Kangming didn’t share my thoughts, he took a step at a precise forty-five-degree angle that positioned him perfectly between two of the water dragons. And then brought his sword down in a simple diagonal slash, but the timing was so perfect that it caught all nine streams at their weakest point where they intersected.

  “Nine Heavens Astral Blade: Thread Cutting,” he whispered, his blade glowing ever so slightly.

  The nine dragons couldn’t stop the strike for even a second, they immediately exploded into a shower of water-qi.

  The sight only caused Zhou to launch into a series of increasingly desperate attacks.

  Even though each strike was technically perfect and backed by the full power of his 7th Stage cultivation, it didn’t matter.

  Wu Kangming countered all of them.

  It was like he always knew exactly where he needed to be.

  When Zhou attacked high, Wu Kangming's sword was there to deflect.

  When Zhou tried to feint low, Wu Kangming had already moved to counter the real strike aimed at his midsection.

  “He’s playing around with him,” Lin Mei whispered in awe. “He could have ended this five times already.”

  She was right. Every time their blades met, Wu Kangming's sword would slip past Zhou's guard just enough to leave a small cut. He would never target any vital area. Just leave perfect little reminders that death was only being delayed by his choice.

  “Master, I can now get a sense of his cultivation,” Azure reported. “Wu Kangming is at the 5th Stage of Qi Condensation.”

  The reveal surprised me.

  From the performance he was having, I expected him to be a few substages above Zhou Ming.

  “But he’s completely overwhelming a 7th Stage cultivator,” I blinked. “The power difference alone should be making this—”

  “Impossible?” Azure cut in. “Yes, but he’s using superior technique to bridge the gap.”

  I knew what he was referring to.

  Even the footwork was at the level of a master, every step was perfectly placed to minimize energy expenditure while maximizing tactical advantage. And his sword movements were way beyond my level to accurately gauge, but even I could see he was using Zhou's own power against him.

  But how did a cultivator go from being a cripple to this in such a short time period?

  Where did he even learn these techniques?

  Last I heard, the Wu Clan had disowned him in all but name.

  The only plausible explanation for this would be that Wu Kangming had found his golden finger.

  Whether he stumbled upon an ancient tomb or received instruction from some mysterious master, I wasn’t sure, but I made a mental note to keep a closer eye on him.

  My attention returned back to the battle.

  Despite the cool afternoon air, sweat poured down Zhou Ming’s face.

  The more he missed, the more ragged his breathing became.

  “Stand still and die!” he roared.

  With his sword held up high, he exploded forward once again.

  This only seemed to amuse Wu Kangming, his lips curled into what vaguely resembled a smile.

  The counter from him was devastating – a quick horizontal slash that cut through the air everywhere at once.

  Within seconds, Zhou Ming’s aggressive offense crumbled, and another small cut appeared on his cheek.

  “Impossible,” he cried, scrambling back. “You’re just a servant, how are you doing this?!”

  The only response he received was another one of those incredible moves.

  Wu Kangming’s sword flickered, riddling Zhou Ming’s body with a dozen new cuts.

  “Those movements,” a voice behind me breathed, “they’re similar to that of the legendary Ancient Sword Saints.”

  I turned to notice an inner disciple whispering to his friend.

  “That can’t be possible,” the friend replied. “The sect’s sword manuals are just pale imitations of the real thing which have been lost for centuries.”

  “Then how do you explain what we're watching?”

  Zhou seemed to have heard them too. His face twisted with fury as he realized that not only was he losing, but his fellow Inner Disciples were already treating this as a lesson in ancient sword techniques rather than a proper fight.

  With a roar of pure rage, Zhou hurled his spiritual sword at Wu Kangming like a spear. The weapon streaked through the air, trailing water-qi in a comet-like tail. It was actually an impressive technique – the kind of desperate move that might catch even a skilled opponent off guard.

  Wu Kangming caught it.

  His free hand moved with that same impossible precision, plucking the spiritual sword out of the air as casually as someone might catch a thrown fruit. He examined the blade for a moment, turning it to catch the light.

  "Quite well made," he said, his first words since the battle began. "The water-attribute formations are particularly elegant. Such a waste..."

  Then he closed his hand, and the spiritual sword shattered.

  Fragments of metal and dissipating formation arrays scattered across the arena floor as the weapon's accumulated spiritual energy dispersed in a flash of blue light. The audience gasped – destroying a spiritual weapon was no small feat, especially one as well-crafted as Zhou's sword.

  "No!" Wei Lin's anguished cry drew several strange looks. "Do you know how many spirit stones that was worth? The materials alone would have fetched..."

  I couldn't help but smile at his reaction, trust Wei Lin to see the monetary value in every situation, even a life-or-death battle. But he wasn't wrong. In a sect where resources meant everything, watching spirit stones literally shatter before your eyes was its own kind of torture.

  Zhou stared at the fragments of his sword scattered across the stone floor. Something in his expression changed – the last traces of arrogance burning away to reveal something darker.

  "Fine," he snarled, his qi surging violently. "I was saving this for that bastard Wang Li, but I'll use it to kill you instead!"

  His hands formed a series of complex seals as he gathered power. "Mountain Maker Art: Stone Giant Transformation!"

  The temperature in the arena dropped several degrees as Zhou's qi expanded exponentially. Rocks began erupting from his skin again, but this time they didn't stop at a simple armor. They kept growing, building upon each other in layers of rapidly expanding stone.

  Zhou's body swelled, his form distorting as the transformation took hold. His arms thickened into pillars of living rock, his torso expanded until he towered over the arena floor. His face became a mask of stone with glowing eyes, and his voice deepened to a rumble that shook the protective formations.

  “Now die!”

  21 chapters ahead! It's the holidays, treat yourself!

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