Chapter 47

  "Cryo Tide?" Adam echoed, blinking.

  He turned toward the three-dantian cultivator who’d spoken during the fight—a broad-shouldered man with a jade sash and a calm, analytical expression. His robes bore the triple-circle insignia of a Senior Pathwalker, and his gaze didn’t waver as he watched the battlefield settle.

  Adam gestured lazily at the melting frost and lingering steam. “Alright, sifu. What was that mess of a technique? Looks like someone flash-froze a tsunami.”

  The man glanced at him, amused. “That was a fusion element. Cryo Tide Qi. A blend of Water and Ice—two elements in the same affinity group.”

  Adam frowned. “So… you just mix elements and call it a day?”

  “No,” the man said, folding his arms. “You must fully comprehend both elements before you can fuse them. And only elements within the same group can be combined—like Water and Ice, or Fire and Lightning.”

  “Right. So if I tried, say… Fire and Water?”

  “Your Qi would turn on itself. You’d either burn from the inside out or suffer spiritual backlash that fractures your Qi pathways. Maybe both.”

  “Sounds charming.”

  “It’s called Qi Rejection,” the man continued. “A hard limit. If the elements are too different—cross-group or opposed—the fusion collapses. Madness, deviation, body collapse. You’re done.”

  Adam gave a long whistle. “So Qin fused Water and Ice because it was safe?”

  “Safer. Not safe. Fusion is power, but not without trade-offs.” The man raised a finger. “Fused elements grant destructive output and battlefield versatility, yes. But you lose access to Dao effects.”

  Adam tilted his head. “Define Dao effects.”

  The man pointed toward the arena. “Pure Dao cultivators—those who walk a single element path—gain unique manifestations. Time dilation. Gravity wells. Spatial storage. Healing pulses. Illusions. Those don’t work with fusion. The moment you fuse, you forfeit Dao resonance after Core Formation's fourth minor realm. You become more warrior, less sage.”

  Adam nodded slowly. “So it’s a choice. Power now… or enlightenment later.”

  “Exactly.”

  A beat passed.

  “Let me guess,” Adam said. “There’s also a cursed, half-baked shortcut for idiots who want both.”

  The man chuckled dryly. “Yes. It’s called the Twilight Path. A flawed attempt to fuse opposing elements by brute force. Most who try either explode or go insane.”

  “Figures.”

  They both looked back toward the field. The mist was gone now, burned off by the earlier explosion. Only scorched stone, shattered frost, and a faint shimmer of Qi remained.

  “That Cryo Tide was clean,” the man muttered. “He comprehended both Water and Ice to a high degree. For a minor sect disciple, that’s rare.”

  The arena floor shimmered with golden light as the formation masters began their reset.

  The Molten Snowfield cracked, collapsed, and folded in on itself—lava veins sealed shut, frost evaporated, and stone stitched itself back together with eerie precision. Within moments, the battlefield returned to its dormant state: smooth, flat, and deceptively peaceful.

  The crowd murmured in anticipation as the scrying orbs dimmed slightly, allowing time to breathe before the next battle.

  From the far end of the field, Qin Hailan made his way toward the contestant stands. His gait was heavy but proud, one shoulder singed, and blood drying at the corner of his mouth.

  Adam watched him approach with casual ease, arms loosely folded across his chest.

  As Qin stepped into the shade, Adam lifted one hand in a slow, exaggerated gesture.

  “Nice,” he said, adding a single, deliberate with a mewing, too-smug look on his face.

  Qin squinted at him. “...What?”

  Instead of answering, Adam flicked his fingers. A soft beam of warm light formed in his palm—clean and steady, with just the faintest ripple of golden Qi running through it.

  Qin instinctively tensed. “Wait, what are you—?”

  “Light-based healing,” Adam said nonchalantly. “You’ve got a fractured rib, a burned shoulder, and your inner channels are tangled like noodles. Stay still.”

  Qin opened his mouth to protest but winced as the warm Qi washed over him. The pain in his ribs dulled almost immediately.

  He frowned. “Why are you doing this?”

  Adam didn’t look up. “Standby healer duty. Tournament regulation. Injured fighters get treatment between rounds unless they’re dead. I drew the short straw.”

  Qin blinked. “You’re a healer?”

  Across the benches, a few contestants who’d been only half-paying attention suddenly turned to look. Several raised their eyebrows in near-identical fashion—some in surprise, others in disbelief.

  Only Xiaoyan remained completely unbothered, leaning back with arms folded like this was old news.

  Adam kept his focus on the healing light. “Well, not full-time. Just enough to fix broken people when I’m not breaking them.”

  The glow faded as the technique ended, and Qin took a deep breath. His shoulder felt solid again. The stabbing sensation in his side was gone.

  “…Huh,” Qin muttered. “Didn’t expect that.”

  Adam smiled faintly. “Most don’t.”

  He stepped back, brushing off his hands. “You’re good now. Try not to get exploded again. I charge extra for multiple rounds.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Qin gave a small grunt of amusement and walked off without further comment.

  The other contestants kept their eyes on Adam a few moments longer. Then, slowly, conversation resumed.

  Xiaoyan didn’t even glance at him.

  Adam sat back at the seat, satisfied.

  “Multitasking: it’s a lifestyle.”

  The terrain pulsed once more—this time forming a jagged mesh of ironwood roots and fractured stone, twisted pillars jutting upward from metallic soil. Shimmering vines coiled around steel ridges, while flecks of floating pollen shimmered like motes of light.

  The Ironwild Bastion.

  Tough terrain. No ranged advantage. Every clash here would be close and brutal.

  From the sky platform, the gamecaster’s voice rang out:

  “Next match: representing the Void Pillar Sect… Jin Zixuan!”

  Gasps rippled through the stands.

  Jin Zixuan stepped onto the battlefield like he owned it—long coat flaring behind him, saber strapped to his back. Three distinct auras coiled around him:

  Lightning Qi, sharp and stinging.

  Light Qi, radiant and blinding.

  Darkness Qi, thick as tar.

  He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. His presence was loud enough.

  “And his opponent… representing the Riverstone path… Lei Jian.”

  A murmur of polite confusion followed. Minor sect. Unknown name.

  Then Lei Jian stepped into the arena barefoot—simple robes, hands wrapped in cloth, fists loose at his sides. His Qi didn’t flare—it settled, like roots anchoring deep into the battlefield.

  Subtle. Sturdy. Present.

  Metal and Wood. No flashy tricks. No triple-dantian shine. Just weight and pressure.

  The gamecaster’s voice boomed:

  “Do either of you have words before battle begins?”

  Jin Zixuan stepped forward, voice calm and cutting.

  “Only this: I don’t know who you are. I won’t remember you after this. And you’re going to lose.”

  A few chuckles echoed in the stands.

  Lei Jian didn’t flinch.

  He raised one hand, flexed it into a fist, and rolled his neck.

  Then smiled.

  “Winning, losing... doesn’t matter.”

  He lowered into a solid stance, knuckles cracking.

  “It’s about throwing these hands.”

  A pause.

  He pointed directly at Jin Zixuan.

  “And right now? Fighting you is top priority.”

  The crowd stirred.

  Even some of the sect elders blinked in interest.

  Jin Zixuan’s eyes narrowed, one hand drifting toward the hilt of his saber.

  From above, the gamecaster’s voice sliced through the tension—

  “BEGIN!”

  The air split with a crack of thunder.

  The moment the command echoed, Jin Zixuan vanished in a streak of blue light.

  A loud crack of thunder tore through the air as he reappeared midair, above Lei Jian, Lightning Steps humming beneath his boots. Sparks coiled around his blade as he descended in a wide arc—a diagonal saber slash charged with Lightning Qi.

  But Lei Jian was already moving.

  His feet slid across the ground with uncanny rhythm—Butterfly Footwork, pure Qi-based movement, low-cost and clean. Not flashy. Not fast. But efficient.

  He pivoted just enough—narrowly avoiding the descending blow as it carved into the metallic floor behind him, sending shards of stone and lightning in all directions.

  Jin spun, landing with a flourish, and smirked.

  “You’re slower than you look.”

  Lei Jian didn’t reply. Instead, he reached down, slamming his palm into the dirt.

  Metal rippled up his arms, coating them in dense silver sheen—fists like hammers, glinting in the light.

  Then he lunged.

  The two clashed in a blur of blade and fist—saber against reinforced knuckles. Jin’s strikes were fast, precise, radiating light and static. Lei Jian’s punches were heavy and relentless, reinforced by short bursts of Wood Qi erupting from his legs at every pivot.

  Each hit shook the ground.

  But slowly—too slowly—Lei Jian began to feel it.

  His Qi flow was… dipping.

  Thinning.

  Dying.

  The air around him grew oppressive.

  And then he felt it—a pulse of cold shadow pressing down on his core.

  Jin stepped back, blade spinning once before he stabbed it into the earth.

  “Now we begin.”

  A wave of darkness erupted outward, sweeping across the entire battlefield.

  > Blessing of Darkness.

  A domain manifested—one thick with shadows, where color dulled and sound felt muffled. Within its radius, Jin Zixuan stood tall, shadows wrapping around his body like a second skin.

  Lei Jian’s breathing slowed. He felt it now—his Qi draining, leeching away with every breath, every movement.

  Jin raised one hand.

  “You’re in my world now,” he said. “The longer you stand here, the less you’ll have left.”

  He pointed his saber forward. “Surrender, before your core cracks.”

  Lei Jian dropped into a stance, wooden bark spreading across his chest, shoulders, and legs.

  > Blessing of Wooden Armor.

  The bark curled and locked into place—and then, with a shimmer of Qi, it hardened into metal-plated armor, rippling with both elements.

  He exhaled and touched the ground.

  Vines surged upward from between cracks in the floor, drawn to him like roots to water. The armor pulsed with life. His Qi replenished slightly—just enough.

  He raised his fists again.

  “You drain me. I drain the ground.”

  A pause.

  Jin’s smile faded, just a little.

  “Cute trick. Won’t save you.”

  “Doesn’t have to,” Lei Jian said, tightening his stance. “I’m not here to run. I’m here to throw hands.”

  And then he charged—armor gleaming, vines lashing forward.

  Jin met him in kind, blade erupting with lightning once more.

  The second clash began.

  Jin Zixuan’s saber blurred through the air—clean, calculated arcs infused with pulsing Lightning Qi, every strike aimed to carve through armor, muscle, or bone.

  But none landed true.

  Clang. Clang. Clang.

  His blade kissed the surface of Lei Jian’s metal-wood armor, only to be deflected. The combination of bark and steel wasn’t just holding—it was dispersing the force, bending ever so slightly, and redirecting his momentum with each glancing blow.

  “Annoying,” Jin muttered.

  Then he snapped his fingers.

  A wave of darkness rippled outward—soundless, sudden, and suffocating.

  > Blinding Darkness.

  The battlefield dimmed in an instant. Vision collapsed into black haze. Even the light from the scrying orbs above struggled to pierce the gloom.

  Lei Jian’s sight vanished. But his ears sharpened.

  He closed his eyes, dropped his stance lower, and listened.

  A footfall—to the right.

  A shift in breath—too close.

  Now.

  Vines burst from the stone beneath his feet, lashing out into the dark.

  The first missed. The second skimmed empty air.

  The third snapped around Jin Zixuan’s wrist. The fourth found his other arm.

  Got you.

  In the same breath, Lei Jian surged forward with pure Qi.

  The vines yanked Jin slightly downward.

  Lei’s right fist rocketed up, now fully coated in metal.

  > Uppercut.

  CRACK.

  The impact connected under Jin’s chin—lifting him clean off the ground. His head snapped back, his body hung in the air.

  Lei’s left fist shot forward.

  > Chest strike.

  THUD.

  Right into the ribs—dense, direct, and deliberate.

  Before Jin could even react—

  > Right one-inch punch.

  A compact blast of force pulsed from Lei’s knuckles, point-blank to Jin’s sternum.

  > Left one-inch punch.

  A second shockwave followed immediately, landing a split-second after the first.

  > Right one-inch punch, AGAIN!.

  The final blast struck like a thunderclap.

  BOOM.

  Jin Zixuan’s body tore free from the vines, flung backward like a ragdoll shot from a cannon. He hurtled through a haze of drifting golden pollen, the motes bursting around him in shimmering clouds before his body slammed into the ground with a sharp, bone-deep crack. He skidded across the battlefield and finally collided with a jagged ironwood root.

  A split second passed in silence.

  Then—

  Cough—!

  Blood sprayed from Jin’s mouth, dark against the stone.

  He groaned, forcing himself upright with trembling arms. One eye was swollen, his ribs pulsing with pain beneath the robes.

  But he didn’t hesitate.

  He pressed his hand to his chest—light flared at his palm, golden and warm.

  > Light-based Healing.

  The glow spread across his injuries, mending tissue, sealing blood vessels, easing fractures.

  His breathing evened out—only to falter again. Each inhale rasped, thinner than the last. The drifting pollen clung to his skin and slipped into his lungs, clogging every breath with invisible weight. No matter how much air he tried to draw, it felt like less and less reached him.

  But his expression had changed.

  The arrogance was gone.

  And for the first time in the fight—he looked angry… and excited.

  Golden light faded from Jin Zixuan’s palms as the last of his wounds closed. He exhaled slowly, shaking out his shoulders, fingers flexing along the hilt of his saber.

  He breath back in as much he could forcibly.

  He looked across the battlefield at Lei Jian—still standing tall, vines curling around his arms like silent reinforcements.

  Jin gave a dry chuckle.

  “You know,” he said, voice echoing across the field, “I didn’t expect this.”

  He began to walk forward, slow and deliberate.

  “A minor sect disciple dragging me to this point? Beating me this much?” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Yeah. That was unexpected.”

  He stopped. His saber pulsed with Lightning Qi, flickers dancing across the blade.

  “I was holding back,” Jin said. “Worried about burning too much Qi, running dry inside my own domain.”

  Then he smiled—sharp, electric, and far too calm.

  “But I heal. And you don’t.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “So now? I’m not worried.”

  The air cracked—Jin disappeared in a flash of blue light.

  > Lightning Steps.

  He reappeared directly in front of Lei Jian, blade already mid-swing.

  The first slash struck from above—blocked.

  The second came from the right—deflected.

  Then the third, fourth, and fifth came faster than the eye could follow, all infused with Lightning Qi, each strike sparking violently as it met Lei Jian’s metal-wood armor.

  But the current never lingered. It flowed downward, absorbed into the earth through the armor’s conductive plating—grounded out before it could destabilize Lei’s Qi.

  Jin gritted his teeth.

  “Tch. Of course.”

  Then he changed tactics.

  He ducked low, slid between Lei’s stance, and with a crackling step off his left foot, kicked upward with full force—right into Lei’s gut.

  Lei’s body launched skyward.

  Before he could recover, Jin was already above him.

  > Another barrage.

  This time, targeted. Precise. Ruthless.

  His saber came down at sharp, angular cuts—aiming for joints, where bark met metal, where vines held plating in place.

  Crack!

  A burst of Lightning Qi exploded at Lei Jian’s left shoulder—shattering the joint, sending the arm spiraling through the air, torn free from its bindings.

  Boom!

  A second slash carved into the thigh, Lightning detonating on impact—severing the leg clean at the hip.

  Lei grunted, tumbling through the air, vines snapping wildly, trying to stabilize him—but he had no anchor.

  Only his right arm and left leg remained.

  Jin’s eyes glinted.

  “One left.”

  He twisted midair, kicked Lei square in the chest, and sent him flying—across the battlefield, past shattered pillars, through a broken arch of ironwood—

  —out of bounds.

  Lei hit the outer platform with a crunch, sliding to a stop.

  Silence.

  Then the booming

  voice of the gamecaster echoed through the coliseum:

  > “Lei Jian is out of bounds. The winner—Jin Zixuan of the Void Pillar Sect!”

  The crowd roared, a tidal wave of noise crashing across the stands.

  Jin stood in the center of the ruined field, breathing hard, body tense, saber dripping with crackling sparks. He breathed normally as the effect of the pollen vanished.

  He glanced once toward Lei’s fallen form—then turned away, without a word.