The battlefield was a whirlwind of constant motion, the air thick with spiritual energy. Every strike from Wu's fan and Lin's spear had Han on the defensive, but his movements were fluid, almost preternatural, his mind calculating every step. Despite their combined efforts, neither Wu nor Lin could land a decisive blow, though each attack brought them closer to their limit.
The force of Wu's wind blasts left his arm aching, and Lin's spear thrusts were losing their precision as his focus wavered. Han, despite being pushed back, was still unyielding. The sweat trickling down his brow and the occasional wince were the only signs of the strain he was under, but that didn't mean he was unscathed. In fact, the toll of the battle was evident in the way his movements had slowed just a fraction, a sharp contrast to his earlier fluidity.
Wu stumbled back after another failed gust of wind, his breathing coming faster now. Lin wasn't faring any better, his spear hand trembling ever so slightly as he kept his guard up. Their injuries, while not immediately fatal, were taking their toll. Wu's shoulder had a deep cut from where Han had deflected his fan earlier, and Lin's leg was cramping from the force of Han's counterattack.
"Damn it," Wu muttered, his expression a mix of frustration and desperation. His gaze flicked to Lin, who nodded once, the silent signal between them clear. They needed a moment.
"Don't let him gain the upper hand," Lin growled.
But both fighters knew there was no escaping the inevitable. The longer the battle dragged on, the worse their injuries became. And they both knew that no matter how much energy they had left, it wouldn't be enough to take Han down without something more.
In that quiet moment, the decision was made. Wu reached into his robes and pulled out a small vial, the contents inside shimmering with a faint red glow. Lin followed suit, his fingers trembling as he unsealed his own vial. The Blood Restoration pill was simple in appearance, a pill that didn't promise instant miraculous healing, but it would be enough. At least for now.
Wu hesitated, staring down at the pill in his hand. It was a costly decision, one that would drain his reserves of resources, but the alternative was worse—facing Han in his current state was a death sentence. He clenched his teeth, his fingers tightening around the pill. This would be the last of his stash.
Lin glanced at him, the same hesitation in his eyes. It wasn't the pain of their injuries that tore at them, but the thought of spending so much for so little. The Blood Restoration pill wasn't rare, not by any means. It was a rank 2 pill, after all. But its cost was astronomical for someone of their standing. They were both elite, yes, but this pill was a luxury that would drain their pockets for weeks, maybe months. The thought of using it made their stomachs turn.
With a sharp breath, Wu forced the pill into his mouth, swallowing it with a grimace. Almost immediately, his body relaxed, the sharp pain in his shoulder easing, and the fatigue that had been creeping up on him seemed to recede, replaced by a mild surge of energy. But it was fleeting. His energy reserves had been replenished, but the damage he'd sustained had far outstripped the pill's effect. He still felt weak, vulnerable. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep going.
Lin followed, his throat tight as he swallowed the pill. A faint pulse of warmth spread through his body, and for a moment, he felt relief. The deep gash on his leg, the bruises from Han's earlier strikes—they began to fade. But like Wu, it wasn't enough. The relief was only temporary, a stopgap measure to keep him from collapsing.
Both men, now slightly refreshed, exchanged a look of grim determination. They would press on, no matter what. There was no turning back now.
Han's gaze lingered on them, the faintest flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. He saw their hesitation—the way they both clung to the hope that the pill would make a difference, even when the damage they had taken far outpaced its meager benefits.
But Han wasn't concerned about the same things. His resources were quite high for his level, and the cost of such a pill was nothing to him. The hesitation Wu and Lin showed as they swallowed their pills was foreign to him. He didn't feel their struggle to decide. He only felt the need to finish this, to push forward.
And yet… the 2v1 situation gnawed at him. Even now, despite his wealth of resources and his skill, Han couldn't help but feel a rising sense of urgency. The fight had shifted. He was faster, sharper than they were now, but that didn't mean he could let up. No matter how powerful he was, a 2v1 would eventually overwhelm him. His energy reserves weren't endless; they would catch up to him eventually.
Wu and Lin may have been injured, but they were still formidable. Han knew he had to end this fight now before they recovered enough to turn the tables. His breath quickened, his body tense. Every instinct screamed at him to strike decisively.
He wasted no more time.
With a burst of spiritual energy, Han moved. His palm connected with Wu's fan, sending it spinning from his grasp, while Lin's spear, thrust with lethal intent, was sidestepped. Han retaliated with a vicious blast of energy, sending Lin crashing to the ground. Wu lunged in desperation, but Han was already upon him, his Iron Palm crashing into Wu's chest with bone-rattling force.
Wu staggered back, blood dripping from his lips, and Lin barely managed to rise to his feet, struggling to maintain balance. The fight had become a one-sided affair, but Han knew it wasn't over yet.
The Blood Restoration Pill had done little to turn the tide, and the lingering pain and fatigue that both of his opponents suffered were only worsened by the constant pressure. But Han's restlessness remained, his urgency mounting. The longer this dragged on, the more it would work against him. He needed to finish this—now.
He took another step forward, eyes sharp, his spiritual pressure rising like a brewing storm. But the moment lingered—too long. Wu, though bloodied and drained, still had the will to fight. Lin, face pale and muscles trembling, began to steady his stance again. Neither had fallen yet. They weren't backing down.
Han's brows furrowed, the edge of his jaw tightening. A flicker of restlessness crept into his chest, unshakable and cold.
Two against one.
Even with his strength, even with his foundation, the scales had stopped tipping. They were holding on—barely—but holding on nonetheless. And the longer this dragged, the clearer it became: this wasn't a battle he could afford to let stretch into attrition.
His palm clenched at his side, and his gaze dropped for half a second—calculating, debating.
"Tsk." His breath hissed out between his teeth. "It seems like I really have to use that to end it."
His voice was low, bitter, laced with irritation—not at them, but at the situation. His trump card wasn't something grand and dramatic like a pill or talisman. It was a technique. One move. One decisive strike. And it could only be used once a day.
Once.
"But if I waste it…"
He didn't finish the thought. He didn't need to.
His heart pounded against his ribs, not from exhaustion, but the weight of the decision. If he used it now and it didn't finish them off—if they endured even a fragment of it—he'd be left exposed. Two-on-one might be manageable in bursts. But two-on-one after he'd spent his strongest move? That was suicide.
His fingers twitched. His breath came slower, heavier. For all his control, all his mastery, that creeping sense of danger had begun to bleed into his thoughts. He didn't fear defeat—but he hated risk without reward.
"I can only use it once a day," he whispered through clenched teeth, gaze flicking between Wu and Lin, who, despite their tattered states, stood tall with eyes burning bright. "Damn it… I have to win this."
The words came like a curse. Not because he doubted his ability—no, Han knew he was stronger—but because he hated being forced into this corner. Because this wasn't supposed to be a fight where he needed that. Yet here he was, outnumbered, time slipping through his fingers, and the sharp edge of defeat whispering at the edge of possibility.
He steadied his breath.
No more time to think.