The Cloudveil Sword Sect was alive with whispers.
Not about pill auctions. Not about lecture halls.
But about the arena.
A duel had been called. A rematch.
In the center of the Main Outer Arena, the sky hung heavy with spiritual light. The platform below, made from refined celestial steel, hummed beneath the weight of tension. Floating spirit banners marked the event: a formal challenge, sanctioned and public.
Dozens of outer disciples filled the stands. Inner disciples gathered on balconies. Even several elders, cloaked in clouds of Qi, watched from the high pavilions.
All because Shen Wuji had returned.
He stood at the edge of the stage, pale from recovery but burning with pride. His sword gleamed silver. A soft wind circled his body, his aura calm but sharp, his recent breakthrough to mid Soul-Spring Realm clear for all to see.
Behind him, Elder Zhan hovered silently, arms behind his back, face unreadable.
This match was no casual grudge.
It was a warning.
It was revenge.
It was personal.
Across the stage, Ye Zhen arrived late.
No wind followed him. No Qi pressure surrounded him. No crowd parted to make way.
Just a worn saber tied to his back with a red sash. Sleeves rolled. Slippers slightly uneven.
He looked like a man who'd forgotten what day it was.
But his eyes were quiet. Watching.
Elder Zhan spoke, voice steady.
"This is a sanctioned match between Outer Disciple Rank Four, Shen Wuji, and disciple Ye Zhen. The winner claims rank, contribution points, and formal recognition. Do both parties agree?"
"I do," Shen Wuji said.
Ye Zhen shrugged. "Sure. I'll try not to break anything expensive."
Murmurs spread across the crowd.
"He still acts like that?"
"He's not even using Qi…"
"He got lucky last time."
In the front row, Wei Tu stood beside Qin Ping, chewing roasted spiritual roots.
"I give it eight moves," Wei Tu said.
"Eight?" Qin Ping whispered. "You think Ye Zhen will hold back that long?"
On the platform, Shen Wuji pointed his blade.
"This time, I won't underestimate you."
"That's a shame," Ye Zhen said. "I was hoping for a short fight."
Elder Zhan's hand rose. Then dropped.
"Begin."
Shen Wuji moved first.
A blur of wind. Sword light flashing. Footwork like rippling silk.
He crossed the distance in seconds, blade stabbing forward with force enough to split boulders.
Ye Zhen didn't dodge.
He stepped.
One precise movement to the left.
The sword passed by.
Shen Wuji blinked.
Ye Zhen's hand moved.
Palm open. Ugly stance. Foot planted awkwardly.
The Lame Heaven-Slapping Palm struck.
It wasn't fast.
It wasn't glowing.
But it hit like a mountain collapsing onto a single point.
Shen Wuji flew backward, crashing into the spiritual barrier with a thunderous crack.
The crowd froze.
Ye Zhen rolled his shoulders.
"Still hits weird," he muttered.
Shen Wuji staggered to his feet, eyes wide with disbelief.
"You..."
Ye Zhen reached over his shoulder, untied the red sash, and drew the saber.
It didn't shine.
But it hummed. Low. Deep. Hungry.
Shen Wuji gritted his teeth and raised his sword again.
This time, he didn't speak.
He charged.
Blade danced. Feet shifted. Three moves, six strikes. Wind techniques laced into every motion.
Ye Zhen didn't retreat.
He advanced.
Saber blurred.
One horizontal slash.
It wasn't elegant.
But Shen Wuji's sword broke.
Cracked at the center. Split down the middle.
Shen Wuji froze mid-step, staring at the ruined weapon in his hands.
Ye Zhen stepped past him.
Tapped him once on the chest with the back of the blade.
Shen Wuji dropped.
Flat. Unconscious.
Silence reigned.
Even Elder Zhan didn't move.
Ye Zhen sheathed the saber in one motion and walked off the stage.
The crowd erupted behind him.
They didn't cheer.
They didn't boo.
They whispered.
"What… was that?"
"Is that really martial skill alone?"
"Who the hell is this guy?"
In the distance, on the roof of a far pavilion, Shen Xueyi watched with narrowed eyes.
"He's not just dangerous," she murmured.
"He's untouchable."
Ye Zhen didn't hear her.
He was already thinking about dinner.
And maybe… a nap.