Zhang Weiren's punch crashed against Lao Xie's blade, the impact ringing through the arena like struck iron. The force behind it drove him back a full step, dust flaring around his boots as cracks splintered beneath the edge of the platform.
He stopped easily enough — balance steady, sword angled slightly downward — but for the first time since the match began, the weight behind Zhang's strike had left a visible mark on the flow of the battle.
Across from him, Zhang Weiren straightened slowly, chest rising and falling with rough but controlled breaths. His arms still gleamed with that molten-gold sheen, veins pulsing like threads of metal beneath his skin. He rolled his shoulders once, the joints in his body popping faintly in the quiet between exchanges.
A sharp grin pulled at his lips.
"…So you can be pushed back," he said, his tone carrying a rough edge of satisfaction.
Lao Xie lifted his gaze, brushing a bit of dust from his sleeve with a lazy motion. "You sound awfully pleased over one step," he replied, his voice calm, the faint curve at his lips neither mocking nor impressed — just quietly entertained.
Zhang's grin only widened. "Then how about a few more?"
The air shifted.
Qi gathered around Zhang Weiren like a tightening grip, no longer spilling loosely from his body but condensing, compressing, drawing in until it clung tightly to his frame like a second layer of armor. The golden light around his limbs deepened in color, no longer just a sheen but a dull burn, simmering under his skin as if his bones themselves had turned to metal.
The stone beneath his feet cracked again — deeper this time.
He stepped forward.
There was no warning shout, no flourish, no wasted motion. One moment he stood, the next his body blurred, vanishing in a rush of wind and golden pressure.
His fist appeared at Lao Xie's side.
The air screamed as it tore open between them, the blow crashing toward him with a speed that left afterimages hanging in the light. Lao Xie's sword lifted, the blade turning just enough to deflect the main force as steel kissed condensed qi — yet the sheer weight behind the attack still ran along the length of his arm, the vibration numbing his wrist for a brief breath.
Zhang didn't stop.
He twisted, using the recoil of the deflected punch to spin his body, his other fist already chambered low. It shot upward, a rising strike aimed straight toward Lao Xie's ribs, carrying enough force to split the platform if it landed clean.
Lao Xie stepped in, not away — his foot sliding forward as his torso tilted just enough for the punch to skim past, grazing the fabric of his robe. His sword arm moved in the same breath, the blade tracing a thin arc of silver between them, forcing Zhang to snap his head back as the edge sliced through the faint golden aura hugging his throat.
The two separated again, boots grinding against cracked stone.
Zhang's grin had sharpened; his eyes burned with a heat that was half battle-madness, half exhilaration. "That's more like it," he said, voice roughened with breath and thrill. "Don't dodge like you're humorin' me. If you slip once now, you'll break something."
Lao Xie adjusted his grip on the sword, his chest rising in a slow, unhurried breath. "You were the one complaining about me dodging," he said mildly. "I thought I'd help you feel useful."
A few disciples in the front row choked on their own breath.
Zhang snorted, but his gaze didn't waver. The air around him seemed to grow heavier with each inhale, as if the arena itself was being pulled closer to him. His next step thundered across the stage, his body a streak of gold and shadow as he vanished into motion once more.
This time, his speed truly changed.
He no longer charged in straight lines. His footwork shifted into arcs, his steps circling Lao Xie in tight patterns as his fists struck from shifting angles — high, low, diagonal, every blow carrying crushing weight. Each impact left faint imprints on the air, distortions that lingered like ripples on water.
Lao Xie moved within that storm, his sword a pale line that drew quick, precise patterns through the dust-clogged world. Sometimes he turned an attack aside with a narrow deflection, sometimes he flowed just beyond reach, letting the fist brush the edge of his robe. Once or twice, the pressure forced him to give ground, sliding back across the fractured floor as he exhaled through the shock of impact.
The difference was clear.
Zhang's fists felt heavier now, his body faster, his rhythm more oppressive — like a mountain that had finally started to move in earnest.
"He's faster than before!" one disciple gasped from the stands, clutching the railing with both hands. "I can't even see his fists anymore!"
Someone beside him shook his head in disbelief. "It's not just speed — his qi grew heavier all of a sudden! It's like he's standing right on top of you even from here!"
Another disciple swallowed hard, eyes wide as they tried and failed to follow the exchange. "But Lao Xie's still keeping up… how is he still keeping up?!"
On the elders' platform, several gazes had turned sharp, losing their earlier casualness.
"That boy from Iron Ring Peak…" one elder murmured, brows knitting. "He's pushed his Iron Body and Fist Dao close to the limit. His qi isn't leaking anymore — he's holding it tight and compressing it with each move."
Another elder nodded slowly. "Mm. Once he reaches Qi Refinement realm, he'll be terrifying with this foundation. And yet…" His eyes narrowed as they followed Lao Xie's graceful evasions. "That sword-wielding brat is still not being smashed flat."
Down on the stage, another heavy punch whistled toward Lao Xie's shoulder, the air itself twisting around its path.
He stepped inward again.
His sword turned, edge meeting the forearm just enough to guide the punch lower rather than stop it. The blow struck the stone floor beside him instead — and the stage cracked apart in a jagged line, fragments exploding upward as shockwaves rippled through his boots.
Zhang changed angles mid-motion, using the recoil to whip a hook toward Lao Xie's jaw.
This one was fast.
Lao Xie's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. His sword arm hadn't recovered from the last deflection's recoil — instead of relying on it, his free hand lifted, two fingers pressing against the inside of Zhang's wrist with pinpoint accuracy as he turned his neck just enough to feel the wind of the strike brush past his cheek.
Even so, the force wasn't fully redirected this time.
Some of it leaked through.
His head tilted a fraction more than intended. His hair scattered.— and a faint sting traced along his jaw where the trailing edge of the punch's force brushed him.
He slid back two steps, boots grinding against broken stone as the space between them widened again.
For the first time since the match began, a faint sting lingered along Lao Xie's jaw.
Zhang Weiren straightened slowly, rolling his neck as the golden shimmer around his arms pulsed like a living flame. His breathing was steady now, his posture relaxed — almost arrogant.
He noticed it.
"You moved more than you meant to just now," Zhang said, his tone light, almost lazy. A grin crept back onto his face. "Was that your limit? Or are you just getting tired?"
The crowd leaned in.
The air tightened.
Lao Xie lifted his hand and brushed his jaw once, not even checking for blood. When he lowered it, his expression hadn't changed at all. No flicker of anger. No annoyance.
Just calm.
He looked at Zhang Weiren like someone observing an interesting toy.
"You're quite confident for someone who hasn't landed a clean hit," he said softly.
Zhang's grin widened. "Keep talking. Maybe it'll make your fall hurt less."
Lao Xie's sword shifted slightly in his hand — not in threat, not in tension, but in quiet, patient readiness.