The air felt tighter.
Not louder, not fiercer, just closer, as if the space between them had been slowly compressed by every clash that came before. The dust still drifted through the sunlight, hanging in the air like suspended breath, and neither of them moved for a brief, dangerous moment.
Zhang Weiren rolled his shoulders once, the golden sheen along his arms pulsing faintly as he exhaled. His grin lingered, but it wasn't as loose as before. There was hunger there now. Pressure. A need that hadn't existed at the start of the fight.
Across from him, Lao Xie's presence shifted without spectacle. The calm was still there, but it carried weight now, pressing outward in soft waves that clung to the skin. He lifted his sword slightly, not in threat, simply as if aligning the world around him.
They stepped forward at the same time.
The distance between them vanished.
Zhang Weiren moved first, not with recklessness, but with precision sharpened by instinct. His fist roared through the air, golden qi trailing behind it like flowing metal, aimed cleanly at Lao Xie's chest.
Steel met skin-hardened forearm in a sharp, vibrating clash.
The sound was deeper this time, traveling through the bones instead of the air.
Lao Xie turned with the force rather than fighting it, his blade sliding along Zhang Weiren's guard before snapping sideways in a thin arc of silver aimed at his ribs. Zhang Weiren twisted his hip and barely avoided it, his next strike already rising.
Their distance vanished without either of them noticing when it happened, the space between their bodies thinning until breath, heat, and intent tangled together, leaving no room to retreat and no time to think of anything beyond the strike in front of them.
Zhang Weiren's fist skimmed along the edge of Lao Xie's sleeve, the fabric tearing slightly under the pressure, while the flat of Lao Xie's blade brushed across Zhang Weiren's forearm, sparks of condensed qi scattering softly where steel met hardened skin, and every step they took cracked the stone beneath their feet as if the stage itself was struggling to endure their weight.
What had once felt controlled, almost elegant, slowly twisted into something far more dangerous, the kind of exchange where a single mistake would not bring defeat but blood.
Zhang Weiren's attacks grew heavier, not wild, not messy, but filled with stubborn will and coiled pride, the refusal in his bones to give ground no matter how tight the space had become, while Lao Xie no longer slipped through the storm untouched, the weight of each strike finally pressing against him in quiet, honest ways, forcing him to shift his footing more than once as the pressure brushed into his bones.
The crowd could no longer tell who was pushing and who was yielding, only that the air around them had grown so tight that a single slip would tear it open.
Zhang Weiren dropped low, his fist sweeping toward Lao Xie's center with brutal precision before rising into a sharp elbow aimed straight toward his collarbone, and Lao Xie twisted with it, lifting the flat of his sword in time, though the impact still ran through his arm in a vibrating ripple, golden sparks crawling along the length of the blade like restless fire.
For a single breath, they locked close.
Close enough that Zhang Weiren could hear the slow rhythm of Lao Xie's breathing.
Close enough that Lao Xie could see the tension burning behind Zhang Weiren's eyes.
"You're not weak," Lao Xie said softly, his voice calm, steady, and without the slightest trace of mockery. "You deserve that title."
Zhang Weiren's eyes flickered for the briefest moment, not out of distraction, but surprise.
And before he could force his mind fully shut, Lao Xie continued in a voice meant only for him, low enough to slip past the roar of the crowd like a quiet blade.
"Outer Sect Number One suits you," he murmured. "You're stronger than Shen Yun ever was. Cleaner. More stable."
The words landed without cruelty, without games, spoken plain and honest, and that simple truth struck deeper than any insult ever could have.
"Don't look down on me," Zhang Weiren growled, the golden light along his arms flaring violently as his teeth clenched. "I don't need your approval."
Lao Xie's lips curved faintly, not mocking, not impressed, only amused in a way that felt dangerously calm.
"Good."
And from there, the rhythm changed.
Not in a loud way.
Not in a way that begged for attention.
Only Zhang Weiren felt it first.
When he attacked again, crossing fists high and low in a pattern sharp enough to shatter bone, Lao Xie didn't retreat as before, but stepped forward instead, slipping into the narrow space between the attacks as naturally as water flowing into a crack.
His sword did not clash.
It moved.
The blade skimmed near Zhang Weiren's wrist with the lightest touch, just enough to tilt the direction of the strike so that it missed its true path by a breath, and in the same flowing motion, Lao Xie turned with him and tapped the pommel of his sword against Zhang Weiren's shoulder, not hard, not cruel, just enough to steal the balance he had trusted.
Zhang Weiren's boots scraped harshly against the stone as he stumbled aside.
For the first time, he was the one being moved.
The air around the stage seemed to tilt.
The audience felt it before they understood it, a strange tightening in their throats and chests as though something unseen had shifted the direction of a river they had been following without knowing.
Zhang Weiren pushed forward again, but the world felt wrong, every step landing just slightly off rhythm, every punch tasting empty air a fraction more than before, while Lao Xie's blade began to arrive first, grazing fabric, tapping ribs, leaving quiet, shallow warnings across skin that carried no cruelty, only control.
Zhang Weiren gathered everything he had into a single, desperate motion, forcing his qi outward in a raw burst that bent the air around him. The golden pressure surged like a wave as he stepped forward, closing the distance in a blink, his body moving on instinct rather than thought, chasing the only rhythm he could still feel.
But when he appeared in front of Lao Xie again, something felt wrong.
The space that should have been empty was already occupied.
Lao Xie had not stepped back. He had stepped inside.
There was no clash of weapons this time, no ringing explosion of force, only the quiet sound of fabric shifting as distance vanished and positions reversed, so subtly that it felt almost unreal.
The sword was suddenly there.
Not thrust forward.
Not swung.
Simply resting in the air.
Lao Xie didn't press the blade forward, nor did he deepen the cut, yet the cold presence of the sword hovering so close to Zhang Weiren's throat was enough to make even the air tighten, the faint hum of steel resting like a quiet warning that needed no force to feel real.
Zhang Weiren could feel it, the thin edge of danger brushing against his skin, and for the first time since stepping onto the stage, the wild heat in his veins faltered, replaced by something heavier, something that sat uncomfortably in his chest.
Lao Xie leaned in just slightly, close enough that his voice slipped past the roaring crowd and settled directly into Zhang Weiren's hearing, calm and unhurried, carrying no mockery and no pride.
"Now," he murmured softly, eyes steady, "you're fighting me."