The courtyard had become a furnace of qi.
The air rippled, light bending with every flare of power, and dust whirled like smoke under a storming sky.
Lu Mao crouched low, one knee to the ground, forming a loose circle with the others — their shadows drawn tight in the faint red glow of the hovering orb in the distance.
Yan Mei's whip like blade coiled at her side, twitching faintly like a serpent sensing thunder. Marco's sword gleamed with a warrior's calm, the edge still vibrating from the last exchange. Chen Yuan's eyes were sharp, his breathing steady — but there was blood trickling down the edge of his jaw. Bao Fu knelt opposite, panting, one arm clutching his satchel of rune spheres as though it were his heart.
Around them, the echo of steel and screams lingered — the rival team was still locked in a futile dance of death with the pale senior disciple.
Lu Mao leaned in close. His voice barely rose above a whisper.
"Listen carefully."
Five heads tilted.
No more words carried.
Only the wind.
His gaze sharpened — black irises reflecting the chaos ahead — and then, like a flicker of instinct, a plan was born.
Not through reason, but through rhythm.
The rhythm of a thief.
***
The green-haired man with the scythe screamed first.
The sound cut through the courtyard like tearing cloth — sharp, raw. His weapon shattered mid-swing, and her pale palm, glowing with silver qi, slammed into his chest. He spun mid-air, hit the wall, and didn't get up again.
The bald brute who led them staggered back, chest heaving, qi leaking through his pores like smoke. Sweat clung to his scalp, gleaming under the reddish light. He had no strategy left — only instinct.
"Again!" he roared at the last two standing beside him — one wielding a heavy axe, the other a short sword. "We go all out! Head, waist, chest — crush her together!"
He inhaled, qi flooding through his body, muscles pulsing. His aura flared red as fire. The short sword cultivator nodded grimly, blue qi coating his blade like frozen lightning. The axeman stomped once, cracking the ground under his boots, ready to launch.
Lu Mao watched all this from far behind them.
Every heartbeat matched to movement. Every exhale timed with theirs.
He noticed the tremor in the bald man's stance — the slight falter before he charged. He's exhausted.
And that meant their window was closing.
He turned slightly. The faint glint of Yan Mei's eyes met his.
She didn't need to speak.
He nodded once — then mouthed the words, "Now or never."
***
The bald cultivator took one last look behind him.
And froze.
Lu Mao stood there with his team — still as statues, weapons lowered, all of them smiling faintly like children who'd stumbled upon a blood-soaked play.
The bald man's eyes widened. "You—"
Lu Mao raised a hand.
And waved.
A casual, mocking little shake that said, Carry on.
The brute spat, fury darkening his face. "You'll regret that."
Then he roared — and leapt.
***
"Bao Fu," Lu Mao said softly.
The fat cultivator grinned wide, pulling out one of his rune spheres. The runes carved across its surface burned blue, humming like a caged insect ready to escape.
He channeled qi into it — the glow intensifying until his palm trembled — then threw.
The steel ball tore through the air with a whistling scream, spinning faster than an arrow, slicing between the bald brute's charging team and the serene senior disciple.
It exploded.
A blossom of blue smoke burst outward, swallowing half the courtyard in an instant. The dense fog curled and rolled, thick as storm clouds, carrying the faint metallic taste of Bao Fu's qi.
Within that smoke, light fractured — silhouettes blurred.
The senior disciple's eyes flickered in surprise. Her expression — for the first time — faltered.
A trap.
A trick.
For a moment, her vision was gone, the world turned to mist and movement — attacks flashing from within.
The bald brute's team seized that heartbeat of blindness.
Their qi erupted — all three of them lunged.
Axe downward, sword slashing high, fists blazing like comets.
Steel clanged, the earth cracked. Their battle cries merged into a storm.
But even without sight, she was monstrous.
Lu Mao saw her shape move through the smoke — one blurred silhouette, all grace and death.
Her blade carved arcs of silver light, deflecting three attacks at once. The bald brute's punch met her palm and the air shattered between them, a dull thunder echoing through the smoke.
Still, for a moment — just a moment — she faltered.
Her footing shifted half an inch too far.
The orb drifted slightly away from her shoulder.
That was all Lu Mao needed to see.
⸻
"Marco," he murmured.
A flicker of light — Marco's qi surged, his sword humming.
He bellowed, "Big Slash!"
The smoke split apart like fabric tearing under a blade. A shockwave screamed through it — a gleaming crescent of blue-white energy heading straight for the senior disciple.
For the first time, she drew her sword.
The silver arc met the shockwave with a crash that shook the air. Qi burst outward in shimmering ripples — dust, smoke, and sparks flying everywhere.
Lu Mao shielded his eyes, cloak whipping behind him.
The wind burned.
When the smoke thinned, she stood unscathed — but now, her eyes were sharp, her expression cold.
Another steel sphere glowed to her left.
BOOM.
More smoke burst open, wrapping her again.
Another team arrived then — drawn by chaos and greed. They saw only confusion, smoke, and the faint red glimmer of the orb floating amid it all.
"There! An orb's still unclaimed!" one shouted.
And they rushed in like vultures.
***
The courtyard turned into a hurricane.
Bao Fu darted from side to side at the periphery, pretending to look lost — huffing, panting, his form wobbling as if out of breath.
But Lu Mao saw his fingers flexing behind his back — a final sphere glowing faintly blue.
He poured all his remaining qi into it, veins pulsing on his wrist.
"This one…" Bao Fu grunted, "…is the last I can manage!"
The orb hummed again — the faint sound resonating with the new team's steps.
Yan Mei's eyes narrowed. The air changed.
The senior disciple must have felt it too. Her expression hardened — for the first time, a hint of irritation touched her lips.
Her qi flared. The entire courtyard trembled.
A wave of silver energy exploded outward, sweeping through the smoke like a tidal wind. The haze vanished instantly, scattered to the heavens.
And in the open air, she moved like lightning.
Her sword — drawn fully now — sang with sharp, pure tone.
The bald brute barely lifted his arms before her strike tore through him, blood spraying as his shoulder split open.
His axe-wielding ally roared, swinging blindly; she spun, cutting through his leg in a clean slice. The last one — the swordsman — managed a single parry before her blade danced again, and his weapon shattered like glass.
Three men fell in one breath.
The new arrivals hesitated.
Lu Mao didn't.
"Marco. Chen Yuan," he said.
They moved.
Marco's qi exploded again, blue arcs tracing across his blade.
Chen Yuan followed — his sword gleamed with pale gold, the motion almost too fast for the eye. Their strikes overlapped, merging into one rhythm, battering at the senior disciple from opposite sides.
Her silver sword blurred, parrying one, deflecting the next, but their sheer timing — relentless and precise — began forcing her a step back, then two.
A gap opened.
The new team flanked from both sides, shouting in triumph, trying to snatch the orb floating near her shoulder.
For a second, chaos ruled.
But her speed — gods, her speed — surged again.
A silver flame roared around her.
She spun in place, blade drawing a perfect circle — a whirling halo of light that exploded outward.
The wave of qi hit everyone at once.
Lu Mao dropped low, shielding himself as the shockwave screamed over him.
Stone shattered. Dust leapt into the air.
Bodies flew back, groaning.
When the dust cleared, the senior disciple stood tall, sword gleaming, white robes untouched.
Her hair fluttered slightly — that was all.
A goddess in ruin.
Untouchable.
Until she heard it — a trinkle.
A faint metallic sound behind her.
Her pupils contracted. Instinct flared.
She spun, sword slicing through the air, expecting another blade or spear.
What met her was stranger.
A whip of light — Yan Mei's blade-whip — shot toward her like a meteor shower, countless strikes in a breath. The air cracked with every snap.
Her silver sword met it, sparks flaring as the two clashed again and again.
Lu Mao's heartbeat slowed.
That was the moment.
Two more shadows joined from behind — Marco from the right, Chen Yuan from the left. Their weapons crossed in a perfect V, slashing from opposite angles.
The senior disciple's sword spun, blocking both — but she had to turn, just slightly.
And the world exploded again.
BOOM.
Another of Bao Fu's smoke bombs burst — his last one.
The air turned white.
***
She leapt back immediately, escaping the smoke.
Fast — but not fast enough.
Something moved within the cloud — quiet, soundless.
A faint shimmer of motion that even her trained senses barely caught.
She swung her sword without hesitation — a clean, lethal strike that sliced through it.
Her blade passed through the target like wind.
The figure she cut — Lu Mao's phantom — split in half, dissolving into dark mist.
Her eyes widened in disbelief — then she felt it.
A faint brush of movement near her waist.
A ripple of qi.
She turned — too late.
The orb was gone.
***
Lu Mao reappeared a few paces away, half-kneeling, dagger still humming faintly in his hand. The red orb glowed in his palm, pulsing softly — warm, alive, as if recognizing its new master.
His breath came fast, shallow — sweat clung to his hairline — but his eyes gleamed with quiet triumph.
His father's voice echoed in memory: A thief's true blade isn't forged in steel — it's forged in timing.
He had used everything Jin Wu ever taught him — the Shadow Veil, to erase his presence within the chaos, and the Phantom Double, to draw her attack toward illusion while he slipped beneath her guard.
Not skill alone.
Instinct.
He rose to his feet, voice steady despite the rush in his veins.
"We have it!" he shouted.
The team froze for a half-breath — then erupted.
"Run!" Lu Mao barked.
Yan Mei cracked her whip, lashing the ground. Chen Yuan slung an arm under Bao Fu's shoulder, Marco leading the way. The crowd of cultivators behind them cursed, shouting in disbelief as realization spread — the orb was gone.
Lu Mao's boots hit stone. Dust rose behind them.
They sprinted through the broken path, past the fallen, past the ruins of the fight.
Behind them, the silver aura dimmed.
And the senior disciple — that pale, divine woman — lowered her sword.
Her gaze followed the retreating silhouettes through the fading smoke, lips curving slightly.
"Clever," she murmured.
Her voice was soft, melodic — like the chime of a bell at dusk.