This Time, I Lose
The training hall fell into a tense silence, the air thick with anticipation. Wu Zhangkong stood like a solitary glacier, his presence casting a chill that seemed to lower the temperature of the entire space. His gaze, sharp as honed steel, swept across the assembled students before settling on Yao Xuan.
"Begin," he stated, the single word carrying the finality of a judge's gavel.
Yao Xuan took a measured breath, the cool air filling his lungs. His mind, always calculating, analyzed the situation with detached clarity. 'A Soul Emperor suppressing himself to Soul Master level. The gap in technique and comprehension is immeasurable, but raw power and bloodline advantages might create an opening.'
"Teacher Wu, be careful," Yao Xuan said, his voice calm yet carrying an undercurrent of focused intensity.
As he spoke, golden light erupted from him—not a flashy explosion, but a deep, primordial glow that seemed to emanate from his very bones. The air around him thickened, charged with ancient power. Before him, the Ancestral Dragon Soul Spirit materialized, its form more distinct than ever before. It wasn't merely a projection but a presence, its semi-transparent scales shimmering with constellations of light, its eyes holding the weight of epochs.
The first soul ring at Yao Xuan's feet ignited—a brilliant yellow that burned like captured sunlight. Unlike the pale yellows of ordinary hundred-year rings, this one held depth and density, its hue speaking of something far older and more potent.
"Ancestral Dragon Sky-Splitting Strike!"
The thought was a command, and Yao Xuan's body responded with perfect synchronization. His right foot pushed against the floor, not with explosive force but with a smooth, terrifying efficiency that transformed his form into a golden blur. The movement created a faint vacuum trail, the air rushing to fill the space he'd occupied moments before.
He crossed his arms before him, the dragon scales on his forearms gleaming with metallic light. His claws, now extended and sharp as divine artifacts, formed a diagonal cross. As he tore through the air toward Wu Zhangkong, the claws didn't merely cut—they seemed to fracture reality itself, leaving behind twin afterimages of distorted space that lingered in his wake.
A collective intake of breath echoed through the hall.
"So fast!" someone whispered, the words barely audible.
Xie Xie's eyes widened, not with envy but with genuine appreciation for technique. He leaned forward slightly, analyzing the footwork, the angle of approach, the economy of motion. 'No wasted movement. Every muscle, every ounce of soul power directed toward a single purpose.'
Tang Wulin watched with rapt attention, his hands unconsciously clenching at his sides. He had seen Yao Xuan's kindness, his patience during forging lessons, but this was different—this was the unveiled might of someone walking a path of legends. The respect in his eyes deepened, solidifying into something unshakable. 'Brother Xuan moves like the dragons in grandfather's stories,' he thought, awe coloring his perception.
Wu Zhangkong's icy composure fractured for a fraction of a second, his eyebrows lifting almost imperceptibly. 'This pressure... this isn't merely soul power. It's something foundational, as if he's channeling the very laws of the world.'
His combat instincts, honed through countless battles at Shrek Academy and beyond, screamed analysis. The attack approaching him wasn't just powerful—it was conceptually complete. Where most soul skills at this level were crude expressions of power, Yao Xuan's strike embodied a principle: severance, division, the cleaving of heaven from earth. There were no openings to exploit, no hesitations in the flow, no unnecessary flourishes. It was, in Wu Zhangkong's professional assessment, flawless in execution for its level.
'If I didn't know his age and cultivation...' The thought trailed off as Wu Zhangkong's fighting spirit ignited. This was what he lived for—not the bullying of weaker students, but the rare encounter with true talent.
The Ancestral Dragon's claws descended, their approach silent yet carrying palpable weight. The air before them compressed, forming visible ripples of distortion.
Wu Zhangkong moved.
His right hand flicked upward, a motion so minimal it seemed casual. Yet from that simple movement, the Heavenly Frost Sword materialized, its blade appearing not in a flash but emerging into existence like frost forming on a windowpane. The first soul ring at his feet—a deep, mature yellow that spoke of a spirit nearing its millennium—pulsed once.
"Frost Mark."
The words were spoken softly, yet they carried through the hall with crystalline clarity. Threads of sky-blue sword energy erupted from the Heavenly Frost Sword, not as a wild explosion but as a woven tapestry. They interlaced, merged, and solidified in the space between sword and claw, forming a hexagonal shield of pale blue light that hummed with contained winter.
Yao Xuan's claws met the shield.
The impact produced no deafening crash, but rather a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated in the bones of every observer. Frost immediately raced across Yao Xuan's arms, intricate patterns of ice crystals forming over the golden dragon scales. A biting cold, sharp enough to numb ordinary flesh, seeped toward his skin—but met the resistance of scales tempered by primordial blood. The frost settled as decoration rather than shackle, glittering harmlessly against the dragon armor.
Simultaneously, the blue shield trembled violently. Hairline fractures spiderwebbed across its surface, not from brute force but from something deeper—a penetrating quality that bypassed mere energetic defense to strike at the construct's fundamental integrity.
Half a second. That was all the shield lasted before shattering into a thousand crystalline fragments that hung in the air like frozen dew before dissipating into mist.
Wu Zhangkong's eyes narrowed further. Without pause, his wrist rotated, the Heavenly Frost Sword drawing a crescent of cyan light through the dissipating mist—a counterattack delivered with seamless transition from defense to offense.
Yao Xuan's mind accelerated, time seeming to slow. 'The angle is forty-seven degrees from horizontal. Dodge left? No, his foot positioning suggests he's prepared for that. Block? My scales might withstand the edge, but the frost energy could penetrate. Then...'
A spatial soul tool bracelet on his wrist glimmered. With a thought that bridged intention and reality, the Thousand-Forged Tungsten Steel Hammer appeared in his grasp. He didn't catch it—it simply materialized in his already-closed hand, the transition so smooth it seemed like sleight of hand.
The hammer's substantial weight—over three thousand jin—felt comforting, familiar. Yao Xuan didn't swing it, but rather positioned it with precise economy, intercepting the sword's path at the exact point where its force would be weakest relative to the hammer's mass center.
Wu Zhangkong's usually impassive eyes registered genuine surprise. 'A forging hammer? In combat?'
"Clang!"
The sound was different from the earlier thrum—sharper, more metallic, ringing through the hall with finality. On the hammer's surface, a crack appeared, one centimeter deep, propagating through the thousand-forged metal like lightning through sky. But the sword's advance halted completely, its cyan light flickering as if stunned.
More significantly, an overwhelming force—raw, physical power that transcended soul power calculations—traveled up the Heavenly Frost Sword and into Wu Zhangkong's arm. His body, conditioned by Soul Emperor level cultivation but currently operating at Soul Master parameters, was physically pushed backward.
His shoes scraped against the floor, leaving twin trails. Instinctively, without conscious thought, his soul power adjusted—not to Soul Emperor level, but a subtle increase to Soul Venerable tier—just enough to allow two light taps of his toes against empty air, arresting his momentum and allowing him to land gracefully rather than stumble.
The entire exchange had lasted less than three seconds.
Silence descended, deeper than before. The students stared, some with mouths slightly open. They had seen Teacher Wu demonstrate techniques before, had seen him effortlessly deflect combined attacks from entire groups. But they had never seen him moved, not even a step, by a student's attack.
Wu Zhangkong looked at the crack in his spiritual sword's energy projection, then at Yao Xuan, who stood calmly with hammer in hand, frost still glittering on his arms like diamonds on gold. A slow nod, the barest hint of approval touching the corners of his usually stern mouth.
"Very good." The words were measured, each carrying weight. "Yao Xuan wins. This time, I admit defeat."
The notification appeared in Yao Xuan's consciousness, concise and clear. Internally, he felt a surge of satisfaction. 'Combat truly is the most efficient path. Twenty points—that's forty days of standard cultivation condensed into a single exchange.'
His total now reached 98 Golden Evolution Points. The threshold of 100, and the next bloodline unlock, was tantalizingly close.
"Thank you for your guidance, Teacher Wu," Yao Xuan said, bowing slightly. The frost on his arms melted away as he released his martial soul, the dragon scales receding to leave unmarked skin. He placed the cracked forging hammer back into his spatial storage—it would need repairs, but that was a minor concern.
"No," Wu Zhangkong corrected, his gaze piercing. "I did not hold back within the agreed constraints. This victory is earned by your own strength, comprehension, and... innovative tactics." His eyes flickered to where the hammer had vanished. "Using a blacksmith's tool in combat. Unorthodox. Effective."
He turned to the class, his demeanor shifting back to the impassive instructor. "Fourth round. Tang Wulin versus Xie Xie. The winner faces Yao Xuan."
As the two boys moved to the center, Yao Xuan retreated to the sidelines, his mind already analyzing their styles. Tang Wulin moved with solid, grounded steps, his posture speaking of tremendous latent power but little refinement. Xie Xie was all fluid motion, like water given form.
The match began. Tang Wulin's attacks were straightforward, powerful swings that stirred the air. Xie Xie flowed around them, his Light Dragon Dagger flickering in and out like a serpent's tongue. Even from the sidelines, Yao Xuan could see the problem—Tang Wulin had strength but no combat experience, while Xie Xie had been trained since childhood.
In less than a minute, it was over. Xie Xie's dagger came to rest against Tang Wulin's throat, the motion too fast for the larger boy to counter. Wu Zhangkong appeared between them before any contact was made, a hand on each boy's shoulder.
"Xie Xie advances," he announced.
Tang Wulin looked disappointed but not discouraged. He bowed to Xie Xie, then to Wu Zhangkong, before returning to the group with thoughtful eyes. 'I need to learn how to fight, not just how to swing a hammer,' Yao Xuan heard him murmur to himself.
Finally, Yao Xuan and Xie Xie faced each other. Xie Xie's expression was a mixture of resignation and wry humor.
"Teacher Wu," he called out, a pleading note in his voice. "Can I admit defeat? My stomach is still sore from yesterday."
The class rippled with subdued laughter.
"No," Wu Zhangkong replied, the single word leaving no room for negotiation. "The battle begins."
Xie Xie sighed dramatically, then settled into a combat stance, his demeanor shifting to focused seriousness. "Don't go too hard on me, alright?"
"Don't worry," Yao Xuan said, his tone calm. "I'll control my strength."
He didn't immediately activate his soul skills. Instead, he simply stepped forward, a normal step that somehow covered twice the expected distance. Xie Xie reacted instantly, his body blurring as he employed the ghostly footwork of his family.
For several exchanges, they moved in a dance of pursuit and evasion. Xie Xie was faster in pure movement speed, his steps leaving afterimages. But Yao Xuan's motions were more efficient, his pathfinding uncanny. He didn't chase Xie Xie's afterimages but instead intercepted where Xie Xie would be, guided by a comprehension of motion that seemed to border on precognition.
'He's reading my momentum, not my position,' Xie Xie realized with dawning alarm. Every dodge seemed to lead him closer to Yao Xuan's waiting form.
Finally, Yao Xuan's right foot shifted in a pattern that seemed to step through space itself—the Ancestral Dragon Shattering Void Step, employed at minimal power. The subtle spatial distortion disrupted Xie Xie's rhythm for a fraction of a second.
It was enough.
Yao Xuan's fist, wrapped not in dragon scales but in controlled soul power, tapped against Xie Xie's shoulder. The force was precisely measured—enough to break balance, not to injure. Xie Xie stumbled, caught himself, then raised his hands in surrender.
"I yield, I yield!" he said, a genuine grin on his face despite the loss. "That step of yours isn't fair!"
The class laughed again, the tension from the earlier high-level combat finally dissipating.
Wu Zhangkong observed it all, his icy eyes missing nothing. As the students gathered before him, he spoke, his voice carrying through the hall.
"Today's lesson was about measuring gaps. The gap between theory and practice. Between power and technique. Between talent and experience." His gaze swept across them, lingering on Yao Xuan, then Tang Wulin, then Xie Xie. "Some of you have power but no skill. Some have skill but inadequate power. Some..."
He looked directly at Yao Xuan. "Have begun to synthesize both. This is the path of a true soul master. Not merely accumulating soul rings, but integrating power, technique, wisdom, and innovation."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "Dismissed. Yao Xuan, remain."
As the other students filed out, chatting excitedly about the demonstrations they'd witnessed, Yao Xuan approached Wu Zhangkong. The icy teacher studied him for a long moment, the silence stretching but not uncomfortably.
"That hammer," Wu Zhangkong finally said. "You're a blacksmith."
"A Level 3 Blacksmith, teacher."
"A student, Level 18 Soul Master, and Level 3 Blacksmith." Wu Zhangkong's tone was flat, but there was a hint of something beneath—not warmth, perhaps, but professional appreciation. "You understand weight, leverage, material properties. You applied forging principles to combat."
"It seemed efficient," Yao Xuan replied simply.
Wu Zhangkong almost—almost—smiled. It was the barest twitch of facial muscles that wouldn't have been noticeable to anyone who didn't study his expressions. "At Shrek Academy, we have a saying: 'Any tool can be a weapon in the right hands. Any weapon can be a tool.' You embody this principle without having been taught it."
He turned, looking out the window at the fading afternoon light. "Your path is your own. I will not interfere with it. But know this: what you displayed today is merely the foundation. The world is vast, and talents like yours draw attention—both good and ill."
The warning was clear, delivered without dramatics but with absolute seriousness.
"I understand, Teacher Wu," Yao Xuan said, bowing again. "Thank you."
"Go. And repair your hammer properly—a cracked tool is a danger to both work and wielder."
As Yao Xuan left the training hall, the last rays of sunlight painted the corridors in hues of gold and orange. His mind was already turning over the day's lessons, the feel of the combat, the subtle ways his bloodline had responded to the exertion.
The notification was welcome, but more importantly, he felt the truth in Wu Zhangkong's words. His path was indeed his own—a synthesis of transmigrator's knowledge, system advantages, and now, the practical combat experience of this world.
Somewhere far away, in a place between spaces, a girl with silver hair touched a scale hanging at her throat, its surface warm against her skin. Her eyes, ancient and knowing, looked eastward, as if seeing through countless barriers to a youth walking home under a dusk sky.
The first true test at Donghai Academy had concluded. But as Yao Xuan stepped into the evening, he knew with certainty: it was merely the beginning.