"I mean no disrespect, of course," Hua Lian added quickly, already turning her angelic smile toward the elders. "But as you've heard, there are whispers. Doubts. I simply believe a light demonstration would help… clarify things."
The crowd immediately broke into murmurs again.
"Is she serious?"
"This is going to be amazing."
"She's challenging Liu Mo Fei's disciple?! Publicly?!"
And from somewhere nearby, Chang Dian raised a casual hand.
He was grinning.
"If it's a sparring match you want, I volunteer as her opponent. Ten moves, twenty, we can negotiate."
The crowd burst into laughter. A few hooted. Someone may have whistled.
Elder Hua Lian's smile tightened — slightly. Like a silk ribbon pulled just a bit too hard around a dagger.
She had been watching Jia Wei Xin closely ever since the girl stepped onto that stage. Too closely. And this Chang Dian — or whatever his name really was — had been standing beside her with entirely too much familiarity. Laughing with her. Whispering to her. Clearly, on her side.
No thank you, mystery boy. You smell like trouble.
"That won't be necessary," Hua Lian said, voice still sweet but now with the weight of a guillotine wrapped in lace. "You are at the Advanced Level. It wouldn't be… fair."
She turned back to the crowd, glowing with false sincerity.
"Of course, fairness is important. That's why we must choose someone who matches her current level."
So reasonable. So thoughtful. So very not the jealous, spotlight-hoarding elder who was definitely not plotting to stomp Jia Wei Xin into the floor and win back her rightful place as the sect's most radiant flower… and also, possibly, her beloved Liu Mo Fei.
She lifted one elegant hand and gestured toward a tall, lean figure standing near the edge of the platform — dressed in deep green robes, eyes sharp as a hawk's, face as serious as a tax collector.
"Chui Fong Lee," she said sweetly. "One of our most promising Intermediate cultivators."
A collective murmur rolled through the crowd.
That guy?"
"The one with the shadowfang beast!"
"He fought three disciples at once last month — didn't even break a sweat."
"They say only elite cultivators can contract that type of beast."
---
Chui Fong Lee stepped forward, smile smug, eyes gleaming with anticipation. He hadn't expected to be selected — but now that the spotlight had landed squarely on him, he intended to seize every second of it.
Everyone had been fawning over Jia Wei Xin. Genius this, prodigy that. The sect was practically writing love poems to her already.
But let's see how genius she looks once she's been beaten into the dirt.
Of course… she was pretty. Delicate face, clear eyes, slender waist — not someone he'd normally want to fight. In fact, under different circumstances, he might have flirted with her. Chased her, even.
But a woman who threatened his rank? His reputation?
Never.
He would crush her.
---
Elder Hua Lian's voice rang out, syrupy-sweet and dramatically self-important.
"For fairness and formality," she purred, "let us limit this match to standard swordplay — no spiritual techniques, no artifacts, no qi bursts. Just pure sword technique."
She turned to the elders, her hands folded like she was delivering a bedtime story. "We must, after all, judge the true foundation of our disciples' skills — whether one has mastered the core principles."
Her smile was the kind you wear while pushing someone off a cliff — and calling it mentorship.
Of course she had sensed Jia Wei Xin's strong qi. A leap from Beginner to Intermediate in five days? Please.
Clearly, someone was helping her cheat.Liu Mo Fei, perhaps. Or maybe some shady, mysterious man with abs. Either way, she was going to expose it.
---
Jia Wei Xin raised an eyebrow.
Of course.
The classic scheming elder who couldn't resist setting up a public downfall with a smile on her face. All she needed now was a dramatic hair toss and a monologue about "maintaining the sect's purity."
Typical villain move.
Good. You think I can't fight without magic.
Sifu doesn't spar with me every morning and evening for nothing.Did he even know this was coming?
She could almost hear Liu Mo Fei's lazy voice in her head: "Swordwork builds control. Control builds power. Power makes you look cool."
And if that wasn't foreshadowing, she didn't know what was.
Jia Wei Xin bowed politely. "Understood."
---
Two assistants stepped forward and presented identical swords — spiritual steel, forged precisely for training. Balanced, honed, and just sharp enough to sting without killing.
Jia Wei Xin and Chui Fong Lee bowed.
The bell rang.
Chui Fong Lee launched forward immediately, his movements radiating the casual arrogance of someone fully expecting an easy win.
He slashed. Blocked. Thrust. Blocked again. And again.
But every strike was parried as if his intentions had been announced in advance.
It was as if her sword had a mind of its own — one that read him like a book.
Jia Wei Xin moved with fluid precision, each step and motion deliberate, clean, and razor-focused. She didn't waste even a breath of energy. Every swing he made was met with a crisp clang, turned aside with calm efficiency — like she had practiced these exact moves a hundred times before.
She had.
With her Sifu.
Now, that same Sifu — who used to appear in her mind as a sadistic tormentor with a devil's smirk — was suddenly bathed in angelic light, his past torturous sparring sessions transformed into divine training sent from the heavens.
Then — she struck.
A quick sidestep. A subtle twist of her wrist.
Her blade found its mark, slicing into his left shoulder with sharp, clinical accuracy.
A bright spray of blood followed.
The crowd collectively gasped — then burst into cheers.
It was beautiful.
She stood still, like a figure from a painting — composed, sharp-eyed, sword gleaming under the sunlight. Her robe fluttered gently in the wind, and the faint trail of blood along her blade made her look less like a new disciple and more like a battle-hardened general descending from the clouds.
---
Chui Fong Lee's smile shattered.
The arrogance drained from his face.
He wasn't grinning anymore. He was furious — and humiliated.
He let out a sharp hiss and charged again, but this time, there was no pretense of restraint. His attacks were wild and brutal, fueled not by control but by the sharp edge of ego and rage — and unmistakable killing intent.
---
Jia Wei Xin's eyes narrowed.
Ah. This type of guy.
She'd seen plenty of them before — the kind who smiled politely but couldn't stand being outdone. Especially not by a woman who was sharper… or simply better.
There had been one like that in her old world too.
She saw it too late.
And the price she paid—
Still lingered. Especially in her heart — carved and sealed, as if it no longer belonged to anyone, not even herself.
It was safer that way. Safer to stay armed than to be cut open again.
---
Fine, she thought. If that's the game, then let's not hold back either.
She parried, countered, slashed back — the tempo of the duel accelerating until it was all sparks and steel. Their swords clashed with growing intensity. Each movement blurred into the next.
Blood began to trickle from shallow grazes on both sides — not lethal, but no longer accidental.
The crowd was losing their minds, cheering and shouting with every close call and near hit.
This wasn't sparring anymore.
This was war.
---
Then — she saw it.
The pattern.
Chui Fong Lee was strong, yes — fast, aggressive — but his rage made him sloppy. Every time he attacked from a high arc, he left his left flank exposed. He didn't notice. He thought speed would cover the gap.
But ego made him predictable.
Jia Wei Xin adjusted her stance. Drew him in.
He took the bait.
She twisted — sharp and fluid as wind through silk — and with one clean, decisive motion, disarmed him.
His sword went flying, clattering across the platform.
Cheers exploded.