Zhu Zhuqing's black training outfit was specially tailored for maximum speed and agility—lightweight, highly elastic, and molded perfectly to her form.
Now, soaked with sweat from intense exertion, it clung to her skin like a second layer, revealing every subtle curve of her maturing figure in vivid detail.
The impossibly slender waist, coiling with astonishing flexibility and power during rotation; the long, straight legs, exploding with whip-like elasticity as they kicked, swept, and blocked; the soft, swelling curves beneath her chest, now clearly defined with each breath and movement; and the pale, elegant neck—tendons taut with effort, glistening with sweat beneath stray strands of damp hair…
Every time Dai Chengfeng deflected one of her strikes, his fingertips brushed against the slick fabric—and beneath it, skin that was startlingly supple, warm, and alive.
Every time he dodged her lightning-fast kicks, his eyes inevitably caught the powerful, graceful lines of her legs—sculpted by discipline and vitality.
Even the wind stirred by her attacks carried her scent—a cool, clean fragrance now intensified by sweat, radiating raw, untamed life force.
Dai Chengfeng's throat moved involuntarily.
He knew this wasn't right. This was serious sparring.
But once certain thoughts took root, they were hard to suppress.
Especially when facing Zhu Zhuqing—the girl who was, in name, his fiancée, yet whose true relationship with him remained delicately complex.
He suddenly recalled the scene in the Pope's chamber earlier—the languid warmth, the intoxicating softness, the quiet sensuality.
It stood in stark, almost jarring contrast to Zhu Zhuqing before him now: sharp, cool, drenched in sweat, radiating fierce resilience.
A strange, thrilling comparison stirred within him—part curiosity, part temptation.
And in that moment, his movements shifted—almost imperceptibly.
As Zhu Zhuqing launched a sharp straight punch toward his chest, Dai Chengfeng sidestepped. His right hand, which should have blocked her arm, instead—
—twisted subtly at the wrist. His fingers spread, gliding along the path of her retreating limb, brushing ever so lightly against the outer side of her tensed upper arm.
Beneath the damp fabric, her muscle was hard as steel from exertion—yet still carried the supple elasticity unique to a young woman.
The contact lasted less than a heartbeat—so swift it could easily be mistaken for a natural variation of a defensive motion.
Zhu Zhuqing's movement faltered for the briefest instant. Her cool eyes flicked toward him—but her assault didn't stop. Her left leg swept silently toward his lower body.
Dai Chengfeng leapt back, landing precisely at the moment her momentum waned and before her next strike could form.
He should have used this opening to create distance or counterattack.
Instead, he leaned forward as if "losing balance," his left hand "instinctively" steadying itself on her waist.
Through the thin, sweat-soaked fabric, his palm registered the exact contours of her waist—slender, firm, trembling slightly with tension.
He could even feel the sudden tightening of her muscles beneath his touch—and the searing heat radiating from her skin.
"Careful," he murmured, voice laced with just the right amount of concern—as if it had truly been an accident.
Zhu Zhuqing said nothing. She twisted her waist sharply, wrenching free—and immediately drove a heavy elbow into his chest, her force noticeably stronger than before.
Dai Chengfeng accepted the blow with a smile, using its momentum to retreat. Yet inside, a secret thrill bloomed—half mischief, half satisfaction.
He'd seen the flash of embarrassment and irritation in her eyes—but more than that, a sharpened, almost offended battle-lust.
She hadn't scolded him. Hadn't paused her attack.
Did that mean… silent permission?
Or reluctant tolerance?
Because he was her fiancé, perhaps these "accidental" touches fell within some unspoken, blurry boundary of acceptability?
That thought awakened something dangerously playful in Dai Chengfeng.
This spar could become far more interesting.
From then on, his "unintentional" gestures multiplied—each more natural, more subtle than the last.
When deflecting her grappling attempts, his fingers would "inadvertently" skim the inside of her wrist—where the skin was astonishingly smooth.
When breaking her joint locks, his forearm would "inevitably" brush against her sweat-damp back, tracing the faint ridge of her spine and the feverish warmth of her skin.
In close-quarters exchanges, his jaw or shoulder would "just happen" to graze her damp temple or flushed cheek.
The wet, heated sensation—mingled with her crisp, cool scent—seeped straight into his senses.
Zhu Zhuqing's breathing grew uneven.
Not from exhaustion—but from a nameless, rising agitation.
She felt every one of Dai Chengfeng's boundary-pushing little gestures with painful clarity.
Each "accidental" touch sent tiny electric shocks across her skin, triggering involuntary shivers.
Yet his expression remained utterly focused, completely absorbed in the match—leaving her no grounds to protest.
So she channeled all that flustered frustration into fiercer, faster attacks.
Strike after strike, faster and deadlier—determined to knock that infuriatingly smug grin off his face and quell the inexplicable fire burning hotter within her.
But Dai Chengfeng was slippery, seasoned.
Amid her storm of blows, he danced through gaps no wider than a hair's breadth—and those "accidental" contacts only grew more frequent… and harder to ignore.
They crossed paths again.
Zhu Zhuqing thrust her fingertips toward his throat. Dai Chengfeng sidestepped and reached for her wrist.
She flipped her hand instantly, seizing his pulse point.
Dai Chengfeng didn't resist. But just before she could apply pressure, his thumb pressed firmly—yet gently—against the sensitive hollow of her inner wrist.
"Mm…"
A soft, trembling sound escaped Zhu Zhuqing's tightly clenched lips.
That single press felt like flipping a hidden switch—sending a jolt of tingling numbness racing up her arm.
Half her body went momentarily limp; her grip on his wrist weakened.
In that split second, Dai Chengfeng twisted free. His other hand shot out like a darting fish, fingers splayed—as if aiming for her shoulder.
Zhu Zhuqing dropped her shoulder and pulled back—but his move was a feint.
His palm swept past her shoulder, then dipped with uncanny precision, fingertips grazing the very edge of the most prominent curve on her chest—right where it rose and fell with her rapid breaths.
Through the sweat-soaked, skin-tight fabric, the sensation was shockingly vivid—enough to make her scalp prickle.
Like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, Zhu Zhuqing recoiled violently, stumbling backward until her spine hit the cold ironwood dummy.
Her chest heaved. Her cheeks burned crimson—not just from exertion, but from something deeper, hotter—flush spreading down her neck, staining her ears.
Those eyes, usually so calm and frosty, now churned like a storm-tossed lake—shame, fury, disbelief swirling together.
She stared at Dai Chengfeng, lips pressed white, breath coming fast and shallow.
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