That calm response—so plain, so unshaken—made something tighten behind Shen Yun's smile.
"Gladly."
The faint glow around his sword flared brighter, threads of qi coiling together like strands of silk. With one step, his aura sharpened once more—the pressure of the pseudo sword qi rolling outward in a sudden wave.
The crowd leaned forward, murmurs rippling through the air.
"He's going for it!"
"That pressure—it really is pseudo sword qi!"
A few disciples could feel their skin prickle from the faint edge in the air. Even without striking, Shen Yun's presence pressed upon them like invisible blades.
Then—he moved.
His body blurred into motion, the faint azure trails of qi cutting through the air as he thrust forward, the imitation sword qi surging in full force toward Lao Xie.
The wind howled across the stage as Shen Yun's strike landed.
Lao Xie's foot slid half a step back—the first time since the match began. Beneath him, a fine crack spread quietly across the stone floor, thin as a strand of hair but clear under the light.
The crowd stirred.
"He… stepped back?" someone whispered.
"Was that real? Lao Xie actually moved?"
"That sword qi—did you see it? That wasn't a normal technique!"
Excitement rippled through the watching disciples. For a moment, the air above the arena felt alive, humming with energy that seemed ready to explode at any second.
The pseudo sword qi's pressure clashed against Lao Xie's spiritual aura, sending invisible ripples through the stage. His sleeve fluttered gently, his hair swaying with the current of force—yet his expression stayed calm, almost indifferent.
He took another slow step back, neither flustered nor defensive, as if he was measuring something unseen.
But Shen Yun didn't give him time.
The moment Lao Xie's heel touched down, Shen Yun's sword split through the air again, dragging a sharp arc of light behind it. The stone beneath them groaned, the earlier crack widening bit by bit under the weight of their clashing auras.
Lao Xie's gaze followed the sword—not in panic, but in quiet observation. His eyes traced the movement, his body unmoving as if watching time slow around him. The rhythm of Shen Yun's attacks, the flow of his qi, the moment his shoulder shifted—it all unfolded clearly in Lao Xie's mind.
At the very last instant, he tilted his wrist. The blade slid past his guard, missing by a breath's width. It looked effortless.
Gasps echoed from the crowd.
"What was that move?"
"He didn't block—it just… missed him!"
"No, he deflected it! Look closely—his sword barely moved!"
Across the stands, Elder Yao's gaze deepened. Beside her, Ling Ruxin's fingers tightened slightly on the railing.
"He read that strike," Elder Yao murmured, almost to herself. "To react at that timing… that's not luck."
On the stage, Shen Yun's eyes flickered in disbelief before curving into a smirk. "Damn," he said through his breath, voice laced with surprise. "Are you even human? You deflected that within a blink."
Lao Xie's lips lifted faintly. "I'm used to it," he replied, tone teasing—yet distant, as if such precision came as naturally as breathing.
Then, in the next breath—
Clang!
The two blades met, sparks scattering in the air. Shen Yun's grin sharpened. "You're finally moving like a swordsman."
Lao Xie's eyes flickered, calm as still water. "And you're finally seeing clearly."
Clang!
Their swords slid apart and met again, the air between them rippling. "Don't get arrogant just because you blocked one strike," Shen Yun muttered.
"Who said I was blocking?"
Clang!
The sound rang deep, steel grinding against steel. Shen Yun exhaled through his teeth, pushing forward. "Then try keeping up."
Lao Xie's lips curved faintly. "You first."
Their swords met again and again, ringing like thunder against steel. Each impact sent waves of force spiraling outward, stirring dust and air alike. Shen Yun pressed forward relentlessly, while Lao Xie's movements remained calm, every parry neat, controlled, never wasteful.
With one exchange, a faint flicker ran along Lao Xie's blade—a whisper of qi, pale and thin, not quite sword qi but close enough to make his eyes narrow slightly.
"So this is how he does it… pseudo sword qi, huh?"
The corner of his mouth curved almost imperceptibly as his grip tightened around the hilt.
The rhythm of their clash began to shift.
At first, it was subtle—a step that landed a fraction earlier, a parry that seemed to anticipate rather than react. But with each passing exchange, that rhythm grew sharper, more precise.
Shen Yun's brows furrowed. He could feel it—the pressure pushing back against him.
Clang!
He gritted his teeth. "You're adapting too fast."
"Am I?" Lao Xie's voice was low, almost thoughtful. "Maybe you're just predictable."
Clang!
A pulse of force rattled through Shen Yun's arm. "Tch… Don't get ahead of yourself."
Lao Xie's eyes narrowed slightly. "That's advice you should keep."
Another strike met resistance that hadn't been there before. The edge of Shen Yun's pseudo sword qi trembled slightly upon contact, the recoil jarring through his arm.
"What…" he muttered under his breath.
Lao Xie's expression didn't change. He moved as though the entire battle had slowed down around him, his eyes calmly following every motion of Shen Yun's blade. The faint whisper of qi along his sword flickered again, this time stronger, more stable.
The crowd couldn't see it. Even Shen Yun himself didn't notice—the imitation sword qi he wielded was too loud, too radiant. Lao Xie's, by comparison, was almost invisible, its flow silent and restrained, as if perfectly hidden within the sword's edge.
Another clash sent sparks scattering into the air.
Clang!
Shen Yun's grin twitched. "Are you finally getting serious?" he asked between strikes, voice tight with effort.
Lao Xie's blade turned slightly, catching Shen Yun's edge and sliding it aside. "I thought I was."
Clang!
"Don't mock me."
"I'm not. You're doing that yourself."
Clang!
Each impact rang louder than the last. Shen Yun's arm began to strain under the force, his grip trembling slightly from the reverberation. He clenched his jaw, pushing his qi harder into the sword, refusing to yield ground.
But Lao Xie didn't retreat anymore. He advanced.
Every swing flowed naturally into the next, his attacks smooth yet suffocating. The faint, hidden resonance along his blade hummed in perfect rhythm with his movements—still incomplete, but dangerously close to true synchronization.
Shen Yun's smirk faltered. "What the hell—" he hissed as another blow nearly tore his sword off its line.
The air rippled from the force.
"Wasn't he on the defensive just now?"
"Why does it feel like Shen Yun's the one being pushed back now?"
"I can't even follow their movements anymore!"
The crowd's voices blurred under the thunder of their clashing blades.
Elder Yao's gaze stayed fixed on the arena, her fingers tapping lightly against the armrest. "He's… getting serious," she murmured softly. "He changed his rhythm."
Back on the stage, Shen Yun's expression hardened. He twisted his wrist sharply, sending a burst of pseudo sword qi outward like a violent gust. "Don't think that I'm an easy prey!" he shouted, forcing his sword forward.
The next clash erupted—faster, louder, heavier than before.
Clang!
Shen Yun's voice was low and fierce. "You won't last if you keep that calm act up."
Clang!
Lao Xie smiled faintly. "Then make me stop."