The morning bell rang across Shang Academy, and students gathered for the combat assessment—a prelude to the academic test. A hundred eyes turned toward the combat platform, where one by one, students clashed under the eyes of the instructors.
Zhen Zenin stood at the edge, arms folded. His aura was calm, but fire pulsed beneath his skin.
> "This body… still weak, but my soul remembers every strike I ever threw."
---
Zenin's name was called.
His opponent stepped forward: Fang Lu, a senior student in the Qi Gathering Realm. Smug and confident, he twirled a silver spear.
"You've improved, Zenin," Fang said mockingly. "Let's see how far luck carries trash."
Zenin walked to the center without a word.
---
The fight began.
Fang struck first, spear tip slicing through the air like a serpent. Zenin dodged with minimal movement, eyes tracking every motion. Each blow was met with calculated steps, subtle shifts.
Then, he struck back.
A single palm thrust, not with overwhelming force—but perfect precision. Fang flew back ten meters, crashing into the ground, coughing blood.
Silence.
Even the instructors raised eyebrows.
"That was… a clean internal disruption technique," one whispered.
"But he's still in the Mortal Realm…"
---
Back in the stands, Zhen Yun's knuckles turned white.
"How is he doing this…?"
Beside her, Lady Zhen narrowed her eyes. "He won't reach the test. He'll be ashes before then."
---
That evening, Zenin returned to his room to find another "gift" on his table—a tonic meant for muscle recovery. He smiled faintly.
He poured it into a vial instead, storing it with the others.
> "Third attempt in four days. You're getting desperate."
Then he looked out the window toward the Zhen Clan mansion.
> "I'll keep playing the fool… until the day your blade slips."
---