The crowd buzzed like a nest of hornets, their jeers and laughter echoing off the stone walls of the arena.
Jin stood at the center of the ring, hands dangling loose at his sides, his grin faint but no longer the wide, careless one he usually wore. Two faint red marks burned across his body — the evidence of his opponent's strikes, and a reminder of how close he was to losing this battle. One more mark, and it was over.
Across from him, his opponent stood like a shadow carved from stone. Their weapon dripped faintly with Zin, humming with a low resonance that made even the clan's spectators hush every time it vibrated. Their eyes never left Jin, sharp and unforgiving, as though dissecting every twitch of his fingers, every weight shift in his feet.
The translator's voice rang out:
"Two marks down. One more, and the challenger loses! Can this outsider still turn it around?!"
The audience erupted — half mocking, half excited. Some shouted for Jin to run, others to give up. A few, just a few, leaned forward with sharp interest.
Jin's shoulders slouched. He tapped his own cheek with one finger, squinting as if puzzled. Then he raised both hands in a mock bow, wobbling his knees and exaggerating a tremble as though frightened. The crowd burst into laughter again.
But his opponent didn't laugh. They stepped forward.
The pace shifted instantly.
Jin dodged sideways as a strike thundered past him, the air cracking with Zin-force. He slid low, feet scraping the stone, his arms moving loose like rope, then snapped up with a flick aimed for the ribs — his opponent blocked it with brutal efficiency. Jin twisted his wrist, letting the rebound flow into a spin, narrowly ducking under the counter-swing.
The ring shuddered with every clash.
Jin wasn't smiling anymore. His lips curled into a faint smirk, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. His body bent like water, his Tide Root Style flowing around his opponent's rigid, hammer-like strikes. He played it off as a joke — hopping backward with exaggerated leaps, pretending to wobble on one foot, even wiping imaginary sweat from his brow — but beneath the theatrics, his steps were growing sharper.
The opponent pressed him harder. They cut at his legs, his chest, even angled upward strikes to catch him mid-air. Twice Jin almost faltered. Twice he barely escaped, the audience gasping when Zin-light skimmed his skin.
"Another inch and he would've been marked!" someone shouted.
The suspense built. Every dodge Jin made seemed narrower, every escape closer to failure. The spectators clutched their seats, unable to tell if Jin was still clowning or fighting for his life.
Then, mid-spin, Jin stumbled deliberately — his opponent lunged. The weapon hissed downward. The crowd roared.
But Jin's grin snapped back full force.
He bent backward in an impossible arch, the blade slicing the air just over his chest. His hair brushed the stone floor as his body curved under the strike. From that position, he kicked upward, striking with a whip-like snap into his opponent's chin.
The warrior staggered — the first clean hit of the match.
The audience gasped.
Jin didn't celebrate. He straightened slowly, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve, then wagged his finger like a parent scolding a child. His opponent snarled and launched back in.
The fight surged again.
Blow for blow, the two became a storm — Jin's style bending, flowing, weaving like currents of water, his opponent hammering forward with earth-shaking force. At times Jin looked like a fool dancing through chaos, his gestures mocking, his movements exaggerated. At times he looked terrifying — sharp, efficient, his limbs snapping with speed and grace.
The match swayed. Would he get struck once more and lose? Or would he even the score?
Then came the climax.
His opponent gathered Zin into a final, crushing strike — the kind meant to end battles. The weapon glowed, heat warping the air around it. The spectators rose to their feet. Jin tilted his head, grin faint but eyes blazing.
He inhaled.
The second form of Tide Root Style began to ripple through his stance, his body sinking, arms rising fluidly like waves preparing to crash.
The audience leaned in — breathless.
The attack came down.
The chapter ends mid-clash — the sound of impact exploding in the arena, the light of Zin and Tide Root flaring — with no clear winner yet.
The Battle raged on.
The arena held its breath.
Jin's opponent stood, weapon raised, Zin radiating in shimmering arcs that painted the air. Jin, for all his antics, hadn't landed a mark that counted. His earlier kick — clean though it was — had barely staggered the warrior, leaving no proof upon the flesh.
Two marks burned across his own body. One more, and defeat. One more, and Ruan's fate…
Jin's eyes flicked to the stands where she was held. Bruised. Chained. Watching.
She tried to smile for him, but he saw the way her lip trembled. The way her eyes begged him not to falter.
For the first time in the match, Jin's grin faded completely.
The crowd noticed. Murmurs rippled like waves. The "fool" of the ring wasn't grinning, wasn't mocking. Something darker was seeping out.
His opponent smirked, mistaking it for fear. They surged forward, Zin crackling with brutal intent.
The strike descended. Jin moved.
No flourish. No wobble. No mocking theatrics. His body cut through the air like a blade, eyes narrowing to slits. He shifted sideways with a subtle step, hands snapping up — redirecting the Zin-coated weapon just enough to slip past his ribs. His palm turned, flowing like water, then crashed like a tide against his opponent's shoulder.
Crack!
The warrior stumbled. Blood sprayed from the corner of their mouth.
The arena gasped. The first real mark — Jin had drawn blood.
And his expression was terrifying.
His eyes… empty. Cold. His face relaxed into a mask of stillness, void of emotion. A predator stripped of its disguise.
Even Ruan flinched. She had never seen him like this.
The opponent snarled, rallying. They lunged again, Zin flaring stronger, weaving their martial art into the blade's arc. Sparks ripped across the stage as steel clashed against stone. Jin didn't budge. His body flowed with unnatural precision — each dodge tighter, each counter sharper. He struck again, a backhand slicing across his opponent's jaw, blood flying in a crimson arc.
Two marks.
The arena erupted — disbelief, fear, awe.
The outsider had turned the tide.
But now… it was even.
Two marks apiece. One strike would decide it all.
The warrior bellowed, Zin roaring like a storm. Their body flared with full intent, the weapon glowing as they gathered everything into one decisive blow. The air grew heavy, trembling with pressure. Even the translator fell silent, sensing what was about to come.
Jin stood still. Not grinning. Not mocking. Silent. His aura had shifted — colder, heavier. For the first time, the crowd felt it: an emptiness that chilled bone and silenced laughter.
He saw Ruan in his mind. If he lost, she would suffer. If he failed, she would break.
That was enough.
He sank low, arms moving fluidly into the Third Form of Tide Root Style — a stance he had yet to reveal. His body was calm water. His intent, a crushing wave.
The warrior charged. Jin exhaled.
The clash exploded. Zin crashed against the surge of the Tide Root. The ring floor shattered beneath them. Dust and blood sprayed into the air. The crowd screamed, unable to see who had fallen.
And when the dust cleared — only one figure stood.
Silent. Still.
His gaze cold as an empty sea.