Frost feathered the window of Dormitory 13. Inside, the air hummed with the Spirit-Gathering Talisman's energy, thick with silver qi. Qin Ye sat on the floor, a small piece of charcoal in his hand. On a flat stone, he sketched lines. A straight, heavy charge. An angled deflection. A tap from the side.
Bao Lin. The crusher. The plan was simple: bait the rush; cut the angle; use one Swift-Step Talisman if necessary. The Spiral Breath Cadence—inhale for four, anchor for four, exhale for two steps—would be his metronome.
He checked his kit. Five Swift-Step Talismans, crisp and ready. The low-grade artifact sword, edge clean. He ran the breath drill once. Inhale, hold, exhale-step. The rhythm clicked into his chest like clockwork.
⸻
The east-cliff rings were windswept and empty in the pale morning light. As Qin Ye stepped onto the chalk-marked stone, a prompt appeared.
[Daily Sign-In available.]
[Location: East Cliff Rings.]
[Sign-In? Yes / No]
He focused. Yes.
[Ding! Sign-In successful!]
[Reward: Impact Buffer (situational, 1 use) + Focus Thread (Lv.1, 30 breaths).]
The rewards slotted in cleanly. A subtle, resilient layer settled over his dantian, ready to absorb a single powerful blow. A new thread of awareness wove through his perception, sharpening his timing. For thirty breaths, his reactions would be needle-sharp.
A voice cut through the wind. "Qin Ye."
Duan Qi stood at the edge of the rings, expression unreadable. "The heats begin soon. They can be… unpredictable. The draw of lots, the mood of judges." A thin smile. "A word to the wise."
A warning wrapped in politeness. No direct threat, all implication.
Qin Ye looked at him for a moment, then gave a slow nod. He said nothing. He turned and began his warm-up, the Focus Thread already counting down beneath thought. Duan Qi watched a beat longer and melted back into shadow.
⸻
The preliminary arena was a bustle of noise and energy. Three rings were roped off on a broad stone platform. Chalk dust hung in the air. A judge stood by each, bronze bell in hand. The scent of stamp wax from the official boards mixed with the sweat of the crowd.
Qin Ye's name was called, then Bao Lin's.
The crusher matched the rumors: heavy-set, knotted forearms, thick neck. He moved with a rolling gait, focus like a physical weight. Knuckles cracked like snapping twigs.
A prompt glowed.
[Optional Objective: Win Under 30 Breaths — Ready?]
The judge's bell rang.
Bao Lin exploded forward—no finesse, only momentum. Stone chips spat under his boots. A battering ram aimed to crush Qin Ye against the rope.
Qin Ye breathed. Inhale. One. Two. Three. Four.
Anchor. One. Two. Three. Four.
Exhale—two gliding steps, not back but on a sharp line.
He didn't meet the charge. He cut across it.
Bao Lin roared, twisting, a massive fist swinging wide. Qin Ye didn't block. He let the Focus Thread guide timing and leaned back; the fist whistled past his chest, wind stirring his hair. The Impact Buffer hummed, ready, unused.
Overextended, Bao Lin lunged to grab, looking to crush. Qin Ye flowed with the motion, Wind-Trace making him slippery as water. He rode the arm's momentum, fingers tapping precisely at the elbow—nerve seam.
A grunt. Fingers faltered.
The opening.
Qin Ye burned a single Swift-Step Talisman. Wind qi wrapped his legs. Not a flashy blur—three impossibly tight steps that re-wrote the angle. He arrived at Bao Lin's flank as the man was still turning.
Qin Ye's palm, fingers together, tapped the collarbone. Not to injure—just an undeniable touch.
The bell rang again, sharp and final.
The fight was over.
[Ding! Micro-Goal: "Break a Charge Without Meeting It."]
[Reward: +400,000 Spirit Stones; Counter-Angle +5%.]
[Ding! Optional Objective completed: Win Under 30 Breaths.]
[Reward: Technique Chest (basic, locked).]
Qin Ye stepped back, breathing even. He gave Bao Lin a minimal nod. No humiliation—only result.
The crowd hushed for a beat, then the whispers rose.
"He didn't block. He vanished."
"He used the big man's force."
"Who taught him angles?"
From the shade, Inner-Sect Attendant Liu Shan made a precise mark on his slate. A courier leaned in; a whisper, a nod, and the runner slipped away. The message would be simple: first-heat victory; under thirty breaths; unorthodox footwork.
A Patrol Hall functionary tracked the faint residue of the used talisman, checked a rule ledger, grunted, and put it away. No breach. Compliance was the face-slap.
⸻
Back in the quiet of Dormitory 13, a Technique Chest materialized in storage—a plain wooden box incised with one character: Technique. Qin Ye willed it open.
[Ding! Chest opened.]
[Reward: Choose One — "Feather-Edge Cut" (micro-technique) or "Silent Step" (movement enhancement).]
Two options formed in his mind. Feather-Edge Cut: a precise, qi-guided snap to bypass crude defense. Silent Step: an extension of footwork—near-soundless movement, finer balance control.
The brackets would tighten. Power types like Bao Lin were simple. Faster, craftier opponents needed different tools. Feather-Edge promised surgical ends. Silent Step promised control over when the blade even mattered.
He weighed the path ahead. The choice lingered.
Three days.