He simply watched.
The way his eyes followed Ye Qingfeng — tracking footwork, breathing, timing — sent a chill creeping up Ye Qingfeng's spine. It felt less like being observed and more like being studied, as if every movement he made was being catalogued for later use.
Ye Qingfeng exhaled slowly, forcing his turbulent spiritual energy back into a stable circulation. He could feel the drain accumulating, not sharply, but steadily. These opponents were not amateurs seeking glory. They were experienced, disciplined, and patient.
Too patient.
Ye Tuo's lips curled into a sharp grin as he flicked his wrist casually.
A shrill WHII—! scream split the air as a flying sword tore forward from behind Ye Qingfeng, its edge shimmering with tightly compressed qi. The blade curved unnaturally mid-flight, bending toward Ye Qingfeng's exposed flank with lethal precision.
"You're distracted, bastard," Ye Tuo called out, amusement lacing his voice. "That's a bad habit in a place like this."
