The outer arena had not been used in months.
Stone slabs, worn smooth by countless feet, formed a circular platform marked by faintly glowing formations. Low pillars ringed the arena, each carved with suppression runes that hummed quietly as disciples gathered, drawn not by announcement but by instinct.
A challenge had been issued.
Wu Shan stood at the center, posture relaxed yet solid, like a boulder rooted to the ground. His breathing was deep and steady. A faint vitality sheen clung to his skin—Late Outer Body Tempering—clear to anyone with eyes.
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
"Late stage…" "He's one step from the threshold." "That Chen Yu is only Mid stage, right?"
Chen Yu stepped onto the arena from the eastern side.
The instant his foot crossed the boundary, the suppression array activated. A subtle pressure descended, equalizing the space. His body felt heavier, movements more honest. No exaggeration, no concealment.
He exhaled slowly.
His aura was compact, restrained. Mid Outer Body Tempering—nothing more.
The gap was obvious.
Wu Shan glanced at him, lips curling faintly. "You came."
"You challenged," Chen Yu replied, clasping his hands briefly in a simple salute.
An elder seated to the side—Elder Lu, overseer of outer disciples—raised a hand. "Rules stand. No forbidden techniques. Yield or incapacitation ends the match."
His gaze lingered on both of them for a breath longer than necessary.
"Begin."
Wu Shan moved first.
Not with explosive speed, but with certainty.
His foot struck the stone, body surging forward as his fist snapped out in a clean arc. The strike carried the full weight of a late-stage tempered body—Stone Breaking Fist, refined through repetition rather than flair.
Chen Yu's thoughts scattered.
This was different from sparring. Different from training.
The intent behind the punch pressed forward before the fist itself arrived.
He reacted a heartbeat too late.
Instead of retreating, he twisted aside instinctively. The punch grazed his shoulder.
Pain flared—sharp, immediate.
He staggered back three steps, boots scraping stone.
A murmur rose from the crowd.
Wu Shan did not pursue recklessly. He adjusted his stance, eyes narrowing. "Too slow."
Chen Yu rolled his shoulder once. The impact had numbed his arm, but nothing was broken.
So this is the difference, he realized.
Not strength alone.
Pressure.
Wu Shan advanced again, chaining his movements smoothly. Elbow, fist, knee—each motion compact, efficient. His breathing never broke rhythm.
Chen Yu retreated, blocking when he could, deflecting when he failed to block. Each contact sent vibrations through his bones. His arms burned. His footing faltered.
He misjudged a step.
Wu Shan's palm struck his chest.
The world lurched.
Chen Yu was flung backward, hitting the stone hard. Air burst from his lungs in a sharp gasp.
For a moment, all he saw was sky.
A few disciples laughed before catching themselves.
Chen Yu pushed up slowly, forcing breath back into his chest. His ribs ached, but they held.
Wu Shan waited, not attacking immediately. "You don't know how to fight."
Chen Yu straightened, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. He did not rush to respond.
Wu Shan continued, voice calm. "You're enduring. That's all."
He stepped forward again.
This time, Chen Yu did not retreat straight back.
He shifted diagonally, letting Wu Shan's momentum carry forward. His hand came up—not striking, but pressing against Wu Shan's forearm, redirecting force rather than stopping it.
It was clumsy. Inefficient.
But it worked.
Wu Shan overextended for the briefest moment.
Chen Yu struck.
Not with his fist.
With his shoulder.
The impact was dull, unrefined. Wu Shan stumbled a step back, more surprised than hurt.
Silence fell.
"That was luck," someone muttered.
Wu Shan's eyes sharpened. "So you do fight."
He inhaled deeply.
Vitality surged through his limbs, muscles tightening, veins faintly visible. Still within bounds—still Late Outer Body—but now fully engaged.
He executed Flowing Stone Steps, feet gliding low across the arena, closing distance in an instant.
Chen Yu's heart hammered.
He raised his arms too late.
Wu Shan's strike crashed into his guard.
Crack.
Pain exploded up Chen Yu's forearms. He slid backward, boots carving shallow lines into the stone before stopping near the arena's edge.
He tasted blood again.
The suppression array hummed softly—a warning, not intervention.
Wu Shan walked forward unhurriedly. "Yield. You don't belong in this ranking."
Chen Yu glanced down at the stone beneath his feet.
At the faint scrape marks where his body had dragged earlier.
At the memory of compressed wood beneath his palms during training.
He inhaled.
Then exhaled.
Something shifted—not power, not technique.
Perspective.
He stopped trying to respond.
And began trying to understand.
Wu Shan attacked again.
Chen Yu did not block directly. He angled his body, letting the strike slide past, absorbing the impact across his frame instead of against it. Pain flared—but spread, duller, manageable.
He stumbled.
Recovered.
Another strike followed.
This time, Chen Yu stepped into it.
The crowd stirred.
Wu Shan's fist struck his shoulder again—but Chen Yu's stance held. His feet dug in, knees bent, spine aligned. The force traveled through him instead of breaking him.
He grimaced, then moved.
His arms wrapped briefly around Wu Shan's striking arm—not gripping, not locking—just guiding. He twisted his torso, using Wu Shan's forward force to pull him off balance.
Wu Shan tore free instantly, retreating several steps.
His expression had changed.
"That wasn't a technique," Wu Shan said slowly.
"No," Chen Yu replied, breath heavier now. "It was a mistake I corrected."
Elder Lu leaned forward slightly.
In the crowd, Jian's fists clenched.
High above, within a quiet courtyard, Guest Elder Yan Mo paused mid-pour. "He's learning inside the fight," he murmured.
Wu Shan's stance lowered.
Not out of fear—but recalculation.
The arena quieted again, the earlier murmurs swallowed by tension. The suppression array hummed steadily.
Chen Yu straightened slowly.
His arms trembled. His breathing was no longer smooth; it came in deliberate pulls. Pain lingered everywhere.
He knew it.
If Wu Shan pressed fully now, he would break.
Wu Shan did not rush.
His gaze swept over Chen Yu's posture, the alignment of his feet, the way his shoulders settled after each breath. The way his reactions had changed.
"You're adjusting too fast," Wu Shan said.
Chen Yu said nothing.
He rolled his shoulders once, testing what still answered him. Pain flared—and then dulled, as if his body were learning what it could endure.
Wu Shan stepped closer.
Not attacking.
Closing distance.
"This won't work again," Wu Shan said quietly. "You don't have the strength to hold me twice."
"I know," Chen Yu replied.
Wu Shan narrowed his eyes.
The elder did not interrupt.
The array did not react.
Nothing forbidden had occurred.
Yet something had shifted.
Wu Shan inhaled slowly, vitality circulating more deliberately now, no longer wasteful. His muscles coiled—not for a single decisive strike, but for attrition.
Chen Yu mirrored him unconsciously.
Not in stance.
In intent.
He stopped thinking about winning.
He thought about lasting.
A breeze crossed the arena, dust drifting between their feet.
Wu Shan moved.
Chen Yu moved with him.
And as their bodies collided again—without hesitation—the silence broke, not with sound, but with the unmistakable sense that the match had only just begun.