The arena did not erupt.
It held its breath.
Two figures stood facing each other amid cracked stone and scattered dust—both bent, both bleeding, both refusing to fall.
Wu Shan inhaled slowly, forcing his turbulent vitality back into his limbs. His legs still trembled faintly from the Stone-Breaking Advance, but his stance remained firm. He had fought many bouts among outer disciples, yet this was the first time an opponent had endured that charge and stood back up.
Across from him, Chen Yu straightened his spine inch by inch.
Every movement sent sharp pain through his ribs. His arms felt swollen, heavy, as though they no longer belonged to him. But beneath the pain was something strange—heat. Not the wild surge of cultivation techniques, but a deep warmth spreading through muscle and bone, binding them together.
So this is what it feels like… to truly temper the body.
He did not know the name for it.
He did not even know if it was correct.
He only knew that collapsing now would mean wasting everything he had endured.
Wu Shan stepped forward again, slower this time.
"You're forcing your body," he said. "Your circulation isn't clean. One wrong move and you'll cripple yourself."
Chen Yu wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. "Maybe."
Wu Shan frowned. "Then why—"
"—because if I stop now," Chen Yu interrupted quietly, "I'll never know how far I can go."
The words were not loud.
Yet they carried.
Several outer disciples shifted uneasily. Some scoffed. Others fell silent.
Wu Shan stared at him for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
"So be it."
He raised his hands—not clenched fists this time, but open palms. Vitality flowed outward, spreading thin but wide, coating his arms like invisible stone dust.
This stance was different.
"Flowing Stone Guard," a disciple murmured. "He's switching styles."
A defensive transition.
Wu Shan had realized something important: overpowering Chen Yu outright was no longer guaranteed. Instead, he would grind him down—force mistakes, exploit exhaustion.
Chen Yu noticed the change immediately.
Wu Shan's movements became smoother, less aggressive, his center of gravity constantly shifting. Attacks came in short bursts—testing jabs, probing steps, feints designed to draw reactions.
Chen Yu responded clumsily at first.
A step too slow.
A block too high.
A counter that lacked reach.
Wu Shan capitalized instantly, his palm slamming into Chen Yu's shoulder, sending a shock through the joint. Chen Yu staggered, teeth clenched, but did not fall.
Again.
A sweep aimed at the ankle—Chen Yu jumped awkwardly, landing hard and losing balance.
Again.
A short strike to the ribs—Chen Yu twisted just enough to reduce the impact, pain flaring white-hot.
Each exchange chipped away at him.
Yet something else was happening.
Chen Yu began to anticipate.
Not techniques.
Intent.
Wu Shan's eyes shifted before he moved. His shoulders tensed before each burst. The flow of vitality around his palms subtly thickened before a strike.
Chen Yu's body reacted before his mind fully caught up.
A half-step back.
A shoulder roll.
A turn of the waist instead of a raised arm.
None of it was elegant.
None of it was taught.
But it reduced damage—just enough.
Wu Shan noticed.
His brow furrowed as Chen Yu slipped another palm strike, letting it slide across his forearm instead of striking cleanly.
"You're adapting too fast," Wu Shan said under his breath.
Chen Yu did not answer.
Because he had no breath to spare.
His lungs burned. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Every circulation of vitality felt like dragging water through sand.
Yet with each impact, his body seemed to remember something—adjusting tension, aligning joints, distributing strain.
Crude.
Primitive.
But real.
Wu Shan's patience thinned.
He stepped in sharply, abandoning the probing rhythm. His palm shot forward, vitality surging—Flowing Stone Impact, a condensed burst meant to disrupt internal balance rather than break bones.
Chen Yu sensed danger too late.
The palm struck his chest.
For an instant, everything inside him jolted violently. His breath exploded out of his lungs as he flew backward, crashing hard onto his back.
The sky spun.
Pain flooded him.
Someone in the crowd gasped. "That's it."
Chen Yu lay still.
Elder Lu leaned forward slightly.
Wu Shan exhaled and lowered his hand, chest heaving. "It's over."
Seconds passed.
Then—
Chen Yu coughed.
He rolled onto his side, one knee drawing up, hands pressing against the ground. His vision swam, but he forced it to steady.
He pushed.
His arms screamed in protest.
Move.
His body obeyed—slowly, trembling violently, but obeyed.
He rose to one knee.
Wu Shan froze.
"You—" His voice hardened. "You're insane."
Chen Yu's breath came in ragged pulls. Blood trickled from his nose now, warm against his lips.
"Maybe," he said hoarsely. "But I'm still here."
Something subtle shifted.
Not in Chen Yu.
In the crowd.
Mockery faded.
Whispers changed tone.
This was no longer a fluke match. This was no longer about talent.
It was endurance.
Wu Shan's jaw tightened. He clenched his fists, vitality gathering once more—but thinner now, fraying at the edges.
"You don't even know what stage you're at," Wu Shan said. "You don't know techniques. You don't know limits."
Chen Yu slowly stood.
"No," he agreed. "But I know this—"
He raised his gaze.
"—you're getting tired."
Wu Shan's pupils shrank.
Because it was true.
His cultivation was higher, his techniques superior—but prolonged strain, repeated bursts, and Chen Yu's refusal to fall had pushed him into unfamiliar territory.
Wu Shan inhaled deeply.
Then he smiled—sharp, fierce.
"Then let's see whose will breaks first."
He stomped forward.
Chen Yu stepped to meet him.
This time, when Wu Shan struck, Chen Yu did not retreat.
He braced.
Not against the blow—
—but within himself.
Their arms collided.
Vitality clashed.
Pain surged.
And somewhere deep in Chen Yu's battered frame, something finally aligned—bones settling, muscles tightening in unison, breath syncing with motion.
Not a breakthrough.
Not yet.
But the foundation of one.
High above, Yan Mo's eyes gleamed with quiet intensity.
"This child," he murmured, unheard by all, "is forging his body the wrong way…"
A pause.
"…which may be exactly why it works."
The clash continued.
Neither disciple fell.
And the battle—far from ending—was only now carving the lines that would define them both.