As he helped Xin Lu to his feet, Wang Xiaobo couldn’t believe his very eyes. How could two middle Fourth Realm children stand against them? They weren’t the top-ranked outer sect disciples, sure, but being in the top one hundred was no small feat. It had been decades since Zhang Lifen had become a core disciple, and both of them had spent much of that time reflecting on the lessons learned at her hands.
Li Heng was less than half Wang Xiaobo’s age, and as much as it pained him to admit it, a superior swordsman. He may not have Wang Xiaobo’s experience, killing intent, or density of qi, but Li Heng’s technique was the finest he’d ever seen. Including other disciples in the top one hundred of the inner sect. He wielded his jian like a master of five hundred years.
Then there was He Yu. How could a mere child who’d only just reached the middle Fourth Realm stand up to Xin Lu’s Seven Sundered Skies? Sure, He Yu was an utter mess, but Xin Lu could barely form that technique—he wasn’t in much better shape. What should have been an easy victory had somehow turned into a war of attrition. One that Wang Xiaobo wasn’t certain they could win anymore.
“Come on,” he said, “we can’t give them time to recover.”
“Speak for yourself.” Xin Lu bit down on his medicine with a crunch. Immediately, his flagging presence reasserted itself. At least his attack had taken enough out of those two that they couldn’t follow up on Lu’s momentary weakness.
A burst of frost was the only warning Wang Xiaobo had. Li Heng stepped out from nothing with that movement technique of his. The blade of his jian was little more than a few wisps of frozen mist as he launched his attack. Wang Xiaobo cycled the Iron Blood Sutra. His skin turned as hard as iron forged by a master smith, reinforced by his potent metal-aspected qi.
It wasn’t enough. Cold seeped into his flesh. It wasn’t painful—not quite. It was worse. The five rents in his robe showed the effects of Li Heng’s technique. The flesh beneath turned black and necrotic. Frostbitten. He cycled what qi he could spare to heal the damage, but that was all the attention he could afford. A series of thrusts and cuts put him on the back foot as Li Heng launched into an aggressive assault. Wang Xiaobo had thought that he’d taken Li Heng’s measure. The Li’s arts were defensive. Passive. Reflective. Where was this coming from?
As Wang Xiaobo pushed himself to the edge of his ability to beat back Li Heng’s attacks, winter fell over the sect. Hoarfrost spread across the ground, coating the earth and what was left of the plaza in ice. The trees at the edges withered and died. Even some of those still watching the fight shivered and stamped their feet. How could he have such an overwhelming presence already?
Xin Lu slammed down on top of Li Heng. The explosion of heaven and flame warmed the frozen earth. Ice melted, then turned to steam. Wang Xiaobo leaned into the decades of practicing with his sworn brother and attacked.
A blue disk of water qi, no larger than the palm of his hand, appeared in the path of his sword. The disk turned away his blade. Wang Xiaobo grimaced.
“You shame yourselves, the both of you,” He Yu said as he rushed forward, his guandao held before him like a spear.
Wang Xiaobo said nothing. Not because he had nothing to say. Quite the opposite. He’d always prided himself on his ability to taunt his opponents in duels. He was quite the poet, after all. No, he said nothing because he was afraid that should he speak, his voice would betray just how close he was to the edge of his ability.
Instead, he activated the Thousand Blades Rain. His primary art carried equal aspects of metal and water. It was fluid, graceful, and strong. Like the movements of a mighty river. It was also a gleaming-sharp instrument of precision. Like the jian it supported.
Somehow, it wasn’t enough.
The countless blades formed by the art all fell upon He Yu as one, from a thousand sides. What he couldn’t deflect, he dodged or endured. Wang Xiaobo forgot himself for a moment and cursed. How could He Yu have gained so much ability with only the move from early to middle? As much as he hated to admit it—they were more or less on equal footing.
He Yu came at him like a storm. Wind howled around him, whipping rain and stray strands of hair into Wang Xiaobo’s eyes. Lightning cracked and thunder roared. The guandao gleamed in the fading afternoon light, reflecting the flickers of heaven that filled the entire plaza. Rain soaked Wang Xiaobo’s hair and clothes.
And through it all, He Yu slammed attack after attack against him.
His arms grew heavy and tired. His meridians ached with the strain, and his core felt emptier than it ever had. It was only a matter of time before he faltered. The only question that remained to be answered was whether He Yu would have to experience or the qi to press the advantage. What had started as a fight Wang Xiaobo had been certain he’d win had turned into one that he only hoped he could turn into a draw.
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Wang Xiaobo’s jian flashed. Metal and water qi bloomed out from the late Fourth Realm as he poured his faltering reserves into one last, desperate gambit. He Yu saw the shape of the attack with the clarity of an emperor. The Spring Rain Mirror turned the attack away. The countless echoes of metal qi turned with it. Wang Xiaobo was out of position and open for a span of time that could fit between heartbeats. For a cultivator of the Fourth Realm, it was all He Yu needed.
The metal cap of his guandao slammed into the side of Wang Xiaobo’s head. The older cultivator stumbled. He Yu struck at the wrist holding his sword. Wang Xiaobo screamed as dozens of tiny bones shattered and another spike of heaven qi punched through his meridians. The jian clattered to the ground.
In an instant Xin Lu was there, the fury of his presence saying more than words ever could. But Wang Xiaobo was effectively out of the fight. He Yu caught Xin Lu’s attack on his guandao and kicked Wang Xiaobo’s jian off into the crowd.
Moonlight flashed, and Li Heng appeared behind Xin Lu. The five black scars of the Darkmoon Strife opened, and Xin Lu’s face twisted in pain. Still, he continued his attack. Two polearms flashed as their blades sent sparks of heaven showering onto the plaza. The area they’d been fighting in was utterly ruined. The flagstones were cracked and broken—little more than rubble at this point. Many had been melted to slag or encased in ice. More still were blackened by the touch of heaven. He Yu’s rain had turned to ice under Li Heng’s marching winter.
He Yu tapped his Wayborn Seed, moving with the ease and certainty granted by his Way. Next to him, Li Heng did likewise. By now it was clear their connections to their Way would decide the fight. Wang Xiaobo and Xin Lu may be more experienced, but they were more or less on equal footing in terms of their raw power. How they could have advanced so far without either of them forming a Wayborn Seed of their own, He Yu couldn’t fathom.
As Xin Lu beat back a combined assault from guandao and jian, Wang Xiaobo launched a flying kick at He Yu. Without missing a step, He Yu turned the attack aside with the Spring Rain Mirror. He grabbed Wang Xiaobo by the ankle and simply tossed him at Xin Lu. The two of them tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs—their faltering presences told He Yu all he needed to know.
Li Heng stepped through winter and stood above them both. With a single decisive thrust, he drove his jian into the thick muscle of Xin Lu’s thigh. He Yu landed next to them with a heavy blast of wind and rain. His foot slammed down on Xin Lu’s wrist. A moment later, he used the butt of his guandao to send Xin Lu’s weapon clattering away.
“Yield,” Xin Lu said. The word was strained with anger and pain alike.
Wang Xiaobo struggled to stand. He Yu placed the point of his guandao at his neck. The older cultivator sagged, then let himself fall to the ground. He rolled over onto his back and said nothing as he stared into the sky—rage and shame doing battle across his features.
“Empty your storage treasures,” He Yu said. For the first time since joining the sect, he didn’t feel bad about taking his sect brothers for all they were worth.
A veritable mountain of spirit stones, medicines and elixirs, and still more exciting treasures tumbled to the flagstones. Li Heng stooped down and picked up a scripted pill box. Cracking it open, potent qi filled the air. He snapped the lid shut and shook his head.
“Well, this should begin to make up for all the resources taken from us over the past year,” he said.
“Speak for yourself,” He Yu said, scooping up a handful of spirit stones and sending them to his storage treasure. “They’ve been starving me for far longer.”
As they sorted through the lucre, something caught He Yu’s eye. A silver mirror in an eight-sided bronze frame lay among the other goods. The outside of the frame was inscribed with the eight trigrams. It didn’t take an expert to see it was some sort of divinatory treasure. He picked it up.
“What do you make of this?” he asked Li Heng.
“Probably how they beat us to that first assignment I took on our behalf.”
If that was the case, then it likely was a divinatory treasure. “I’m taking it. I think it could be of use.”
Li Heng nodded, understanding passing between them. Over the course of the past winter, there had been little progress against the court. Most notably, the court’s Emissary still eluded them despite the demon core in their possession. The mirror was clearly of magnificent quality—a treasure among treasures, if He Yu were to guess. At the very least, turning it over to the sect would be worth a try. He Yu had little use for it himself, and at the very least he might get some contribution points for his trouble.
To Wang Xiaobo and Xin Lu he said, “I consider our grudge settled. I am not Zhang Lifen. If you leave me to my peace, I will leave you to yours. If you seek to obstruct me again, I will muster all I have at my disposal to oppose you.” The implication of his words were clear. This time, it had only been Li Heng and himself. Next time, it would be everyone and everything he could bring to bear. Not to mention the fact that it appeared Wang Xiaobo and Xin Lu were at a bottleneck, and He Yu still had the rest of the Fourth Realm before him.
“We won’t forget this,” Wang Xiaobo said, his expression as angry as it was defiant.
“That’s the point,” He Yu said, scooping the last of the spirit stones and medicines into his storage treasure. He and Li Heng could divide their spoils at one of their homes—away from the greedy eyes of any onlookers.
Although he didn’t think anyone would try attacking them just now. Aside from the fact that doing so immediately following a duel was terrible form, He Yu and Li Heng had just beaten a pair of inner disciples a stage above them. If anything, they should be free from any attacks for some time. Especially once word of the fight got around—which would take hours, at most.
As they made their way back to Li Heng’s home, the closer of the two, He Yu allowed the fatigue of the day to settle over him. He popped one of his restorative pills, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Li Heng do the same.
“Did we really just do that?” he asked, the reality of their victory finally sinking in.
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t lived it myself,” Li Heng admitted. “A feat worthy of legend, if you ask me.”
He Yu clapped his friend on the shoulder. A feat worthy of legend, for sure.