Wuji met Wu Lin’s challenging tone with a calm smile, a glimmer of nostalgia flickering in his eyes. “Sure, why not?” he replied smoothly, his voice betraying none of the memories swirling within.

Challenge.

That one word tugged at memories from his past life as Amar, stirring something deep within him.

Back then, challenges had come often—friends and classmates constantly dared him to outdo them, to ace exams, or to take on competitions. With his uncanny ability to absorb knowledge as if he had an eidetic memory, he’d always come out on top, effortlessly surpassing everyone. But as his reputation grew, so did the distance between him and others. Friends faded away—some out of envy, some feeling unworthy, while others saw him as a stepping stone. The more he excelled, the lonelier he became, and in the end, he’d chosen solitude, throwing himself fully into his research.

But here, in this new world, the thrill of being challenged again sparked something in him, a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to experience in years.

“Alright,” he thought, a faint smile curving his lips, “This… might actually be fun.”

Wuji straightened, meeting Wu Lin’s eyes with a steady gaze. It felt like a long-lost piece of himself was waking up.

After the crowd caught wind of their exchange, Wuji’s calm response to Wu Lin’s provocation set off whispers throughout the banquet hall. Nobles, young cultivators, and attendants alike leaned in, curious to see how this foreigner without cultivation training would respond.

Wuji raised a hand to quiet the crowd. “Since I haven’t begun my cultivation journey yet, I can’t put on the kind of display others here can. Instead, I’ll show you a skill I’ve honed since childhood—wood craftsmanship.”

The audience murmured with interest. Wood craftsmanship was an art form, yet to perform it with the elegance and speed of swordsmanship was something they’d rarely, if ever, seen.

“To make it a bit more… entertaining, I’ll be using my sword as a carving tool.” Wuji’s eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as he unsheathed his blade.

Han Bao, always prepared, signaled one of his servants, who quickly brought a log about three feet long. The servant placed it in the center of the stage. Wuji took a deep breath, steadying himself, and nodded.

The crowd’s chatter died down, and silence swept over the banquet hall as Wuji closed his eyes, centering himself. When he opened them, his gaze was sharp, focused. He took slow, deliberate steps toward the wooden log, his presence calm yet commanding. He held his sword in a poised grip, every movement exuding confidence and precision.

With a swift, fluid motion, Wuji raised the sword and brought it down, grazing the wood in delicate, sweeping arcs. Each slice was light yet precise, shaving off slender curls of wood that spiraled gracefully to the ground like falling petals. His strokes blended seamlessly, flowing in a rhythmic cadence, transforming his carving into a form of dance. He moved with such elegance and control that the crowd watched in stunned silence, captivated by the artistry before them.

Each strike varied in speed and angle—some swift and narrow, others broader and slower, shaping the wood with meticulous care. Gradually, a form began to emerge: two swords, perfectly crafted, crossing each other at a delicate angle. He carved each detail with astonishing precision, from the finely edged hilts to the delicate contours of the blades.

Minutes passed, and the crowd remained spellbound, following the elegant journey of his blade as it sculpted the log into an exquisite piece of art. When Wuji finally took a step back, the simple log had been transformed into a sculpture of two crossed swords, symbolizing unity and strength. He sheathed his sword and offered a modest bow to the audience.

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For a few heartbeats, the hall remained silent, each person absorbing the masterpiece created with nothing but a blade and years of dedication. Then, as if a dam had broken, the crowd erupted into applause, voices raised in admiration and awe.

A spectator leaned over to his companion, his voice filled with awe. “Did you see the way he controlled his sword? He didn’t even seem to be carving; it was like… he was painting.”

The compliment went unnoticed by Wuji, who was preoccupied with gauging Wu Lin’s reaction. Wu Lin’s expression was a mixture of surprise and irritation, and to him, Wuji’s polite smile seemed almost mocking.

Wuji took a small step closer to Wu Lin. “Since I haven’t started cultivating yet,” he said in a casual tone, “perhaps we could have a duel once I break through to the Body Refining Realm?”

Wu Lin’s eyes narrowed, his face flushing with barely contained anger. “Oh, I’d love to give my junior brother a few pointers,” he replied, his voice tense.

Wuji gave a polite nod, hiding the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

Wu Lin muttered under his breath, his words meant only for himself, “I’ll give him some pointers, alright… He won’t be so cocky when he’s flat on the ground.”

Just as Wuji returned to his seat, the crowd’s attention shifted again as Zhao Shan approached the stage. His tall, composed figure exuded a quiet confidence, his movements steady and purposeful. He raised his sword and took a breath, positioning himself in the stance of the Snowfall Blade Art, a technique renowned for its elegance and power within the Zhao family.

The air around Zhao Shan cooled perceptibly, and his first stroke sliced through the air in a graceful arc. Tiny ice crystals materialized around his blade, glistening in the lantern light like snowflakes. Each swing left a faint trail of icy shards suspended in the air, drifting slowly down to the stage, creating a glittering snowfall.

The cold fragments sparkled and cast reflections around the courtyard, creating a stunning, otherworldly display. Yet there was more to the beauty—an undercurrent of lethal intent. The frost from his movements spread across the stage, creating a veil of shimmering ice that blurred his form, making it hard to discern his exact position.

The closer one drew, the colder it became. The snowflakes seemed delicate, but the air around Zhao Shan hinted at a deadly edge. His performance was a storm contained within grace—a perfect harmony of beauty and danger. The crowd was transfixed, fully aware that the beauty they witnessed hid a chilling lethality.

As Zhao Shan finished his display, a quiet, impressed murmur flowed through the audience. His skills were extraordinary, and his mastery over ice left a lasting impression.

The evening continued as the lanterns flickered in the cool breeze, casting warm hues across the courtyard. Wuji leaned back in thought, his mind swirling with the beauty and complexity of the performances he had seen. But his musings were interrupted by a subtle, melodic hum.

The crowd turned as Qin Yulan, poised and graceful, stepped forward with a zither in her hands. She settled herself at the center of the courtyard, her fingers hovering over the strings, every movement filled with elegance. She inclined her head slightly and began to play.

Soft notes floated from the zither, delicate yet powerful, like a river’s gentle current under moonlight. Each melody unfurled with tranquility and strength, wrapping around the hearts of those listening. Wuji felt a warmth blossom within him, as if her music was reaching into his very soul. The tension in his mind, the weight of his ambitions, faded momentarily, replaced by a profound calm.

As the melodies wove through the air, Wuji found himself captivated by her skill. She didn’t simply play the zither—she channeled a force that resonated with the rhythms within each listener. Each note was carefully placed, creating harmony that drew everyone together, lifting them to a place beyond their worries and rivalries.

When she finished, silence settled over the courtyard, every person caught in the spell of her music. Then, one by one, the disciples and nobles began to applaud, their appreciation rising in a warm wave of praise for her performance.

“She truly is gifted,” murmured a disciple nearby.

Wuji nodded, feeling an unexpected respect for Qin Yulan. Her music wasn’t just beautiful; it held a power that went beyond words. As the evening wore on, he knew he would remember this performance for a long time.

Yet, as he clapped and observed the serene look on Qin Yulan’s face, he felt a deep-seated realization growing within him. In this world, power wasn’t just brute strength; it was skill, control, and the ability to affect others in ways beyond what he had known. Here, in this foreign land filled with spirit roots, mystical techniques, and inner strength, he would have to grow in ways he had never anticipated.

Wuji looked around, at the vibrant gathering, the skills on display, and the earnest admiration in the eyes of everyone present. For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt as if he truly belonged.