Feng Liang’s sneer twisted into a predatory grin. He lunged, his sword a blur of silver arcing towards Tian Hao’s chest. “Let’s see how you dance without your little protector, silkpants,” he hissed, the insult spat like venom.
Tian Hao, caught off guard by the sudden attack, barely managed to dodge the blow, the tip of the blade grazing his arm, slicing through his bandages and drawing a thin line of new blood.
His eyes narrowed, his earlier amusement replaced by a cold focus as adrenaline surged through him, sharpening his senses. He wasn't as skilled as Feng Liang, not in the traditional sense, but he'd faced spirit beasts far more dangerous than this arrogant disciple.
"My, my, such eagerness," a smooth, chilling voice cut through the air.
A figure stepped forward, intercepting Lin Mei as she moved to assist Tian Hao. "Perhaps you'd prefer a more challenging opponent?" The woman, her movements fluid and precise, her stance radiating a quiet confidence, drew her own weapon—a pair of wickedly curved daggers that shimmered with a dark, almost oily sheen.
“Zhu Meng, of the Steel Vine Sect. It seems this little dance requires a partner.” Her gaze, sharp and cold, fixed on Lin Mei with an intensity that made the air crackle. "Shall we?"
Lin Mei's eyes narrowed as she looked Zhu Meng up and down, assessing her stance. Zhu Meng stood with a poised confidence, her weight evenly distributed, daggers held with a precision that spoke of countless battles fought and won.
Lin Mei noted the way Zhu Meng's gaze never wavered, her eyes cold, calculating—yet there was a tension in her shoulders, a slight rigidity that betrayed a hint of uncertainty. "She's overconfident," Lin Mei thought, her own heartbeat steadying. "Her stance is flawless, but she underestimates me."
Lin Mei adjusted her grip on her glaive, her own muscles tensing and loosening, ready to strike.
"A dance it is," she replied, her voice low and steady as she adjusted her grip on her glaive, its silver blade glinting under the dappled moonlight.
The presence of a second opponent was not entirely unexpected, the two of them knowing implicitly how this challenge would play out, that their real test was to see how each of them would face their equal. They circled each other warily, the tension between them as palpable as the weapons they wielded.
Tian Hao and Feng Liang clashed, their bodies a blur of motion. Feng Liang’s swordsmanship was precise, honed by years of training, each strike aimed at vital points. The sharp edge of Feng Liang's blade hissed through the air, each swing an attempt to cut down Tian Hao.
Tian Hao moved with desperation, ducking and twisting, his bare fists a poor match against the deadly arcs of silver. He could feel the wind of each near miss brushing against his skine. Every dodge was a heartbeat away from disaster, every punch a gamble against Feng Liang's lethal precision. Sweat poured down his back, the smell of blood and iron mingling in the chaos of their battle.
Tian Hao relied on a poorly honed instinct, with his movements fueled by the chaotic energy of Wine-Fueled Fury. He stumbled and weaved, his body swaying like a willow in the wind, narrowly avoiding Feng Liang’s blows. He wasn’t fighting with skill, but with a sloppy energy that made his movements unpredictable, his every action an echo of the strange, twisting paths from which he had just emerged.
“Come on, silkpants, is that all you’ve got?” Feng Liang taunted, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and growing frustration.
Tian Hao’s unorthodox style, while lacking in finesse, was surprisingly effective. Each parry, each dodge, though clumsy, seemed to disrupt Feng Liang’s rhythm, making his attacks less precise, less controlled. “Are you fighting me or dancing with butterflies?”
Tian Hao paused, then smiled wider, his eyes gleaming. “Perhaps a bit of both. Care to join the party?”
He mentally reached into his spatial ring, retrieving a flask of wine and a piece of roasted duck. He sidestepped a swing and took a long swig, savoring the familiar warmth spreading through him, then tore off a succulent bite of the duck, the flavors exploding on his tongue.
Feng Liang stared in disbelief, momentarily forgetting his attack. “You’re eating… in the middle of a duel?!” he sputtered, his voice a mix of incredulity and outrage. “Are you mocking me, Tian Hao?”
“Just fueling up,” Tian Hao replied nonchalantly, taking another bite. “It’s a long duel, Feng Liang. A cultivator’s gotta eat.”
From behind her own shimmering flurry of attacks, Zhu Meng added her own sarcastic twist, her words echoing the mockery of Feng Liang's. “Or is he just ensuring a proper last meal?” she laughed coldly.
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Her laughter, however, was cut short as Lin Mei, seizing the opening, spun her glaive, the haft arcing through the air with deadly precision, connecting with Zhu Meng’s side. The impact was bone-jarring, the solid wood slamming into flesh and ribs with a dull, resounding thud. Lin Mei felt the shock reverberate through her arm, her muscles straining to keep her grip steady.
Zhu Meng let out a strangled gasp, her earlier composure shattered as the edge of Lin Mei's weapon struck true, hitting a meridian with pinpoint accuracy. Pain exploded through Zhu Meng’s body, her face contorting as the energy surged uncontrollably. The blow knocked the breath from her lungs, and she staggered back, a trickle of blood tracing a crimson path down her lips, her eyes wide with shock and pain.
Tian Hao, fueled by the wine and the roasted duck, his movements becoming increasingly erratic, dodging Feng Liang’s attacks with surprising agility, the Wine-Fueled Fury and the Heavenly Feast Reinforcement amplifying his strength, his speed, and his recklessness. He could feel the wind of Feng Liang’s blade slicing mere inches from his face, the sharp whistle a constant reminder of how close death lingered.
His muscles burned with every twist and turn, his body bending at awkward angles to avoid each fatal strike. The ground beneath him seemed to shift, each step a desperate dance to keep balance while his instincts guided him to where the next attack would come. A bead of sweat trickled into his eyes, stinging, but he blinked it away, his focus unbroken, his pulse pounding with the thrill of survival.
A low laugh emerged from his throat, as he found himself enjoying the dangerous dance. He felt his cultivation start to cycle as the wine, the food, and the odd joy of the moment merged into a flow state.
“What kind of cultivation is this?!” Feng Liang exclaimed, his frustration growing with every near miss. “You fight like a drunken monkey, Tian Hao. It's almost as though you're actively seeking your own defeat!”
Tian Hao merely laughed again. “Perhaps I am,” he replied, his voice slurring slightly. “But it seems to be working, doesn’t it?” He ducked under Feng Liang’s blade, his body twisting at an unnatural angle before he stumbled, his foot catching on a gnarled root. He fell awkwardly to his knees.
Feng Liang, seeing an opening, lunged forward. “It’s over, Tian Hao. Prepare to face the wrath of the Steel Vine Sect!” His sword flashed, aimed at Tian Hao’s upper arm—a strike intended to cripple, to humiliate.
But Tian Hao's stumble wasn’t an accident. As Feng Liang’s blade descended, he twisted his body, using the momentum of his fall to roll to the sideways and forward, putting himself within Feng Liang’s guard. With a roar, his form fueled by a mix of desperation and Techniques, Tian Hao pushed off the ground and unleashed a series of rising body blows—each strike hitting with unexpected force.
His knuckles smashed into Feng Liang's stomach and ribs, the dull crack of bone shattering resonating through the air. He could feel the resistance give way, the crunch beneath his fist sending jolts up his arm. Feng Liang's eyes widened, his mouth opening in a silent scream as pain rippled through his body. Feng Liang's features contorted in agony as Tian Hao continued, each hit compressing flesh and cracking bone. Another blow landed on his sternum, the impact reverberating like a shockwave, forcing the air from his lungs in a ragged, pained gasp.
Feng Liang stumbled, his body twisting as though he could no longer support its weight, before finally collapsing to the ground several bu away, coughing blood.
Lin Mei, seeing Tian Hao gain the advantage, pressed her own attack. With a fierce yell, she drove her glaive forward like a crashing wave, the force of the blow sending Zhu Meng staggering backward. She had underestimated Lin Mei’s strength and Tian Hao’s determination. Her earlier taunts and insults were now replaced by a cold fury, her eyes blazing with a mix of shock and rage as blood stained her lips. Each breath came with a sting, each heartbeat driving home the realization that she was losing control.
Zhu Meng's glances were no longer filled with disdain but careful, calculating assessments of her opponents, her mind racing as she struggled to understand the relentless force she faced, questioning what, exactly, she had gotten herself into.
With Feng Liang down, Tian Hao turned his attention to Zhu Meng, whose earlier confidence had crumbled. He charged, his fist connecting with her side, right where Lin Mei had previously crippled her meridian. The impact drove deep into her ribs, the shock of pain exploding through her body and making her legs buckle.
Zhu Meng's eyes widened, her face twisting in agony as the spot flared up with fresh waves of pain. Lin Mei, seizing the moment, followed up with a swift, brutal kick. The sole of her foot, as hard as a rock, slammed into Zhu Meng’s stomach with a force that sent a jolt through her entire body, the breath rushing out of her in a strangled gasp. She doubled over, her arms instinctively wrapping around her midsection as she stumbled back, her vision blurring from the intensity of the blows.
Zhu Meng coughed, a spray of blood staining the ground, her hand clutching her side. Realizing she was outmatched, she quickly retreated, scooping up Feng Liang's unconscious form as she fled, yelling insults and threats over her shoulder. “This isn’t over, Skyward Lotus scum!” she screamed, her voice laced with fury. “The Steel Vine Sect will have its revenge!”
Tian Hao smiled grimly. “Always with the threats,” he half chuckled, though his breath still came in ragged gasps as the effects of Wine-Fueled Fury waned.
“I think we made our point, Mei Mei. Though,” he added, wincing slightly as he examined the cuts and bruises covering his arms, “perhaps I should’ve packed a few extra healing salves.” He leaned against a nearby tree, his body aching, but his spirit soaring with the thrill of victory.
Lin Mei, too, was winded, her own body screaming in protest, but the relief washed over her as she thought of how easily they had both beaten the Steel Vine disciples. She sheathed her glaive, its silver blade now stained crimson, the scent of blood heavy in the air.
With a weary sigh, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a few healing salves—ever prepared for the aftermath of a tough battle. "Here," she said, tossing one to Tian Hao. "I brought extras, just in case." She carefully applied one to her own cuts and bruises, the cooling balm easing the sharp pain in her muscles.
She looked at Tian Hao, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “You were… surprisingly effective, Tian Hao. For a drunk.”