The Technique Chest hovered in Qin Ye's mind. Two options, two paths. Feather-Edge Cut promised sharp precision, but the brackets ahead were a maze of unknowns. Control was the superior weapon. He chose Silent Step.
Knowledge slid in—not a new dance, a refinement. Weight shaved from the heel to the ball, the ankle's tiny hinge taught to settle and release, calf and hip micro-aligned so motion folded into itself. Wind-Trace remained the road; Silent Step was the asphalt laid smooth across it.
He stood in Dormitory 13 and simply moved. Candle on the stool, weak flame. One step forward, one to the side, one back. The floorboards should have creaked. They didn't. The flame didn't bow. Breath counted the beat—four in, four held, two let out over two steps. The room hummed with the Spirit-Gathering Talisman, silver qi like a slow, quiet snow.
He audited his kit. Impact Buffer: reserved for a true power-type. Focus Thread: a thirty-breath timing window; save for a decisive choke-point. Swift-Step Talismans: four remaining after Bao Lin. The plan was set—efficiency, control, compliance.
⸻
The Arena Armory breathed oil and steel. Leather straps hung in clean loops; racks of practice blades caught the pale light. Disciples checked buckles and scabbards with nervous hands.
A prompt surfaced.
[Daily Sign-In available.]
[Location: Arena Armory.]
[Sign-In? Yes / No]
He focused. Yes.
[Ding! Sign-In successful!]
[Reward: Grip Seal (Lv.1 — prevents one disarm) + Tape Bind (support wrap, fatigue -5% for one match).]
Invisible firmness settled where palm met hilt, as if the sword recognized him. A roll of white wrap slid into storage—use later, not now.
He took three quiet steps toward the exit and stopped. In the doorway's reflection off a polished shield he could see the corridor beyond: runners trotting messages; a Patrol Hall functionary pretending not to watch; a shadow at the angle of the wall. Duan Qi.
"Qin Ye," Duan Qi said when their paths met, tone warm as tea. "Second round. Opponents have… unexpected tricks. Luck can be fickle." A polished smile. "A word to the wise."
Soft pressure. Hands clean, implication sharp.
"The rules are clear," Qin Ye said, and kept walking. Procedure was a shield no grip could wrench free.
⸻
Between the rings, rope lanes and chalk signs guided surging bodies. The air tasted of dust and heated stone. Qin Ye found a quiet patch against a pillar and set his world to a metronome: Spiral Breath Cadence—inhale four, anchor four, exhale two steps. The noise faded to a low wall. Muscles coiled, then stilled. Eyes half-lidded, then clear.
His name was called with the bell. Opponent: Feng—lean, whip-staff in hand, footwork light, shoulders loose, eyes fast. The kind who traded on telegraph and punishment.
The ring judge lifted his bronze bell. The ropes were tight and new-bound. Chalk dust hazed the sunlight.
The bell struck.
Feng's staff sang, carving circles, then ovals, then tight snapping lines that dared Qin Ye to commit. A feint led another feint; a web knitted itself at chest height, then low at shin.
Qin Ye offered no readable beat. Silent Step ate the sound. He didn't dart—he drifted, hugging the perimeter a palm inside range, small, economical. To the crowd he looked slow; to Feng he looked missing, the expected weight of a heel, the little shoulder freeze before a burst—gone.
Feng's mouth tightened. The staff lunged, serpent-quick.
Qin Ye let a hairline settle through the ankle. The tip passed close enough to stir fabric. The crowd hissed. He did not backpedal. He slid, the line turning beneath him like a track.
The staff retracted for a second coil. Qin Ye burned one Swift-Step.
Not a flash—three disposed inches, then three more, then three again. A precise acceleration on the curve he was already drawing. He appeared not behind Feng, not even at his side, but at the angle where guard and recovery parted for a blink.
Palm to sternum. Tap. Clean. The sound was small; the point wasn't.
The bell rang.
[Ding! Micro-Goal: "Erase the Tell."]
[Reward: +300,000 Spirit Stones; Silent Step Familiarity +5%.]
Feng stared as if the tap had come from a mistake in arithmetic. His staff hung in the wrong square of the diagram he'd drawn in his head.
Qin Ye bowed a fraction. No gloat. He stepped off the chalk with the same small economy he had used to enter.
⸻
A Patrol Hall functionary slid into his path with a ledger, badge polished, expression careful. "Disciple Qin. The cadence you used resembles 'Spiral Breath' from public archives. Do you possess the proper permit for copied knowledge?"
A needle on a soft cushion. Duan Qi's style.
Qin Ye willed the Copy Permit (Lv.1) into his hand. The slip's official glow needed no argument.
"Public manual. Page seventy-two. Permit for personal use, non-transferable," he recited the slip's own terms. "No rules broken."
The functionary cross-checked the ledger. The stiffness in his jaw unclenched by a degree. "Verified. Carry on." Compliance closed the book.
Qin Ye moved past him, and the crowd parted the way rope parts water.
⸻
He let himself cool on the terrace steps, stone leaching heat through the soles. The roar from the other two rings rose and fell like surf. Somewhere to his left, Zhao Kun muttered acid into someone's ear; the words never reached fighting shape.
He reran the fight once in memory—not to savor, to file: Silent Step canceled the tell; Swift-Step cut the gap; no need for Impact Buffer or Focus Thread. Inventory updated: three Swift-Steps remain; everything else untouched.
A runner hammered a fresh bracket to the board. The thud carried through the stone. Names tightened into lanes. Qin Ye traced his with his eyes. Three matches from the top quarter. That lane bent toward a seeded cluster where He Rulong's name sat like a weight. Between here and there, circles of influence overlapped: one of Duan Qi's seniors like a checkpoint.
The System ticked, quiet and certain.
[Main Quest updated — Countdown: 3 days.]
He stood, and the world balanced on the thin line between step and step. The next ring would not be about speed. It would be about edges and how to refuse them.
He curled his fingers around the hilt. The Grip Seal answered with invisible firmness, like a ritual completed.
He looked once at the board, then at the rope of the nearest ring, twanging faintly in the heat.
Three days.