Chapter 12: The Eye of the Storm
The silence shattered into a storm of whispers. They followed Li Wei as he walked back to the contestant's area, a buzzing hive of confusion and speculation. The other disciples now watched him not with dismissive scorn, but with wary, calculating eyes. He was no longer a joke; he was an anomaly, and anomalies were dangerous.
He paid them no mind. He found a quiet corner and sat, closing his eyes. He wasn't meditating on Qi; he was reviewing the data. Jun's attack vectors, the precise amount of energy required to disrupt his stance, the efficiency of his own movements. The interface in his mind provided a cold, post-combat report.
Opponent neutralized. Energy expenditure: minimal.
Threat level reassessed: negligible.
Primary objective: Zhang Feng.
The matches continued. More disciples fought, their clashes of Qi and steel now seeming almost crude and wasteful to Li Wei's newly calibrated senses. He watched them with the detached interest of a scholar observing an experiment.
His next opponent was a tall, serious-faced boy named Kai. He had watched Li Wei's first match and did not make the mistake of underestimating him. When the match began, Kai was cautious, using long-range, probing strikes with his sword, sending arcs of sharp Qi towards Li Wei, trying to keep him at a distance.
This was a new problem. Li Wei could not absorb energy that did not physically touch him.
So, he didn't try.
He moved. Not with the flowing grace of a cultivator, but with the abrupt, efficient shifts of a predator. He watched the arcs of Qi, not as mystical energy, but as projectiles with mass and velocity. He calculated their trajectory and moved his body just enough, the humming energy inside him allowing for micro-adjustments in his balance and speed that were impossible for a Qi-user. The Qi-arcs sizzled past him, missing by inches, striking the protective barrier around the stage.
The crowd gasped with each near-miss, thinking he was impossibly lucky.
Kai grew frustrated. His precise, careful attacks were being effortlessly avoided by a man who wasn't even using Qi. He over-committed, lunging forward with a powerful thrust.
It was the opening Li Wei had been waiting for. He didn't retreat. He stepped forward, his body turning sideways to let the thrusting sword slide past his ribs. As the blade passed, his hand clamped down on Kai's sword arm, not with crushing force, but with a grip that anchored him.
Then, Li Wei simply fell backward, pulling Kai with him.
It was not a technique from any martial manual. It was pure physics. Using Kai's own forward momentum and his own weight as a counterbalance, he executed a perfect, almost gentle judo throw. Kai flew over his shoulder, a look of profound shock on his face, and landed with a heavy thud on the stage, his breath whooshing out of him.
Li Wei rose to his feet, not even winded.
"The victor... Li Wei," the Elder announced, his voice now thick with a mixture of confusion and something that sounded almost like alarm.
Two matches. Two victories. No Qi. No sword drawn. The arena was no longer silent; it was buzzing with a tense, electric energy. The story had changed completely.
From his seat of honor among the Elders, Zhang Feng watched, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of his chair. The smirk was long gone, replaced by a cold, simmering fury. This was not the script. The cripple was not supposed to be a challenge. He was supposed to be a stepping stone, a demonstration of Zhang Feng's power. Now, Li Wei was humiliating the entire Inner Disciple Corps, making them look like clumsy children.
He leaned over and whispered to the Head Elder, Gao, who sat beside him, his face an unreadable mask. "He uses some kind of trickery, Honored Elder. A dishonorable, external art. It should not be permitted."
Elder Gao's eyes remained fixed on Li Wei, who had once again taken his seat, calm and composed amidst the growing storm. "There are no rules against how one wins, Nephew," the Elder replied, his voice low. "Only that one wins. Perhaps it is you who has underestimated the 'trickery' of a desperate man."
The message was clear. Zhang Feng would get no special protection here. The humiliation of the sect was becoming a bigger concern than Zhang Feng's pride.
The brackets were announced for the semi-finals. As fate would have it, Li Wei was not in them. He had won his pool. He would have a bye, advancing directly to the final match.
His opponent would be the winner of the other semi-final: a brutal, decisive match where Zhang Feng, his rage palpable, dismantled his opponent in under a minute, shattering the boy's sword and arm with a single, furious blow of the Flowing Cloud Sword Art. It was a message, a display of overwhelming power meant to intimidate.
As Zhang Feng stood over his defeated foe, he turned his head and his eyes, burning with malice, found Li Wei's across the arena.
The silent challenge was issued.
The stage was set. The crippled herb-gatherer versus the favored prodigy. The mysterious, precise movements against the overwhelming, cultivated power.
Li Wei met his gaze and gave a single, slow nod.
The final match would be next.