The arena floor was still scarred from Lin Xue's match when the guards announced the final bout of the first round.
Zhao Ming vs. Zhao Jin.
A quiet tension settled over the spectators. The Zhao Sect disciples leaned forward, their expressions a mix of disdain and anticipation. To them, Zhao Ming was a stain, a runaway, a failure. Zhao Jin, on the other hand, was a disciplined fighter—aggressive, calculating, and loyal.
He entered the arena with confidence carved into every step.
Zhao Ming followed calmly.
No flourish.
No intimidation.
No killing intent.
Just a quiet presence, as if he walked through the world without disturbing it.
Zhao Jin scoffed.
"So you finally show your face," he spat. "Cowardice must feel different inside the Tower."
Zhao Ming did not reply.
His hands were loose at his sides. His steps gentle. His gaze soft but unwavering. Those who didn't know better might think he was unfocused. But the few who paid attention sensed it—
There was no gap in his defenses.
The guard lifted his hand.
"Begin."
Zhao Jin exploded forward.
His first strike was a sweeping kick aimed at Zhao Ming's ribs—fast, powerful, full of sharp Zhao Sect precision meant to destabilize. Zhao Ming shifted only slightly, letting the force pass through empty space, his toes brushing the ground in a controlled slide.
The kick missed by a hair.
Zhao Jin snarled.
He attacked again.
And again.
Each blow targeted pressure points, tendons, weak spots—strikes meant to break rhythm and overwhelm the opponent. His style was a storm of precise violence.
Zhao Ming moved like still water.
He never counterattacked.
He never struck back.
He only touched the attacks lightly with his wrists, redirecting them, letting momentum bleed away, letting Zhao Jin's aggression turn against him.
Lei Sheng's teachings flowed through him.
Yield.
Redirect.
Dismiss.
The crowd began to whisper.
"What's he doing…?"
"That isn't Zhao Sect movement…"
"No—this is something else entirely."
Frustration twisted Zhao Jin's face.
"Stand still and fight me!"
Another punch.
Zhao Ming rotated his shoulders, letting the fist slide past his cheek by inches. His palm grazed Zhao Jin's forearm, turning the force downward into the ground.
Zhao Jin stumbled.
"What—?!"
Zhao Ming's voice finally broke the silence.
"You're off balance."
Zhao Jin lunged with a roar, fury overpowering discipline. His qi surged, his strike aimed directly at Zhao Ming's chest—
Zhao Ming stepped aside and guided the arm past him, using less force than a passing breeze.
Zhao Jin overextended—
—and Zhao Ming placed a single hand on his back.
A light push.
Redirected momentum.
The perfect counter to aggression.
Zhao Jin's eyes widened as his feet slipped over the edge of the arena floor.
He fell.
The guards moved instantly, preventing injury, but the battle was already decided.
"Zhao Jin has left the arena," the judge declared. "Winner—Zhao Ming."
Silence.
Then a scattering of murmurs—confusion, disbelief, annoyance, shock.
Zhao Ming bowed lightly to the judges and stepped down from the platform, his expression calm, breathing steady.
He had not thrown a single offensive strike.
He had not shown killing intent.
He had not unleashed his full potential.
He had simply practiced what Lei Sheng taught:
The thunder that redirects thunder.
The calm that unravels storms.
The strength that never boasts.
And as he walked past the glaring eyes of the Zhao Sect—
not a single one of them could deny it.
Zhao Ming had won.
Without hatred.
Without bloodlust.
Without fear.
The Tower had witnessed his quiet force.
And those who paid attention realized something deeper:
Prodigy or not, Zhao Ming had become dangerous.