The moment the judge's hand fell, the world on the stage snapped into focus.
Gen and Yan moved as if drawn by the same magnet, a direct line of Jingdao versus Jingdao. "Liang, take the other!" Gen shouted, not looking back, his eyes locked on the serene-faced twin. Liang nodded, spinning to face Yuan, who was already smiling with predatory amusement.
Gen and Yan closed the distance. No feints, no probing. It was a declaration of their art. Their first strikes were mirror images—straight, reinforced punches aimed center-mass.
BOOM.
Fist met fist. The impact wasn't a crack, but a deep, resonating thud that shook the stage. Neither retreated. The air around their locked fists shimmered with discharged golden energy. Gen's wild grin widened. "Not bad!"
Yan simply nodded, his expression calm. "Your foundation is strong, Young Master Jiang."
They broke apart and flowed into close-quarters combat. It was a blistering exchange of economy and precision—blocks, parries, short elbow strikes, knee checks. Their movements were fast yet controlled, a brutal, elegant dance reminiscent of Wing Chun's centerline theory, but powered by inhuman reinforcement. Gen was aggressive, a torrent of attacks. Yan was an unmoving riverbed, redirecting, absorbing, and countering with flawless timing.
Gen saw an opening, a slight over-commitment from Yan on a block. He twisted, driving a palm-heel strike toward Yan's ribs. Yan, instead of blocking, accepted the blow, rotating his torso to minimize the force. At the same time, his own counter—a sharp, knuckle-focused punch—lanced into Gen's already wounded chest.
THWOCK.
The sound was different. Sharper. More penetrating.
Gen's eyes flew wide. It wasn't the blunt force he expected. It was a concentrated, devastating point of impact. He was forced back two full steps, a coppery taste flooding his mouth. He spat a glob of blood onto the white stone.
Yan reset his stance, his knuckles glinting with a faint, ruby-red light that quickly faded. "Is it still easy?" he asked, his tone not mocking, but genuinely inquiring.
The crowd, which had been waiting for this, murmured with recognition. "The Ruby Impact," someone said.
From the sidelines, Madame Su's sharp eyes caught the glint. "Remarkable," she breathed.
Li Fen, beside her, nodded. "Yan does not use simple, blanket reinforcement. He practices Focused Jingdao. He reinforces only the precise point of contact—his knuckles, a fingertip, the edge of a foot—concentrating all his defensive power into a single, offensive point. It makes each strike not just hard, but piercing. Like a ruby-tipped drill. Gen's blanket reinforcement is powerful, but diffuse. Against Yan's precision, it is like armor against a stiletto."
Madame Su watched Gen wipe his mouth, the fierce light in his eyes undimmed. "He has never faced a technique like it. We shall see if he can adapt."
---
While the titans of reinforcement clashed, Liang faced the storm.
Yuan didn't charge. He flowed. With a casual gesture, he manipulated the air currents around his feet into miniature, swirling tornadoes. He didn't run; he skated across the stage with terrifying, unpredictable agility. Liang's attempts to keep him at bay with broad pushes of Shidow energy were laughably slow. Yuan weaved through them like smoke.
"Too slow, Anchor!" Yuan taunted. He closed in, not with a punch, but with a spinning kick that gathered the wind into a cutting crescent. Liang crossed his arms, reinforcing them with his weak, shaky Jingdao.
SMACK! The kick landed. Liang was lifted off his feet and thrown backwards, skidding painfully.
Yuan was on him instantly, a whirlwind of motion. "This is boring!" He planted a foot and pivoted, a lateral kick aimed not at Liang, but at the stage itself. A blade of compressed air shot out, cracking the white stone and carving a fissure toward Liang.
Liang gasped, throwing himself sideways. The fissure missed him by inches. He scrambled up, heart hammering.
Yuan spun again, a follow-up kick already in motion. Desperate, Liang didn't try to block. He thrust his hands down. From the Kalash within, he didn't summon an element outward. He funneled the concept of Earth into the stage beneath his own feet.
A thick, crude pillar of compacted stone and earth erupted upwards, lifting Liang just as Yuan's kick arrived.
CRUNCH!
The earth pillar shattered under the force, but it served as a platform. The impact launched Liang into the air again, but this time with some control. He twisted, landing in a stumbling roll that brought him crashing into Gen's back just as Gen was recovering from Yan's punch.
The twins regrouped smoothly, Yan calm, Yuan sneering. The crowd's earlier excitement had cooled into murmurs of judgment.
"Folded already," a cultivator said dismissively.
"The Immortal's son isn't living up to the legend."
"Yan's technique is too refined.The other boy is just getting tossed around."
Gen steadied Liang, his own chest burning, his mouth tasting of blood. Liang's arms were bruised, his breath coming in gasps. But as they looked at each other, something passed between them—not fear, but a bright, electric thrill.
Gen had a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, a first in any fight he could remember. His grin returned, fiercer than before, a predator finally tasting real challenge. Liang, panting, felt not despair, but a clarifying focus. The Kalash had worked. It had been crude, but it had answered his need.
Without a word, they pushed apart and settled back into their stances. Gen's golden glow intensified, but it seemed to draw inwards, becoming more concentrated around his core and limbs. Liang's breathing evened, his eyes losing their panic, gaining the analytical silver flicker of the Master's Eyes. He was no longer just reacting; he was starting to see the flows of Yuan's wind.
The crowd's murmurs faded into a watchful silence. The easy victory they'd predicted was gone. The sons of ruin were still standing, and in their eyes burned not defeat, but a hungry, newfound seriousness. The real fight was just beginning.