The night air stills, heavy with expectation. The moment of refusal has passed, and now, the only language left is combat.
De steps forward, his movements calm, unhurried. His opponent, the representative of an unknown force, watches him with the eyes of a warrior who has fought battles beyond the comprehension of ordinary cultivators.
The man is strong.
Not reckless. Not desperate.
A peak Qi Refining cultivator.
Someone who has long since refined their foundation, sharpened their techniques, and stood unchallenged by the weak.
But strength alone does not decide every fight.
The man rolls his shoulders, his crimson robe shifting slightly as he moves. His presence does not explode outward—it coils, controlled and lethal, like a sword resting in its sheath.
He does not announce his name. Because names do not matter in moments like these.
The only thing that matters is the result.
The representative steps onto the open courtyard's stone floor, tilting his head slightly. "You are already aware that you cannot win."
Not arrogance. Just fact.
De meets his gaze, his expression unreadable. "Then you won't mind if I try."
A pause.
And then—the representative smiles.
There is no countdown. No unnecessary movements. No posturing.
The moment De's foot touches the courtyard's center, the fight begins.
The representative moves first.
Not with overwhelming force, not with a show of power, but with precision.
**A single step forward—**and he is already upon De, his fist driving forward in a motion so fluid it barely disturbs the air.
De barely evades, shifting with Shadow Phantom Steps, feeling the shockwave as the strike cracks the stone behind him.
Fast.
Faster than anything he has fought in Ironhold.
The moment he moves, the representative adjusts.
His palm twists mid-strike, redirecting into an open-handed sweep, aiming for De's ribs.
A technique that forces the opponent to react—move back and lose ground, move forward and risk taking the hit.
De does neither.
Domineering Demon Fist.
His own strike meets the sweeping attack, deflecting it before the full force can form. Qi collides, rippling outward in sharp bursts.
The representative's eyes flicker with interest.
He expected avoidance.
Instead, he found resistance.
And that—pleases him.
The next exchange happens within the space of a breath.
The representative shifts his stance, lowering his weight, adjusting.
A veteran's movement.
This is not an opponent who follows predictable rhythms. He adapts.
A feint to the left—De reads it but doesn't react.
A strike from below—De meets it with a palm parry, redirecting rather than blocking.
A moment's hesitation from him would mean defeat.
But De does not hesitate.
He does not outmatch his opponent, but he forces the representative to acknowledge that he is not below him either.
And then—
The moment De has been waiting for.
The representative shifts again, preparing a final, decisive blow—one that would end the duel in a single strike.
De sees it coming.
He knows he cannot block it.
He does not try.
Instead, he moves into the strike—not as a reckless gamble, but as a calculated trade.
At the last moment, his body twists, the attack grazing his shoulder instead of his chest.
The impact is still enough to rattle his bones.
But it is not enough to stop him.
Domineering Demon Palm.
The counter lands—not to incapacitate, not to overpower.
But to leave a mark.
A clean, controlled strike to the representative's side, right against his ribs.
It does not break him.
It does not cripple him.
But it lands.
It lands.
And that is all that matters.
The representative does not stagger.
But he stops.
A single breath passes.
Then another.
De does not lower his stance.
Neither does his opponent.
The air is still charged, but the tension has shifted.
This was not a victory.
It was something else.
The representative slowly exhales, his fingers flexing once before relaxing.
Then—he steps back.
The representative rolls his shoulder, adjusting his stance before letting out a quiet chuckle.
Not condescending.
Not bitter.
But satisfied.
"You understand the weight of your own strength. That is rare."
A pause. Then—
"We will not stand in your way. But do not mistake patience for forgetfulness."
He turns, stepping away from the courtyard, his voice carrying one final statement.
"When the time comes, we will meet again. And when that day arrives, you will not refuse us so easily."
With that, he vanishes into the night.
Leaving De standing alone in the courtyard, the only evidence of the battle the faint crackling of disturbed qi and the stone fissures beneath his feet.
Solar huffs, padding closer, watching the fading presence of the man who had just walked away.
De says nothing.
Because he knows.
This battle is over. But the game is not.
The night of the duel, De does not speak of what transpired.
There is no need to.
Kalia watches him as he returns to their secluded training ground, her sharp gaze flicking over the faint scuff marks on his robe, the lingering tension in his stance.
She doesn't ask.
She knows that if it mattered, he would say something.
Instead, she simply rolls her shoulders, cracking her neck as she steps into the courtyard.
"You lost, didn't you?"
De doesn't react. He doesn't rise to the bait.
He just glances at her. "Does it matter?"
Kalia smirks, drawing her blade. "It does if you got slower."
She doesn't wait for a response.
She attacks.
The clash begins as it always does—without hesitation, without warning.
Kalia moves fast, her swordwork sharp and relentless, testing for weaknesses even if she knows he won't show them.
Steel flashes, but De is already moving.
Shadow Phantom Steps.
He flows past her initial strike, his movement so seamless it might as well be water slipping between stone.
But Kalia has trained beside him long enough to anticipate it.
Her footwork shifts.
A spinning cut—sharp, precise.
De raises his forearm, redirecting the blow just enough to send it wide.
Not blocking. Not evading.
Just controlling the space between them.
She clicks her tongue.
"Annoying."
De doesn't reply.
Because the moment she steps forward again, he counters.
A low sweep, forcing her balance to shift. A palm strike—not heavy, not overwhelming, but enough to send her skidding back.
She exhales sharply, rolling her shoulders.
Then smirks again.
"So, you didn't get slower."
De tilts his head slightly. "Disappointed?"
Kalia sheathes her sword with a sharp motion, shaking her head. "Not at all. It would've been boring if you did."
They train well into the night, their movements measured but intense.
There is no arrogance between them.
No wasted challenges, no unnecessary fights over pride.
They push each other—not to break, but to refine.
By the time they stop, Kalia exhales, dropping onto the wooden steps leading into their house, her arms draped lazily over her knees.
"So, are we going to talk about the fact that you're being watched?"
De doesn't react.
Kalia snorts. "You think I haven't noticed? You disappear for a few hours, come back with that look on your face, and suddenly every damn cultivator in Ironhold is whispering about you."
She stretches, rolling her wrist idly. "That Silent Edge recruiter, that arrogant bastard Liang Ren, and now some other force trying to get their claws in you. You attract problems like spirit beasts to fresh blood."
De simply leans against the wooden post beside her, quiet for a moment.
Then, finally—
"If you're worried, you can leave first."** His tone is neutral, not dismissive, just stating a fact.**
Kalia scoffs. "You think I'm worried?"
She leans her head back against the wood, staring up at the night sky.
"I just want to make sure you don't die before the Sect Selection."
De doesn't reply.
Because neither of them plan on dying before then.