Two weeks passed.
Today, we were brought to the open arena, a wide, sun bleached stone field ringed by jagged mountain cliffs and thick trees swaying just beyond the outer wall.
Teacher Han Yuren is the one who brought us here.
He is said to have once been a sword prodigy, the kind of genius whose strokes could split waterfalls and whose footwork made him untouchable. Now, in his eighties, still looking middle aged, he is quiet, unimpressed, and acts like a man who has seen too many arrogant students crashing at the limits of their own mediocrity.
He doesn't smile. He doesn't explain much. His only words this morning were: "One on one combat. Show me something worth my time."
Now I sit here on the upper ledge of the arena stairs, legs drawn up, watching as one fight after another unfolds in the pit below. Most of them are forgettable. Some are loud. Some are sloppy. All of them are desperate in a way that reveals more than they intend.
They think strength is just power. That if they throw enough punches fast enough, or if they land one flashy technique, they've done something impressive. But all I see are tells. All I see is wasted movement.
Their feet are too wide. Their weight shifts at the wrong time. Their strikes are full of energy but empty of intent.
There's no understanding behind their force. No rhythm, no flow. They fight like they're swinging against an idea of an opponent, not the one standing in front of them.
One boy just tried to dash forward with a straight jab. He overcommitted. His core wasn't centered. His opponent sidestepped easily and landed a palm strike into his exposed ribs. I heard the breath leave his lungs before he even hit the ground.
Teacher Han didn't blink. He doesn't give compliments or criticism unless it matters. I'm starting to understand why. If you say something every time someone makes a mistake, the words lose their weight. Let the pain do the teaching. Let the silence carve the lesson into the bones.
Another pair steps up.
This time it's a girl from the eastern provinces and some noble brat with embroidered cuffs. She leads with a low stance, center of gravity well placed.
Before the match even begins, I know who's going to win.
That's the thing about close combat. You can tell more in the first three seconds than most can in the entire fight. Posture tells stories. Stance tells secrets.
She doesn't rush in. Smart girl. She waits, measures, moves with the patience of someone who's fought to survive, not just for glory.
She steps inside his guard, two inches off his lead foot, ducks under his swing, and lands an elbow into his solar plexus before he even realizes he missed.
He goes down hard. Wheezing. Eyes wide. Confused like the rules of the world just changed.
The noble boy? He lunges, all flare, no spine. His strikes are broad, flashy. Wasted energy.
They didn't.
They've always been like this. Most just don't see them yet.
I glance toward Teacher Han. He doesn't nod. Doesn't clap. Just watches. Measuring. Silent as ever.
I shift on the stone bench, stretching out my legs. I'm not here to show off. I'm not here to chase rankings or praise.
Still... it is getting a little boring.
They should stop calling this a combat lesson. It's more of a public unraveling. A slow, painful stripping away of the illusions these kids built around themselves.
One punch at a time.
I watch another two matches. One kid cries. Another gets knocked out cold by a single spinning kick. Same patterns. Same lack of control.
I can see it all, before it even happens.
And then...
"Zhuo Meng."
My name cuts through the low murmurs.
Silence follows.
I stand slowly, brush the dust from my robe, and walk down into the arena. The crowd parts slightly as I pass. Some curious. Some smug. Some already preparing to dismiss me.
Across from me, my opponent steps forward.
He's taller than most. Older, maybe by a half a year, hard to tell. Long black hair tied into a flawless topknot, held by a golden pin that glints under the sun. His uniform is custom, dark violet, trimmed with silver, clearly tailored to accentuate status. But what sets him apart is his stance: solid, grounded. His hands move with purpose. Shoulders relaxed. Chin slightly lowered. Eyes sharp.
He's not just another rich boy playing at war.
There's skill in him. Real experience.
Good.
The crowd leans in. Whispers ripple. Even the lazy ones sit up.
At the edge of the arena, teacher Han's eyes narrow slightly. Just a fraction.
The match begins.
At first, neither of us moves.
We circle. One step at a time. Measuring.
He strikes first. A sharp forward step and a sweeping low kick, meant to test my footing.
I don't dodge. I flow. A swing of the hip and I let the momentum flow under me like water under a bridge. My left palm barely touches his leg as I step out of range and counter with a quick elbow aimed at his shoulder joint.
He blocks, barely, but staggers back.
I smile.
He frowns.
He tries again. This time faster. A feint to the left, then a snap punch toward my ribs.
I step inside, let the punch graze my robe, and use my forearm to deflect the force. My fingers wrap around his wrist.
His eyes widen.
A sharp twist, a subtle pull, and suddenly his balance is gone.
He stumbles.
I could strike now. End it in three moves.
But I don't.
Instead, I release his wrist and take two steps back, still smiling.
That smile unsettles him more than any attack might have.
He comes at me harder. Faster. Offense shifting into aggression.
It doesn't matter.
Every move he makes is clean, but predictable. I've fought way better. On streets where hesitation meant broken bones. In alleys where fists were sharper than blades.
My footwork is precise, every pivot is perfect. I use minimal motion, conserving energy, letting him burn himself out on air and frustration.
I duck a spinning heel kick and slide behind him in a single, fluid step. My palm meets the space between his shoulder blades.
A light tap.
He freezes.
Everyone watching knows what that would have meant in a real fight.
He spins, furious, tries to regain momentum, but his rhythm is off now.
I let him try.
The third time he lunges, I catch him mid step. A sweep of my leg takes out his footing, and he crashes onto his back, breath leaving his lungs in a harsh gasp.
Silence.
I look up.
Teacher Han is still expressionless, but there's a faint glimmer in his eyes. The kind you might miss if you weren't looking for it.
The students lining the stone benches are quiet, until the whispers start. Awe in some voices. Envy in others.
I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, and step back to my place without a word.
It wasn't a hard fight.
...
That movement.
Subtle. Efficient. Too clean to be chance, too fluid to be textbook.
'I've watched hundreds of matches. Thousands. Every style, from northern root stances to the agile soft fist of the western sects. But that, that wasn't any style I've seen. Or at least... not in any codified way. Not in any form passed down through manuals and family scrolls.'
'It was like he wasn't fighting. Just... reacting. With perfect control.'
'No wasted effort. No tension. He is a prodigy!'
'That light tap to the back? Flawless control of distance and awareness. No hesitation. No unnecessary aggression. The sweep that followed, precise timing, adapted in the moment. As if he'd choreographed it in real time.'
'I watch him as he returns to his seat, calm as still water. Not proud. Not boastful. Not even winded.'
'Who taught him?'
'Where did he learn?'
...
"Zhuo Meng." Teacher Han's voice rang out across the arena, sharp as a blade drawn in moonlight.
Heads turned. Conversations cut off mid whisper. Even the students who were preparing for the next round froze in place.
Zhuo Meng looked up.
There was no change in his face. No confusion. Just that calm, unreadable gaze.
"Approach." said teacher Han.
The crowd was confused now. Some were wide eyed. A few exchanging hushed theories.
Was he going to reprimand him?
Praise him?
"Sir?" Zhuo Meng asked, his voice even.
"I want you to spar. With me."
A gasp spread through the ranks like ripples on a still pond.
No one sparred with teacher Han. He instructed. He observed. Sometimes demonstrated, yes, but never challenged a student, and certainly not in front of the entire class.
Zhuo Meng blinked once. "Respectfully, I'm tired after my previous match, I politely decline."
There was no visible disrespect in his tone. Just honesty.
That made the silence louder.
Some students were already leaning forward, stunned that anyone would refuse a direct request from a teacher at Blue Cloud Academy. Until the teacher's next words sent a chill down every spine in the arena.
"That wasn't a request, Zhuo Meng." he said quietly. "It was an order. From your instructor."
The tension snapped taut in an instant.
Zhuo Meng stood up again.
His expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger. Not fear.
Just a quiet acceptance.
And perhaps, just a trace of curiosity.
The arena cleared in seconds.
Every pupil, every breath, every rustle of canvas faded into a tense, expectant silence. The sky above seemed to darken by just a shade.
Zhuo Meng stepped into the ring with quiet feet.
No ceremony. No bravado.
Just a steady walk forward, as if he were returning to a familiar room.
Teacher Han took his stance opposite him, feet shoulder width apart, arms loose but ready. His gaze, sharp as polished steel, fixed on the boy in front of him with a strange mixture of interest and caution.
This was a measure.
"No abilities." Han said evenly. "Hand to hand only."
Zhuo Meng nodded once.
The teacher moved first.
A blur, controlled, precise, straight into a probing jab.
Zhuo Meng tilted his head just enough to let it graze past his cheek. A sidestep followed, sharp and tight, bringing him just barely out of the teacher's reach.
He countered with a low sweep, sharp and fast, aimed at Han's left ankle.
Han leapt, pivoted mid air, and dropped back down into a low stance with one knee bent, already delivering an elbow toward Zhuo Meng's ribs before his feet even hit the ground.
Crack.
Zhuo Meng caught it with a forearm, but stumbled slightly from the force.
His twelve year old body wasn't made for this.
Each strike from Han felt like it came from a grown man with years of refined strength. Because it did. Even with him matching his strength to his, the gap in physicality was a wall Zhuo Meng couldn't punch through.
It wasn't that he was inexperienced, far from it. His footwork was smarter. His reaction speed, near perfect. He slipped through punches like smoke and punished overextensions with brutal precision.
But strength.... strength he lacked.
Every time he went for a lock or a counter hold, the teacher would break it with raw force. Every time he tried to pivot for leverage, Han adjusted quicker.
It was like trying to wrestle a storm into submission.
Still, he didn't fold.
He slipped under punches. Rolled past kicks. Tripped the teacher once, even, catching him off balance with a clever feint that drew a flicker of surprise across Han's usually blank face.
But even as the crowd murmured, their awe growing, Zhuo Meng was running out of time.
The teacher pressed harder.
Faster combos now. Traps embedded in his sequences. Elbows following punches, knees behind feints, pivots meant to break rhythm.
Zhuo Meng's body strained to keep up.
He ducked a roundhouse, narrowly, the wind slicing past his ear. His breath came faster now. Arms tingling. Shoulders burning. He had skill, years of it hidden beneath that too young skin.
But muscle was muscle.
And his was still growing.
In a moment of stillness, they circled each other, just a breath apart. Zhuo Meng's chest rose and fell with quiet control. His lips curled into the faintest smile.
Like he was holding back a joke.
Or maybe... just holding back.
He darted in again, feinting left, rolling low, sweeping the teacher's leg with a clever spin. Han stumbled, just slightly, but instead of toppling, he used the momentum to launch a rising elbow upward.
It caught Zhuo Meng square in the shoulder.
He dropped, not hard, but enough to end it.
A second later, Han stood over him, not with triumph, but with a flicker of understanding in his eyes.
He extended a hand.
Zhuo Meng took it.
The two locked eyes for a breath.
"You held back." Han said softly, more observation than accusation.
"I have just recovered from a serious injury." Zhuo Meng replied, wiping the dirt off his sleeve. "I still wouldn't have won anyway."
Han's lips twitched. The faintest ghost of a smile. "I see."
Zhuo Meng walked off the arena floor without a limp, without complaint.
Back straight.
Eyes forward.