It was morning. The breeze carried the scent of nearby flowers. Petals danced and fell like rain. The air was warm.
The arena was quiet when Li Qiong arrived.
Long before the appointed time, long before the elders took their seats and the Patriarch descended from his high chamber — he was already there.
A single figure, clad in spotless white robes.
His feet touched the cold stone floor with no sound. His dark hair was tied neatly back, his expression calm, almost absent.
He stepped onto the center of the stage and stood still for a breath. Then, slowly, he began to stretch — his shoulders rolling, his neck tilting until it cracked softly. He brought one arm across his chest, then the other, loosening the tension in his back, his hips.
There was no arrogance in his movements.
No fire.
Only... quiet preparation.
Some of the disciples who arrived early to claim the front seats watched him with curiosity.
"Why's he here so early?"
"Hah. Just trying to act impressive."
"White robes? As if he's some honored guest!"
Others sneered openly, loud enough for him to hear.
"Look at him. Doesn't even have the guts to sit down and wait. Just standing there, pretending to be calm."
Li Hongye leaned against a railing at the edge of the arena, arms folded, a crooked smirk on his face as he murmured to Li Wuji beside him:
"I almost feel sorry for him. Almost."
"Don't. He chose this," Wuji replied, eyes glinting coldly.
But Li Qiong ignored them all.
His breathing was slow and even.
His hands opened and closed rhythmically at his sides.
In... and out.
His chest rose and fell like the swell of a distant sea.
And then his mind stilled — the waves flattening into a mirror of water.
From that moment on, the arena seemed to change.
There was no boy standing there anymore.
Only an ocean.
Vast, quiet, and full of hidden currents.
By the time the Patriarch arrived, the stands were packed.
Elders and clan heads filed into their seats, their robes sweeping the ground. Disciples whispered and jostled for a better view. The air buzzed with excitement.
And at the highest seat, the Patriarch sat, his long white beard faintly stirring in the breeze. His hawk-sharp eyes swept over the arena — and then turned cold as they fell on the white-robed figure waiting below.
Beside him stood his daughter — Li Qiong's mother — her expression hard as stone. She stood close to the Patriarch at his command, her cold gaze fixed on her son below.
She did not speak.
But the look she gave him carried a silent message:
You little ingrate. You dare stand here and humiliate me before the clan.
The Patriarch noticed her hands tightening faintly at her sides. His own lips curved just slightly — and he murmured to her without looking.
"Don't even think of it. Sit. Watch. Nothing more."
She stiffened but said nothing, bowing her head.
When the signal finally rang out, Li Qiong opened his eyes.
His opponent stomped up to the stage — a broad-shouldered youth with bulging arms and a sneer on his lips. The peak of body tempering, his frame packed with hardened muscle. He cracked his knuckles and glared at Li Qiong with open disdain.
"I won't go easy just because you're wearing white,"
"I make sure You'll regret ever stepping up here."
Li Qiong said nothing.
His only response was a quiet exhale — and then he raised his hands, slipping into a loose stance.
The match began.
The body tempering youth lunged first — his punch cutting through the air with enough force to leave a faint wind in its wake.
Like a falling boulder — his fist a hammer aimed at Li Qiong's head.
But Li Qiong... was already gone.
He stepped back just enough for the fist to graze his sleeve. His foot slid soundlessly across the stone, and his own fist darted forward — a soft, sharp strike into his opponent's ribs.
No cracking sound.
No scream of pain.
But the bigger boy froze. His arm went numb. His breath hitched.
And already Li Qiong was there again — his body weaving closer, so close it was almost suffocating, his strikes gliding from one opening to the next.
Li Qiong stayed close, too close, weaving like water between the youth's strikes. Every time the youth tried to attack, Li Qiong would slip away — and in the next instant strike back in the opening left behind.
Jab.
Step.
Hook.
Step.
Elbow.
Step.
Like silk wrapping around a blade — useless at first glance, but impossible to shake off.
There was no anger in his movements.
No brutality.
Only a strange, flowing rhythm — soft and smooth, yet impossible to predict or escape.
From the stands, murmurs rose:
"Why isn't he hitting harder?"
"Why doesn't his opponent look hurt?"
"What... is this?"
Because the body tempering youth wasn't bleeding. His skin bore no bruises.
But his steps grew heavier. His shoulders slumped. His arms didn't move quite right anymore.
His every strike was met with nothing but air — and the cold pressure of the white-robed figure following him so closely, so unerringly, that there was no room to breathe.
Li Qiong's mother narrowed her eyes. The Patriarch, however, watched with something close to amusement.
"A snake," he murmured.
"They don't fear the snake because it has fangs. They fear it because it's fast. Because it's unpredictable. Because by the time you realize it's coiled around you... it's already too late."
The opponent lashed out desperately, throwing his full weight behind a wild punch — and Li Qiong stepped back, just far enough.
"What is he doing...? Why isn't he hitting harder?"
"Why is he... slowing down?"
The youth stumbled backward to regain his balance — and that was when Li Qiong struck.
The bigger boy's movements grew heavy, sluggish. His fists still swung, but slower now. His breathing came hard and uneven. His footwork stumbled.
Why... why can't I hit him?
Why do my arms feel so heavy?
It's like punching at water... and drowning anyway.
Li Qiong followed him so close, so precisely, that every step and breath of his opponent became a weapon turned against him.
A straight punch, fast and sharp as lightning, sank into his chest.
Every punch left an opening. Every step left him off balance.
And Li Qiong was there, every time.
The bigger boy fell to his knees, gasping, arms hanging uselessly. Not bleeding. Not broken. But completely... defeated.
Not a wolf tearing into its prey — but a serpent coiling tighter and tighter, until the prey could no longer move.
For a long moment, the arena was silent.
Then whispers rose, spreading like ripples:
"It didn't even look like a fight..."
"He... he didn't even hurt him..."
"But he couldn't move. He couldn't fight back..."
At the top of the stands, the Patriarch let out a quiet, satisfied hum. His daughter's face darkened further.
On the stage below, Li Qiong straightened, lowering his hands. His breathing was calm. His eyes dark and steady.
And when he looked up — just for a moment — the morning light kissed his face, and it was as warm as ever.