Qiang Ming stood just outside the ring, back straight, arms crossed behind him, hammer not yet summoned. Once again, he was sitting this match out.
Wu Zhangkong had declared it without hesitation.
"Let them adapt to the pressure without you," he'd said.
Qiang Ming hadn't argued. But even now, his violet-gold eyes watched every motion on the field with razor-sharp clarity.
Their opponents from Class 3 stepped forward—and the arena fell into a low murmur.
Triplets.
Identical in every detail.
Same build. Same expressions. Same confident gait. Their soul rings—each a single yellow—pulsed in rhythm.
And when they summoned their Martial Souls, three pairs of Falcon Wings burst into being, shining gold in the morning sun.
With a single synchronized beat, they took to the air and entered triangular aerial formation.
Qiang Ming's eyes narrowed.
They came ready.
This was a team built for anti-ground control. Aerial maneuverability, synchronized tracking, and full-angle pressure—it was a formation designed to isolate someone like him.
They picked the perfect match to leave me out of.
Wulin, Xie Xie, and Gu Yue entered the ring without hesitation.
"They're fast," Xie Xie muttered, watching the falcons circle overhead. "Not faster than me, but they've got the altitude."
"I'll disrupt their rhythm," Gu Yue said, her voice calm and steady. "Wulin—be the anchor."
Tang Wulin nodded once, blue vines already twitching around his arms.
Wu Zhangkong raised his hand.
"Begin."
The triplets opened immediately with a spiral wind bombardment, gust-blades forming a net of intersecting vectors that made the ground nearly impossible to stand still on.
Wulin braced and shielded his teammates with a dome of Blue Silver Grass, vines thickening to absorb pressure. Xie Xie blurred sideways, avoiding direct engagement, while Gu Yue swept her staff and conjured a thin mist screen of water droplets—dense enough to obscure tracking.
They'd faced worse.
Gu Yue began disrupting the falcons' formation with environmental manipulation—wind spikes, heat distortion, and controlled updrafts forced the triplets to readjust repeatedly.
When one faltered, Xie Xie blinked into motion, daggers flashing, forcing the falcon to split from the triangle to evade.
That's when Wulin struck, flinging two vines upward with a massive burst of soul power, wrapping around the target and dragging them to the ground with a sharp thud.
The second falcon dove in for a save, but Gu Yue created a rising wall of fire that curved midair, cutting off his path.
Wulin slammed him to the floor with an overarm throw, and the vines collapsed around his legs like iron snakes.
The third falcon, isolated, turned to flee—only to find Xie Xie already behind him, grinning, his Shadow Dragon Dagger resting just above the shoulder.
The boy froze.
Match over.
The crowd exploded with applause.
Wulin stood panting, Gu Yue flicked sweat from her brow, and Xie Xie bowed with a smirk.
Class 5 had done it again.
Hours later, Qiang Ming was back in his dorm room.
Seated cross-legged, shirtless under the morning sun, his Blackstone Abyss Hammer hovered quietly behind him, mist drifting in violet waves around its head.
His soul power flowed like still water—controlled, deep, and patient.
Then—
BANG BANG BANG.
"Qiang Ming!" someone shouted from behind the door.
He opened one eye.
It was Ye Sugei, face pale and lips trembling.
"You need to come. Now. It's bad. Real bad."
He met Wulin, Gu Yue, and Xie Xie near the stairwell. All three were already moving.
"Did you see it?" Wulin asked.
"No. What happened?" Gu Yue said flatly.
"There's a crowd," Xie Xie muttered. "Like… a real crowd. At the academy gates."
They started to run.
East Sea Academy's Front Gate
The scene was chaos.
Over two hundred people stood outside the gate, many in uniform. Among them were spirit masters, soul engineers, and a handful of mech pilots, their machines parked menacingly behind the crowd.
And at the center of it all—
Guang Biao.
Captain of East Sea City's Mech Brigade.
He stood proud in decorated armor, a massive saber hanging from his back, arms folded, and an expression like cold iron hammered flat.
Beside him, on a stretcher, was a badly injured man.
Guang Long.
Still bandaged. Barely conscious.
"Qiang Ming!" Guang Biao's voice boomed.
"You broke my brother. You crushed his chest. He can't breathe on his own."
He stepped forward, soul rings igniting.
Two yellow.
Four purple.
Spirit Emperor. Rank 60.
"By the authority of the Mech Brigade, I demand you turn yourself in. Now."
Students gasped. Even teachers began to murmur.
Qiang Ming said nothing.
He just stepped forward.
"Your brother threatened civilians. Tried to extort money. I responded."
Guang Biao's voice turned sharp. "We'll let the law decide that."
Then—
Ice.
A cold gust swept through the crowd like a falling blade.
And Wu Zhangkong stepped out from the upper wall of the gate.
His eyes were colder than the wind, his hair falling like silver lightning down his back.
"I heard shouting," he said quietly.
His rings activated.
Two yellow.
Two purple.
Two black.
Spirit Emperor. Rank 68.
The shift in pressure was immediate.
The very air froze.
Guang Biao stiffened.
"You would protect your student?" he asked.
Wu Zhangkong stepped down from the wall.
"I saw what happened."
"You're just his teacher—"
"I'm an eyewitness," Wu Zhangkong said coldly. "And I have more than enough rank to stand trial if needed."
He raised his sword.
Guang Biao responded instantly, saber out, leaping forward.
CLASH!
The swords met—one a gleaming steel edge, the other an ethereal blade of icy light.
For a moment, the two Spirit Emperors were locked.
Then—
Wu Zhangkong twisted.
In a blur of motion, his blade slid along Guang Biao's saber and knocked him back five meters in a single stroke.
The captain stumbled. Breathing ragged.
Wu Zhangkong's robes settled as if he hadn't moved at all.
"I believe this matter is settled," he said.
Guang Biao stared at him, humiliated.
The crowd behind him shifted nervously.
Then he turned.
"This isn't over," he spat.
Wu Zhangkong didn't answer.
Guang Biao lifted his brother's stretcher and left, the crowd dispersing with him.
And when the dust cleared—
Wu Zhangkong turned to his students.
"Next time," he said softly, "hit harder. Leave less for politics."
Then he vanished into the wind.