Xu Tianyin didn't have time to think.
Zhen Jiulan disappeared from sight—not merely through speed, but through an impossibility. One breath he was there, eyes glinting with cold resolve; the next, he was gone.
Tianyin's instincts screamed. He dove sideways, and the ground where he had stood exploded, torn apart by a sudden, crushing force.
He rolled to his feet, just in time to block a sweeping strike aimed at his neck. The blade didn't glow. It didn't shine. But it moved with an unnatural stillness—as if it didn't cut through space, but replaced it.
Jiulan appeared again, no longer playful. His movements were no longer about testing.
He had decided to kill.
"You should be proud," Jiulan said coolly as he pressed forward, blade flowing like water, "I rarely use this art."
Tianyin ducked, spun, then twisted his torso to absorb a grazing slash. His shoulder flared with pain, but he pushed past it. The hunter wasn't just fast—he existed between movements, sliding through the cracks of perception.
And Tianyin had no qi. No spiritual sense.
Only instinct.
Only the void.
He reached inward—not toward power, but toward absence. His thoughts slowed. His breath grew shallow. He didn't seek strength. He abandoned everything but sensation.
The world dulled.
His heartbeat was the only sound.
And in that space of stillness—he moved.
Jiulan's blade passed through his image, but he was already gone, stepping outside the rhythm of the fight. Not faster. Just elsewhere.
His fist connected with Jiulan's ribs. Not hard, but unexpected. Jiulan staggered, the blow throwing off his technique. For a breath, his stance cracked open.
Tianyin seized it. He didn't strike for a kill. He wasn't thinking like a warrior. He moved like an echo.
One hand struck Jiulan's wrist. The other caught his shoulder. A twist, a redirection.
Jiulan's own momentum sent him crashing into the forest floor.
Dust rose. Leaves scattered.
Silence.
Tianyin stood, chest heaving, blood trailing down his arm. He did not speak. There was no triumph in his eyes. Only clarity.
Jiulan groaned, slowly rising to one knee. His blade was still in hand, but the edge of arrogance had dulled in his gaze.
"You…" he muttered, spitting blood. "You're not a cultivator."
Tianyin didn't move.
"You're not even human anymore."
That gave Tianyin pause.
Not human?
He had never considered that. But standing here, victorious against someone far stronger, with no qi in his veins—maybe Jiulan was right.
Maybe he wasn't something the world could classify.
Not a failure.
Not a genius.
Something else.
Jiulan stood fully, backing away. He did not flee, but neither did he continue the fight. "This bounty's not worth it," he said softly. "Whatever path you've chosen, boy, it'll destroy you. And everything around you."
Tianyin didn't respond.
Jiulan sheathed his blade, nodded once, and turned away.
When he was gone, Bai Yeming finally stepped from the shadows.
"You fought without fear," she said.
Tianyin turned to her. "I was afraid," he admitted. "But I moved anyway."
She gave the faintest smile. "That is all that matters."
The wind moved around them again.
The trees, the ground, the wounds—all remained. But something had shifted. Not in the world.
In him.
He had not fought like a cultivator.
He had fought like something that should not exist—something free.