The deafening uproar of the crowd crashing over the auxiliary arena like a tidal wave. Hundreds of outer sect students were screaming, their voices a chaotic symphony of disbelief, awe, and sheer terror.
From the center, Yoriichi slowly turned his gaze away from Instructor Lin.
He looked toward the surrounding crowd. His face was a mask of absolute, indifferent stoicism. He did not puff out his chest. He did not sneer at the upperclassmen who had previously looked down on him. His profound, crimson eyes simply swept over the sea of faces with the calm, detached serenity of an ancient mountain overlooking a turbulent storm.
Under the weight of that single, quiet gaze, the screaming began to die down.
It started at the front rows and rippled backward. Students instinctively clamped their mouths shut, stepping over each other to avoid making direct eye contact with the crimson-haired anomaly. Within a minute, the riotous uproar was entirely extinguished, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence that hung over the arena.
Having pacified the crowd with a mere look, Yoriichi slowly turned his attention back to the center of the ring.
A few dozen paces away, the senior was still on his knees. The Dou Shi looked entirely broken. His upper garment had been burned away into black ash, exposing the blistering red welt across his chest where the concussive force of the solar flames had bypassed his liquid armor.
But the physical damage was nothing compared to the psychological ruin. Kuo's mind had practically short-circuited. He was staring blankly downward at the cracked stone floor, his pupils rapidly shrinking and enlarging in a severe state of shock.
The terror was etched deeply into the lines of his face. He had unleashed his absolute maximum output—a dual-layered assault of Earth-attribute Dou Qi—and it had been casually swatted away by a freshman. His pride, his Dao heart, and his reputation were in complete tatters.
Crunch. Crunch.
The soft sound of Yoriichi's boots stepping over the loose gravel broke the silence.
He was walking.
Yoriichi's path didn't lead directly toward the kneeling senior. Instead, he veered slightly to the right, approaching the heavy steel broadsword that had been violently knocked from the opponent hands during the clash. The weapon was half-buried in the shattered stone, still emitting a faint wisp of heat from where the Sun-Steel Katana had struck it.
Yoriichi leaned down, wrapping his calloused hand around the hilt, and effortlessly pulled the heavy broadsword from the stone.
He turned and began to walk slowly toward the broken man.
To the silent, breathless audience, the sight was terrifying. The crimson-haired youth, his gradient locks rustling gently in the wind, holding the defeated senior's weapon, looked like an absolute devil descending to collect a soul.
In the brutal, unforgiving culture of the Dou Qi Continent, the victor taking the loser's weapon was a prelude to the ultimate humiliation: crippling the opponent or forcing them to kowtow and beg for mercy.
Standing at the edge of the ring, Instructor Lin's heart leaped into his throat. He had allowed this spar to test the youth, but if a freshman publicly crippled a 2-Star Dou Shi, the Law Enforcement Unit would mercilessly intervene, and Lin would be held responsible. Fearing the situation was about to irreversibly escalate, Lin flared his Da Dou Shi aura and took a step forward.
"Xiao Ning!" Instructor Lin shouted, his magically amplified voice echoing sharply across the tense arena. "The match is finished! The spar has been decided, and any prior grudge is officially settled here and now."
Lin swallowed hard, maintaining his stern facade. "Do not do anything rash, student."
Yoriichi paused his steps. He turned his head slightly toward Instructor Lin and offered a calm, respectful nod, silently acknowledging the teacher's authority. He then continued his slow, measured pace toward the kneeling senior.
Just then, several other figures blurred into the area, landing gracefully beside Instructor Lin. They were other faculty members—two instructors from the Combat Department and elders from the Alchemy Hall and records pavilion respectively—who had rushed over after sensing the massive spike of Dou Shi and the subsequent, terrifying wave of absolute heat.
"Old Lin," whispered Instructor Zhao, a burly man with a massive axe strapped to his back. "What by the heavens happened here? Did a beast breach the outer perimeter? Why is Kuo on his knees?"
"That freshman..." Lin replied, his voice barely a hushed breath, his eyes never leaving Yoriichi. "That C-rank freshman... he shattered Kuo's liquid armor with a single strike."
The newly arrived instructors inhaled sharply, their eyes widening in disbelief as they looked at the stoic youth holding the broadsword.
"Is he going to cripple him?" the Alchemy elder whispered, his brow furrowing with concern.
Instructor Lin extended his spiritual perception, carefully analyzing the ambient energy around Yoriichi. He let out a quiet, internal sigh.
"No," Lin whispered back, shaking his head. "I sense absolutely zero killing intent radiating from the boy. His aura is as calm as a placid lake. But..."
Lin hesitated. He knew the unwritten rules of the academy's student factions. Face and reputation were currencies more valuable than gold.
"But I fear the youth simply wants to humiliate his arrogant senior to firmly establish his own dominance," Lin concluded softly. "We cannot overly involve ourselves in matters of junior pride and student grudges unless it turns lethal. We can only watch."
The other instructors nodded grimly. They braced themselves, fully expecting the incoming scene. They expected the freshman to kick Kuo while he was down, to throw the broadsword into the dirt and demand the senior crawl, or to utter harsh, soul-crushing words about Kuo's lack of talent.
But the very next scene that unfolded before their eyes completely shattered their expectations, leaving their minds reeling and their eyes widened in profound shock.
Yoriichi finally reached Kuo's back. The senior flinched, his shoulders pulling up as if bracing for a brutal kick or a humiliating slap.
Instead, Yoriichi slowly stepped around to the front. He gently reached out and patted the kneeling senior's trembling shoulder.
Kuo gasped, his head snapping upward. He gazed into the face of the monster who had just dismantled his entire worldview, fully waiting to see the sneer of a victor, bracing himself for whatever cruel punishment was about to happen.
But as Kuo looked up, he noticed something impossible. The cold, indifferent crimson eyes that had analyzed his attacks like a machine had softened. They were now slightly gentle, carrying the profound, ancient warmth of a man who deeply understood the agonizing weight of picking up a sword.
Then, to the absolute shock of the hundreds of students and the seasoned instructors watching...
Yoriichi slowly descended.
He bent his right knee, bringing it down to rest on the cracked stone floor, kneeling directly in front of the defeated senior. He lowered his tall frame until he was perfectly, respectfully meeting Kuo eye-to-eye.
A collective, silent gasp rippled through the audience. A victor kneeling before the vanquished? It was unheard of. It defied every brutal law of cultivation supremacy.
Yoriichi then shifted his grip on Kuo's heavy broadsword. He did not hold it by the hilt like a conqueror claiming his spoil. Instead, he placed his left hand under the flat of the blade and his right hand near the crossguard, holding the weapon horizontally with both hands—a gesture of absolute, unadulterated martial respect.
He gently directed the hilt toward Kuo's chest.
Kuo was entirely paralyzed by confusion. Operating on pure instinct, his trembling hands reached out. He unconsciously took hold of his broadsword, his fingers wrapping around the familiar leather grip.