The strike descended like a hammer straight toward his head.

  Jin stepped aside with a minimal, almost lazy motion, letting the fist pass through empty air. The follower leaned forward under the force of his own attack, momentarily losing balance, but Jin still didn’t counterattack. Not yet. He simply slid back a step, eyes fixed on his opponent as he calmly observed.

  The boy wasn’t slow. His stance was rough but solid, his back broad, shoulders tense, breathing controlled and trained. He pressed forward with a sequence of short strikes—one aimed at Jin’s face, another at his torso, followed by a low kick meant to break his balance. Jin avoided the kick by barely lifting his heel and twisting his body, his movements guided entirely by instinct. He didn’t block and he didn’t strike back; he simply read the flow of attacks as they came.

  The combinations continued, one after another, each faster and heavier than the last, until murmurs began to ripple through the watching disciples.

  “Tch…” The follower clicked his tongue, irritation creeping into his voice. “Are you just going to run?”

  Jin raised an eyebrow, a trace of disappointment flickering across his face. “It’s not running,” he replied evenly. “I’m deciding what to do with you.”

  The boy snorted and charged again like a caged bull.

  Jin dodged once more… and then, quite visibly, he grew tired of it.

  He let out a slow sigh, as if the exchange were more tedious than dangerous, and flicked his wrist as though brushing dust from his fingers. “Alright, alright. I thought you’d be more interesting.”

  A sharp intake of breath spread among the surrounding disciples. The provocation was obvious.

  The follower growled and threw a punch straight at Jin’s face. Jin twisted his feet, brought one knee forward, and rotated his hips in a clean, efficient motion. His palm struck the solar plexus, followed immediately by a low sweep.

  It was an earthly style—mundane techniques, no Qi involved.

  The opponent was dragged nearly half a meter back before he managed to steady himself. He hunched over for a moment, hissed in pain, then straightened slowly, a crooked and amused smile creeping across his face.

  “Heh…” He wiped his mouth with his forearm. “Not bad. Quick and clean. But—”

  He struck his own abdomen with a dull thud.

  “Even without Qi, the body technique I practice reinforces my muscles. Do you really think a couple of blows like that will do anything?”

  Confidence returned to his posture as he charged again, already convinced he knew how this would end.

  Jin’s eyes narrowed slightly. He dropped his shoulders and drew a deep breath, as if making a quiet decision. Sunlight washed over the platform, casting sharp shadows across the stone.

  “So that’s how it is,” he murmured while watching the other boy settle back into his stance. “If I don’t use Qi, and you harden your body with your technique… that’s what you call a fair fight.”

  The follower smiled smugly as he rubbed the forearm Jin had struck earlier. “Of course. This isn’t the village you crawled out of. Real disciples train their spiritual bodies here. What did you expect—that peasant stances would affect me?”

  Jin watched him silently. The patience in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by something colder and sharper.

  He remembered the training from his past life. Some martial arts existed for sport, for competition and discipline. Others, however, had been created for something else entirely—to break bones, crush joints, and leave an enemy unable to lift an arm for weeks.

  They weren’t heroic or refined. They were tools—practical, cruel, efficient.

  Without warning, Jin stepped forward. He didn’t change his stance; he simply shifted his center of gravity.

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  The disciple smiled, confused by the apparent recklessness.

  “Already given up?” he mocked. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold back. I won’t bre—”

  He never finished the sentence.

  Jin closed the distance in a single sharp movement. He wasn’t as fast as an expert cultivator, but he wasn’t slow either—every motion was precise. His foot drove into the ground, weight flowing into his hips as his shoulder rotated like a released spring.

  The strike wasn’t a punch. It was a vertical palm aimed just beneath the sternum, where the rib cage weakened.

  The air snapped.

  The boy gasped as his body curled by reflex, stumbling two steps back with wide eyes. Jin didn’t pursue him; he simply adjusted his stance, ready to follow up if the idiot insisted on staying upright.

  I didn’t want to do this… but here we are.

  The murmur around the platform thickened into a buzzing haze. Several disciples swallowed hard, unsure whether they had truly seen what had just happened. Even the senior brother’s smile disappeared.

  The follower steadied himself with visible effort, neck muscles tightening and breath ragged. At the edge of the platform Lian Xuan stepped half a pace forward as if preparing to intervene, but Jin raised a hand without looking back.

  “I’m fine,” he said quietly.

  The opponent lifted his head, and for a moment the arrogance drained from his face, replaced by something raw and primal—shame. The gazes of nearby disciples pressed in from all sides; some whispered while others barely held back laughter.

  That murmur became the spark.

  The follower clicked his tongue and swallowed both saliva and pride. “Bastard…” he spat.

  He lunged at Jin without stance or technique, a reckless avalanche driven by wounded ego. Jin didn’t retreat; he met him head-on. His left arm deflected the incoming forearm while his right slammed into the ribs, driving the air from the boy’s lungs. Jin rotated his hips and crashed his shoulder into the torso, forcing him to stagger.

  He didn’t stop.

  A stomp crushed the instep. A knee drove into the inner thigh. An upward strike slammed into the diaphragm. Every motion was clean and efficient, like a choreography he had practiced countless times back on Earth—techniques meant to incapacitate, not impress.

  The follower collapsed to his knees. His mouth trembled, and when he spat, a thin line of red splashed onto the stone.

  Some disciples gasped. Others looked away, uncomfortable. The senior brother merely narrowed his eyes as he assessed the situation.

  Jin noticed something else.

  The follower’s gaze was no longer wounded pride—it was rage. Blind, irrational rage mixed with humiliation and despair.

  “No…!” he growled. “You’re not humiliating me in front of everyone!”

  Then Jin felt it.

  Qi.

  A clumsy, surging pulse rushed through the boy’s meridians, lighting them from within like an uncontrolled torrent.

  “I’m going to tear you in half!” he roared.

  His speed exploded.

  Jin barely had time to react before a Qi-charged fist slammed into his stomach. The impact ripped the air from his lungs and folded his body, lifting him slightly off the ground before he crashed onto his back.

  “Senior Brother Jin!” Lian Xuan shouted.

  The crowd erupted.

  Jin stared up at the summer-blue sky, his breath frozen as pain flared through his abdomen.

  …Qi.

  So the idiot had used it.

  He struggled to breathe and then, slowly, a smile spread across his face as he forced himself upright. It hurt less than he had expected—but there was no time to think about that.

  The follower charged again, eyes bloodshot and body vibrating as faint lines of bluish Qi crawled across his skin. It wasn’t refined cultivation—just brute reinforcement.

  A punch grazed Jin’s cheek, burning like iron wrapped in stone. Another blow crashed into his ribs, punching through his guard and driving him back.

  “HAHA!” the follower laughed wildly. “Where’s your arrogance now?”

  More strikes came. One caught Jin’s collarbone, pain flashing through his arm.

  Annoying. Painful. But not unbearable.

  Jin exhaled sharply. Until now he had avoided circulating Qi through his muscles; he wasn’t used to it yet, and forcing it too quickly risked injuring himself. But continuing like this wasn’t an option.

  When the next knee strike came, Jin stepped forward instead of back.

  The air trembled.

  No technique. No seals. Just will.

  Qi surged through his meridians, clumsy and violent. His arms trembled for an instant before hardening as his muscles compacted. The knee collided with his raised forearms, the impact sounding like stone striking stone.

  The follower blinked in disbelief.

  Jin used the contact to rotate his hips and bring his arm down in a hammering arc onto the man’s shoulder. The grunt that followed was raw and very real.

  “You’re not the only one who can reinforce himself,” Jin said calmly.

  Rage exploded in the follower’s eyes.

  Then his posture changed.

  His muscles tightened like iron and his stance shifted as his feet rooted firmly into the stone. This wasn’t a simple blow anymore—it was a technique.

  “Hammer Strike!” he roared.

  The punch came with terrifying structure and intent.

  Jin had no time for hesitation.

  If he’s putting everything into one strike… then so will I.

  Qi flooded his arm in rough layers, burning and vibrating as it gathered there—crude, unstable, but undeniably his. He leaned forward slightly, almost inviting the impact.

  “Come.”

  The fists collided.

  CRACK—

  The sound echoed across the platform like stone breaking beneath a hammer.

  The follower was thrown backward, crashing onto the stone as his arm twisted at an impossible angle. Jin remained standing, though he staggered as his own arm trembled violently and pain roared through every nerve.

  Silence swallowed the arena.

  Jin grit his teeth. “…I overdid it.”

  His knees gave out.

  Lian Xuan caught him just in time.

  The platform remained frozen.