Li Wei shifted his weight, and the sword sliced through nothing but air. In the same motion, his hand reached out and closed around the hilt, redirecting the strike downward. The lackey stumbled, off-balance, and before he could recover, a knee slammed into his midsection with crushing force. He gasped, air leaving his lungs in a strangled cry.

  Li Wei didn’t follow up immediately. Instead, he stood tall, his voice calm, cutting through the roaring crowd with frightening clarity. “Yield.” The word was simple, quiet, but it struck like thunder.

  The lackey snarled, spitting blood. “Never!” He slashed again, his attacks wild now. Li Wei deflected every blow, his movements so precise they bordered on effortless—parry, sidestep, twist, strike. Each time the lackey attacked, he found himself meeting empty air or the dull echo of a palm stopping him cold.

  In the final instant, Li Wei moved like water, sidestepping an attack, seizing the man’s wrist, and twisting.

  The sword clattered harmlessly to the ground. A second later, the lackey was face-down on the platform, immobilized by a pressure point strike.

  The crowd’s roar filled the air, half in outrage, half in awe.

  Li Wei, beneath the mask, exhaled slowly. His heart thundered, but his hands did not tremble. For the first time in three years, he felt whole again.

  He turned toward the area where Zhao Feng sat and saw his sneering face.

  Zhao Feng’s eyes burned with contempt. He suddenly roared from the stand, his voice resonating throughout the arena; “You dare make false allusions about an attempted crippling? What proof do you have to say such a defamatory thing? If you have no proof, then take off that mask! Show yourself if you have any honor!”

  The Buddha Mask Disciple’s voice carried easily over the uproar. “Honor?” he said softly. “Those who speak of honor the loudest are often the ones who understand it least.”

  A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd. Even some disciples lowered their heads, stumped by the weight of those words. Even Elder Shen of the Investigation Hall, who had been about to make a move to arrest the vigilante, paused when he heard those deep words.

  From the pavilion, Su Qingyue watched the masked figure closely.

  Patriarch Shigo Tianyu’s faint smile deepened.

  “Interesting,” he murmured under his breath.

  The vigilante turned away. “This duel ends now,” he said, his voice quiet but absolute.

  The lackey groaned on the ground, too injured to rise. The barrier that separated the dueling platform from the crowd flickered faintly, reacting to the disruption of the match.

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  Zhao Feng rose halfway from his seat, fury twisting his expression. “You dare end an official sect trial? You think you can challenge the rules and walk away?”

  Buddha Mask didn’t respond. He bent down, and after checking that Xiao Lan hadn’t suffered any crippling injuries, looked up toward the pavilion.

  For a brief moment, his eyes, though hidden, met Su Qingyue’s.

  And she smiled. A small, knowing smile.

  “Perhaps,” she whispered, almost to herself, “the flame I spoke of burns brighter than I thought.”

  As Li Wei vanished into the shadows beyond the arena, the crowd erupted in chaos—outrage, admiration, and confusion intertwining in a storm of voices.

  In the upper pavilion, Guo Liang leaned forward, his usual arrogance softened by genuine admiration. “What a display,” he said, exhaling a slow, incredulous laugh. “That masked fighter... his movements, his control... it’s not something ordinary. He must be one of the inner sect’s hidden talents. There’s no other explanation.”

  He turned slightly toward Patriarch Shigo Tianyu, lowering his voice out of respect. “Master, I couldn’t sense a thing from that masked fellow. I could tell he was at the Flesh-Tempering stage based on the level of strength he displayed, but had he not fought, I would have mistaken him for an ordinary mortal.” In fact, Guo Liang was more shocked than he let on. An expert capable to hiding themselves so deeply was either extremely talented or possessed shocking backing.

  “Did you sense anything about him, master?” he finally asked his master. “His qi, his foundation… anything at all?”

  The old patriarch’s gaze was distant, fixed on the empty stage where the masked young man had vanished moments before. His usually serene face was drawn into a faint frown. A silence stretched for a moment, then he shook his head slowly. “That masked young man,” he said at last, his voice low and thoughtful, “is not simple.”

  Guo Liang blinked in surprise. “Not simple? What do you mean, Master?”

  The patriarch’s eyes remained half-lidded, the faint shimmer of wisdom and confusion intertwined in their depths. “He clearly possesses a cultivation base. There’s no mistaking it. His movements, his qi manipulation, his martial awareness… all speak of someone who has trained deeply. And yet…” He paused, frowning again, his gaze darkening slightly. “I could not sense it.”

  Guo Liang straightened, disbelief written across his face. “Even you, Master, couldn’t sense it?”

  The patriarch nodded. “It was as if his cultivation did not exist, and yet his strikes were stronger than any ordinary mortal could ever be. Such concealment is not something ordinary concealment techniques could achieve.”

  Guo Liang stared, his earlier admiration deepening into awe. “To hide from even you, Master… then that young man must be…”

  “Something beyond the surface,” the patriarch said quietly. He lifted his cup and took a slow sip, though his eyes betrayed that his mind was far away. “I’ve seen prodigies rise and fall, Guo Liang, but few who could mask their essence completely. Whoever he is, his cultivation, although paltry, is refined to a level where even I cannot trace its flow.”

  Guo Liang nodded, the awe still bright in his gaze. “Then he truly must be someone extraordinary,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

  The patriarch chuckled softly, setting his cup down. “I am but a brutish fellow who plays with swords. Your junior sister’s constitution makes her more attuned to the subtle things than I care to be. Perhaps she sensed something I did not.”

  Guo Liang turned immediately, his curiosity piqued. “Junior Sister Su, what about you? Did you sense anything?”

  Su Qingyue’s gaze lingered on the dueling platform below, her eyes distant, almost wistful. For a moment, she seemed to weigh her words carefully before turning her calm, measured expression toward them.

  “No,” she said softly, her voice smooth as still water. “I sensed exactly what Master did. His cultivation… it’s just like his face—hidden behind a mask.”