CHAPTER 172: CH-172: DUEL

And though the mountain bore scars of war, the Feilun Sect found something greater than victory.

They found resolve.

And Tian Shen, at the center of it all, knew the path ahead would demand more. More battles, more burdens, more storms.

But for now, with his spear by his side and his Sect still standing, he allowed himself one breath of peace.

Just one.

The Feilun Sect’s mountain skies had not known silence since the foreigners arrived.

Where once only the cries of spirit cranes and the low chant of disciples cultivating broke the dawn, now a harsher sound intruded—the metallic thrum of war banners, foreign qi techniques clashing with the natural leylines, and words spoken in a guttural tongue that few could understand.

Tian Shen stood upon the Jade Terrace, eyes narrowed. Below, the outer courtyards bustled with uneasy activity. The Sect’s disciples walked with guarded postures. Even the river flowing through the valley seemed strained, its usual clarity dulled by the residue of techniques unleashed in "joint training sessions" the foreigners had insisted upon.

They had come from beyond the Eastern Sea, a coalition of war clans and scholars calling themselves the Azure Conclave. At first, they had spoken honeyed words of alliance, offering maps of hidden realms, medicines from distant mountains, and techniques "refined through generations." But Tian Shen, who had fought enough battles to recognize the glint in a wolf’s eye, sensed something colder beneath their courtesy.

Today, their true faces had begun to show.

The Sect Master had ordered restraint, even hospitality. Elder Su counseled patience—knowledge gained from contact might outweigh temporary indignities. But Tian Shen felt the weight of every foreign footstep like a blade against the Sect’s heart.

And today, the blade was being twisted.

From the terrace, he watched one of the foreigners— a broad-shouldered warrior with scarred arms—force a group of outer disciples into a duel under the guise of "testing resilience." The disciples’ wooden swords cracked within minutes, their spiritual defenses shattering. When the youngest boy faltered, the warrior backhanded him, sending him sprawling.

The foreigner laughed. His comrades clapped.

Tian Shen’s hand tightened around the railing.

"Careful," came a soft voice at his side. Feng Yin had arrived, her presence carrying the quiet steadiness that always tempered his storm. She too was watching, her gaze like frost.

"If you move now," she murmured, "you’ll be acting against the Sect Master’s word."

Tian Shen did not look at her, but the fury in his jaw was plain. "And if I don’t move, one of our disciples will die on our own grounds."

The truth lay heavy between them. Feng Yin’s silence was not disagreement, but recognition.

The moment came quickly.

The scarred warrior seized the fallen disciple by the collar and raised his fist to strike again. This time, Tian Shen moved.

He leapt from the terrace like lightning striking earth, spear in hand. Silver fire erupted around him, his qi flaring in a tide that halted every motion in the courtyard. The warrior froze, fist inches from the boy’s face.

Tian Shen landed, spearpoint pressed lightly against the man’s throat.

"Enough."

The courtyard hushed. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

The foreigner sneered, though sweat prickled along his brow. "This is training. If your disciples are too fragile, perhaps they should remain in the nursery."

Tian Shen’s gaze was like iron. "Strike a child again, and you’ll never lift your hand afterward."

The tension rippled outward, a storm ready to break. Foreign cultivators shifted, their qi bristling. Feilun disciples tightened ranks behind Tian Shen. It was Feng Yin who finally descended, her presence a cooling veil over the rising heat.

"Enough," she echoed, her voice cutting through like tempered steel. "The Sect welcomes exchange, not abuse. If the Azure Conclave cannot distinguish the two, then perhaps the discussions must end here."

The foreign leader chose that moment to arrive—a tall man with pale eyes and a gauntlet glowing faintly with runes. His name was Lord Verdan, and though his words had always been polished, Tian Shen had seen the hunger lurking in his gaze during councils.

He spread his hands. "Misunderstandings grow from youthful tempers. Let us not sow discord where there should be friendship."

His tone was mild. His eyes, calculating.

Later that evening, beneath lanterns in the Council Hall, the atmosphere was no less sharp.

The Sect Master sat enthroned at the head, expression unreadable. Elders lined the sides. Across from them, Lord Verdan and his retinue lounged with the ease of men who felt no danger, only opportunity.

"Your Sect is strong," Verdan said, his words flowing smoothly through a translator. "But strength untested grows brittle. Our warriors merely wished to share the crucible of discipline. Surely, disciples who cannot withstand a simple spar—"

"They were not sparring," Tian Shen interrupted, his voice low but carrying. "They were being beaten."

The hall shifted. Elders exchanged glances. Verdan’s lips curved. "Ah, so this is the famed Tian Shen. The rising spear of Feilun. I had heard tales." He leaned forward. "But tell me, are your flames as bright in true battle as they are in defense of weaklings?"

The insult struck like a thrown dagger. Gasps rippled through the Feilun ranks.

Tian Shen met his gaze. His calm was more dangerous than anger. "Try me, and you’ll find out."

The hall crackled with restrained qi. Feng Yin’s hand brushed Tian Shen’s sleeve—silent reminder, silent restraint. He did not rise.

The Sect Master finally spoke, voice carrying the weight of authority. "Feilun Sect is not a brawl pit. Lord Verdan, discipline your men. Tian Shen, hold your temper. This alliance stands only if both sides remember why it was forged."

Verdan bowed mockingly. "As you command."

But when his eyes flicked back toward Tian Shen, they gleamed with promise. A challenge had been set, and neither man would let it die quietly.

That night, Tian Shen sat alone in the training fields, spear resting across his knees. The moon bathed the stones in cold light. His qi still surged restlessly, replaying every slight, every smirk, every bruise inflicted on his fellow disciples.

He felt Feng Yin’s approach before he heard it. She settled beside him, quiet as always. For a long while, they sat without speaking.

Finally, she said, "He’s provoking you. He wants you to fight on his terms."

"I don’t care whose terms," Tian Shen muttered. "Only that when the fight comes, I finish it."

Feng Yin turned her gaze skyward, the stars mirrored in her eyes. "Then promise me one thing. When you fight, don’t let anger guide you. Let the Sect see more than rage. Let them see why you are Tian Shen."

Her words sank deeper than rebuke. They were trust, given without condition.

Tian Shen closed his eyes, exhaling. When he opened them, the silver flames behind his pupils burned steadier, no longer wild.

"Then I’ll give them reason to believe."

The challenge came sooner than expected.

At dawn, drums thundered across the valley. Verdan stood at the central arena, declaring through his translator:

"In my homeland, alliances are sealed through combat. Let us honor both our legacies. A duel—your finest against mine. If Feilun prevails, we bow to your strength. If we prevail, then your disciples train under us, by our methods, until they are forged into warriors worthy of heaven’s gaze."

The trap was plain. Refusal would paint Feilun as weak. Acceptance risked humiliation.

The Sect Master’s eyes swept the crowd, lingering on Tian Shen. No words were needed.

Tian Shen stepped forward. Spear in hand, flames already whispering along the haft, he entered the arena.

Across from him, Verdan gestured, and the scarred warrior from before strode out, gauntlet glowing, qi swirling like a storm-tide. The crowd hushed.

The duel was set.

When the gong rang, the world narrowed.

The warrior charged, fist a comet of crushing qi. Tian Shen met it with a thrust of silver flame. The clash cracked the stone floor, shockwaves rattling the arena walls. Gasps and shouts rang out as disciples staggered back.

Blow after blow, the warrior pressed, each strike empowered by foreign techniques that twisted qi into brutal force. But Tian Shen flowed like water and struck like thunder, his spear a seamless dance of precision and fury.

The warrior sneered, blood on his lips, and activated the runes on his gauntlet. Energy warped, condensing into a tidal wave of raw destruction.

For an instant, the arena was drowned in light.

But when it cleared, Tian Shen still stood—unmoving, spearpoint resting against the warrior’s heart. Silver flames burned calm and bright, unshaken.

Silence fell. Then, slowly, the Feilun disciples began to cheer.

Verdan’s smile had vanished. His eyes were cold, calculating, dangerous.

The duel was over, but the war beneath words had only begun.

And Tian Shen knew: this was no longer about training, nor even alliances. This was a storm waiting to break.

A storm, and he stood at its eye.