A Waste of Time

Chapter 151: Authority

The young man’s courage nearly shattered the moment the Cane landed in Daemon’s grip. His lips parted, ready to declare surrender, yet his words died as soon as he saw the boy calmly deactivate his barrier. That radiant defense, which had shrugged off his ice again and again, simply vanished.

Now I have a chance. He clenched his dagger tighter, forcing belief into his bones. If I can land even one strike, if I can knock him out here, I’ll have a straight path to the Core Circle.

But reality could not have been further from his desperate hopes.

Daemon stepped forward, dragging the fight straight into his opponent’s domain. The boy closed the distance, Spirit-Thorn Scepter in hand, and met metal with wood. No barrier. No Elements. Just raw movement and timing.

It became a contest of reach and nerve. One fighter armed with a Dagger, augmented by ice, pressing forward with speed and Elemental control. The other, with a Cane, longer and seemingly unsuited for this close-range clash, relying only on physical strikes. To outside eyes, it should have been the Dagger’s fight to win.

Beyond the Array, Elders, Instructors, and Disciples alike leaned closer to watch the water mirrors. What they saw was no wild exchange, but a measured feel-out round — the kind where two predators tested one another’s edges. Offense flowed into feints, feints into bait, bait into sudden counters. Each exchange was short, sharp, and dangerous.

The young man’s blood ran hot. His Weapon had kissed air close to the boy’s skin. His snow spikes had grazed the raft, forcing Daemon to step carefully. The constant pressure gave him hope; his combination of close-range combat and Elemental advantage was working. Just don’t give him space. Don’t give him a chance to breathe, and this is mine.

But that was precisely where Daemon thrived — at the edge of overconfidence. He lived for the moment his foes felt their highest-high, just so he could drag them into their lowest-low. Not for sadism. Not for cruelty. Simply because the world’s sleepers needed to wake.

The Spirit-Thorn Scepter flicked with uncanny precision, its thorned tip parrying the Dagger’s thrust aside. Daemon slid to the left, avoiding a snow spike that jutted upward through the cracks of bamboo beneath his feet. His opponent smiled too, reveling in the abundance of water all around them, feeding his craft. The Lake gave him endless fuel, sparing his Dantian the drain of conjuring ice from nothing.

He was right at home here.

And Daemon noticed.

The young man’s right foot slammed hard onto the raft, splashing water upward in a sudden burst. His free hand twisted into a seal.

“Blizzard Fang!”

The droplets froze mid-air, forming a rain of jagged icicles that lanced downward. Daemon’s path, stripped of his barrier, looked sealed.

But the boy only smirked.

This opponent was no Han Ruyue, no Liu Yuying. He lacked the crushing presence of Yu Tianwu or the raw brutality of Zhan Lei, Zhao Wei, and Chu Ren. Yet his command of the battlefield — his ability to fold the environment into his tactics — was polished. It reminded Daemon of that brutal fight against Zhan Lei, when he himself had changed the weather with Chain Lightning, filling the skies with storm clouds until bolt after bolt rained down.

The difference was stark. Back then, Daemon endured the storm, body shaking beneath Lightning’s punishment. Now, he faced someone doing the same thing — bending nature itself into a weapon — but on a smaller, cleaner scale. The icicles weren’t as devastating as thunderbolts, yet their control, their precision, their timing, was far sharper.

And that, Daemon decided as he surged forward into the storm of fangs, was what made this fight interesting.

Summon Tharok.

Daemon gave the order inwardly, directing his awareness toward the corner of his subconscious where the System always lingered. He could not step into its fabric — not while Ippo and Kai were already within — but he could still wield the gifts permitted to him in the material world.

Tharok’s presence surged to life, a Hero Summon he had yet to truly test. “Demonic Bloodline,” Daemon whispered, activating the Skill. Unlike Asura’s Rush, which offered a fleeting burst of speed, Tharok’s gift had no limit but the drain of his Mana and Stamina. Constant, unrelenting — all for a boost in speed and a crucial +25% in evasion.

His body blurred, senses sharpened. Projectiles that should have cornered him were laid bare in his Mind-Eye, their trajectories traced, every angle calculated. The speed of his own limbs, stacked with Tharok’s attributes, felt like wings grafted to a tiger.

Mana bled from him with every twist and turn, but Stamina was never his weakness. And what drained too quickly was answered by something deeper. As Daemon bent, rolled, and swatted aside the razor-sharp icicles, the pores and acupoints of his body opened. Natural Energy poured in to refill what was burned away.

To the audience, it was blinding. The boy moved through the storm untouched, weaving through fangs of ice as though his body was water itself.

Even the Instructor on the central leaf tensed, ready to intervene — certain this was the moment he would need to leap in and save the boy. But the moment never came.

Daemon emerged from the blizzard without a scratch.

“I—” His opponent’s voice cracked, words of surrender trembling on his lips.

“U-uh!” Daemon was already there, a phantom in motion. The tip of the Cane rammed into the young man’s mouth, shutting him up before he could finish.

“Didn’t you hear me say I was going to whoop your ass with this Cane?” Daemon’s grin was wicked, his tone almost playful. “I let you have your fun. Now it’s time for mine.”

With a flick of will, a globe of water snapped into being, coating his opponent’s head.

Panic flared in the young man’s eyes. Qi Gathering Realm or not, he still needed air. He clawed at the water with desperate hands, but the sphere clung tight, implacable.

Daemon stepped behind him, calm as a golfer lining up a stroke. The Scepter rose, thorn-lined and heavy with judgment.

Wham.

The Spirit-Thorn Scepter cracked down on the man’s backside. His body convulsed, eyes bulging as he reflexively gulped water into his lungs. What struck him was no ordinary pain. It sank deeper, past muscle and bone, and gnawed at his Soul. His Will buckled beneath the weight.

The Instructors shivered. They knew the nature of that Artifact well — forged for punishment, not battle. One strike could break a disciple’s spirit, strip them raw, and force them to rebuild themselves from ruin.

Even the Elders shifted uncomfortably, phantom tingles rising across their bodies. Many of them had once been wild and untamed; many had felt that same searing lash during their youth. The memory of it lingered, and now it returned unbidden.

Why did he give it to the brat? The thought flickered through every mind as eyes slid toward the man in silver. But none dared speak it aloud. None were foolish enough to question Shen Duan, not in word or even in look.

All but one.

The Grand Elder’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding in silence. Because she alone saw the hidden message in this moment — and she knew it was meant for her.

Keep your distance from the brat.

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