A Waste of Time

Chapter 80: Silver Trace

Daemon’s sigh slipped through the scorched hush like the last hiss of steam from a dying forge. The primitive arena lay utterly quiet now — ash and embers swirling in lazy spirals where the pillar of Hellfire had bitten deep into the dry earth. Jia knelt in that blackened ring, shoulders trembling, her forehead nearly brushing the dirt as stray strands of hair clung to cheeks wet with sweat and something more bitter than pain. Across from her, Xue Lian fought for each shallow breath, one hand pressed to her ribs as if she could hold her bones together by will alone. The gold trim of her Inner Disciple’s robe was burned to scorched tatters that clung to her skin gone raw with bruises and the ghost of flame.

Beyond them, the villagers shifted in tight clusters — rough hands cupped to whisper into ears, heads craning to see if the fight was truly done. The few Sect Disciples who joined Xue Lian and accepted the same mission by coming here stood rigid in their sashes, eyes flicking between their fellow Sect Disciple’s battered form and the boy who sat unmoved at the heart of it all.

Daemon exhaled again, slower this time, his fingers drumming once against Kirin’s scaled foreleg where the great beast crouched behind him. The memory of the Phoenix’s reckless blaze still tickled the edges of his mind, but his thoughts were already shifting — calculating what this battered clearing would cost in the days ahead.

He flicked his gaze toward Elder Ping — no veil between them, only the sharpness of her fan now closed and resting on her knee, its edge still charred where the Hellfire’s heat had dared lick close. Even her eyes, flinty and unflinching, softened as they darted from the kneeling maid to the girl in Sect colors.

She dipped her chin slightly, her voice a silk thread spun low enough for no stray ear to steal. “Young Master. Let this stand as done. Your word was one last move — win or lose. Neither girl can stand another clash. If the Weasel’s cunning and the Phoenix’s pride wish to keep their masters upright, best to grant them rest. Let us call this a draw — and keep faith with your word.”

Daemon’s pulse did not quicken. His mind measured the hush, the waiting eyes, the heat that still shimmered where the fight’s heart had burned hottest. He had promised one last blow — no more, no less. Now that promise had dragged both girl and foe down to the same scorched threshold. And no Sect face, no silk words, would make him break that line for the sake of show.

He raised his hand — a gesture as casual as brushing soot from a sleeve, yet sharp enough to cut the hush clean through. “Ru,” he said, his tone cold iron beneath the drifting ash. “Bring your sister.”

Ru’s fist pressed to his chest in silent salute, then he turned, boots crunching softly over scorched soil as he crossed the clearing’s ragged edge where Jia still knelt in her ashes. He crouched beside her, his shadow cutting off the harsh noon glare.

“Sister,” he murmured as his hand gently landed on her shoulder, voice pitched low so only she could hear, not a scrap of the watching crowd’s pity leaking through. “It’s done. He’s waiting — stand with him now, not on your knees alone.”

Jia’s shoulders flinched once, but when she looked up, the tears hadn’t stolen all the steel in her spine. Ru offered his hand — and when her fingers closed around his, he drew her to her feet like a brother lifting more than just flesh and bone.

He guided her back, together they crossed the scorched ring — Ru one step ahead, Jia one heartbeat behind — until they stood beside Daemon, where the hush broke just enough for the next command to matter.

Out beyond the clearing’s ragged edge, where woods and gathered villagers formed a loose ring of onlookers, the villagers exhaled as if they’d all been holding the same scorched breath. Even the Inner Disciples loosened clenched fists, stealing glances at Elder Ping’s unreadable eyes. And through it all, Daemon watched — the weight of what came next settling behind his steady calm. One match done, one promise kept — but this arena’s embers still hid enough heat to spark the next blaze if any fool dared test the boundary he’d set.

Daemon rose from his place by Kirin’s side, the last curls of smoke from the scorched ring stirring around his boots as he stepped forward. His boots and trousers were dusted in soot and ash, the sweat-dried grime of Nie Leixu’s Smithy still streaking his arms and cheeks like war paint that the Phoenix’s heat hadn’t quite burned away. All around him, the hush deepened — the audience of villagers and merchants shifting in their loose circle beyond the clearing’s edge, mercenaries in dull iron lamellar armor adjusting the grips on their spears as if the boy’s shadow might test their resolve next.

Behind him, Ru lingered near the scorched boundary, arms crossed tight over his chest, while Jia stood a pace behind her brother, her head lowered but her eyes locked on Daemon’s back as if clinging to the solid certainty that only he could anchor in this raw silence. Above them, Kirin folded its vast wings tight to its flanks, black feathers shivering with a faint crackle of static that bled into the scorched air. Its talons flexed in the dirt, carving deep grooves as if testing how far it might lunge if Daemon willed it. Now and then, a quiet thunder rolled deep in its chest — not a growl but the muted echo of storms chained beneath its breastbone, promising any fool who stepped too close that lightning answered to this master alone.

At the edge of the ring, the beauty in black — Elder Ping — watched without a word, her fan now tucked tight into her sleeve, the slight tilt of her head the only betrayal of her curiosity. Behind her, the Inner Disciples of The Ten-Thousand Beast Mountain Sect huddled in uncertain formation, stiff spines and anxious eyes betraying the sting of seeing their star forced to her knees by a mortal’s servant — and now forced to bow, in spirit if not in word, to the boy standing at the ring’s heart.

Daemon came to a stop near the deepest scorch, where the earth still steamed faintly from the Phoenix Martial Spirit’s last gasp. He turned in place, his gaze drifting slowly from one face to the next — a half circle of raw hands and restless feet and eyes that flickered between awe and unease. Here were the villagers who once called him Da Niu, the motherless stray who learned too soon how to swing a hatchet harder than a grown man’s back could bear. Here were the merchants counting their coins behind wary smirks, men and women whose purses stayed fat because they knew which wolves to feed and which to fear. Here were the caravan guards, bristling behind spears and dull swords, paid silver to keep bandits at bay but wondering now if the biggest threat to their peace might be the child with the calm eyes and the Ferocious-Creature looming at his back.

He met them all — their excitement, their doubt, their whispered dread that if this boy wished it, someone’s luck would run dry tonight. His mouth stayed a thin line, unreadable as the stories that chased his shadow down the village’s muddy lanes. The stories of the mother who watched while her latest husband tossed the boy out into the dirt. Of the Qi brothers — one with a company of silly teenagers and a heart beating with the joy of a sick habit in bullying the weak, the other with a mouth full of honeyed lies and arms Daemon nearly broke beyond mending in full daylight while half the village watched. Of beasts that fled deeper into the Myriad-Beasts Forest when his bowstring whispered through the branches. Of the Ferocious-Creature that let no other rider near its back, save this boy who claimed its spine as easily as he claimed ruin for those who crossed him.

Daemon stood there, still as the dying heat beneath his boots. Around him, the hush waited for his tongue to shape the future — to carve it clean or salt it raw, as only a boy like him could do.

Daemon’s eyes fell on Lin Qinghai first — the man standing just beyond the ring of scorched earth, half hidden behind Elder Ping’s still silhouette. A subtle smirk tugged at the corner of the boy’s lips, as if tasting a private jest only he could hear. His gaze slid next to Ru, then Jia — the brother’s shoulders square and rigid, the sister’s head bowed under the hush but her eyes flicking up the moment her master’s shadow touched her.

“I promised you two a name,” Daemon said, his voice cutting through the drifting ash like a blade parting silk. The hush around the clearing tightened, the villagers leaning closer, merchants tilting their heads as if they’d missed some bargain hidden in the boy’s quiet vow. Even the mercenaries shifted uneasily behind leveled spears — men who had learned to price every word and now found themselves witnesses to one they could not measure.

Ru’s fists clenched at his sides, the raw knuckles whitening until his arms trembled. His sharp, snake-like eyes shone brighter than the brazier embers still guttering near the wagons — a rare glint of something warm cracking through the cold veneer. Jia’s shoulders twitched, a heartbeat of surprise chasing away the slump of shame that losing her Martial Spirit had carved into her spine. She lifted her chin, just enough to see the boy’s face — and for the first time since she’d knelt in the dirt, the ghost of warmth flickered behind her damp lashes.

Daemon’s smirk softened into something like satisfaction. “Ru. Jia. From this moment, you’re Yan Ru and Yan Jia. My debt — paid. Your loyalty — sealed.”

A collective gasp slipped free from the villagers’ lips, a ripple of disbelief that danced from rough farmer to velvet-robed merchant to the grim line of caravan guards. Some had nearly forgotten the boy’s casual promise, spoken like a passing breeze when the swords clashed and the Sect’s gold hems darkened with dirt and blood. Yet here he stood — a child who bent beasts and men alike — weighing his debts and honoring them without a flicker of doubt.

Ru’s spine snapped straighter. He dipped his chin just once, but the tiny tremor in his tight jaw betrayed the roar of gratitude that words could not carry. His fists, once tight, unfurled — fingers twitching like a man tasting the idea of freedom for the first time. Jia touched her brother’s elbow, her small hand barely grazing the fabric — but in her eyes, the smothered coals of resolve sparked again, fueled by the name now hanging on her shoulders like a cloak she could finally claim as hers.

Before the hush could settle back into its uneasy grave, Daemon’s cold smirk widened to a thin crescent of mischief. He turned his chin, pinning the cluster of Inner Disciples at Elder Ping’s back — four young men and two young girls, silks ruffled, pride untouched, jaws stiff with insult that no blow had yet graced their robes.

He lifted one hand, palm up, as if inviting a puppy to come sniff the leash. “You six,” he said, his voice light but the edge beneath it coiled like a wire ready to snap. “If you’re itching for a taste of what your betters just learned — step forward. I’ll be generous with my time tonight.”

A nervous chuckle skittered through the villagers, swallowed at once by a sharp hush when Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “Be warned,” he added, the playful curl at his lip clashing with the promise buried in his tone, “I’m in a mood. Might be a little heavy-handed if you’re slow on your feet.” His gaze slipped deliberately to the two girls at the edge of the Inner Disciples’ line, lashes lowering like the brush of a blade. “But worry not — I’m gentle with the fairer sex. I promise I won’t break anything that doesn’t grow back.”

A few of the braver guards barked out stifled laughter. Elder Ping’s fan dipped just a fraction lower, hiding the corner of her mouth. Ru let out a slow exhale, the weight of Yan pressing into his bones like armor instead of chains — and behind him, Yan Jia’s shoulders drew back just a little more, ready to see what her master’s shadow would carve next into the soft belly of this day.

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