A Waste of Time

Chapter 83: Marbled Haze

Elder Ping’s voice cut cleanly across the clearing, sharp enough to halt the rising swell of murmurs. It carried a tone of finality — firm, cold, and laced with an annoyance too subtle for most to place.

“Disciple Chu Ren,” she said, each syllable perfectly measured, “in this duel, you are forbidden from activating your Spiritual Treasures. You will show mercy when in a superior position, or surrender immediately if you are not.”

A ripple moved through the crowd — part surprise, part confusion — as the weight of her words settled.

Daemon’s gaze slid toward her, his lips pressing into a thin line before a sharp tsk escaped. So that’s how you’re going to play it, woman.

It was dressed up as discipline, a public chastisement aimed at a reckless subordinate who’d let his temper dictate his mouth. On the surface, it painted Chu Ren as a hot-headed fool who needed an Elder’s steady hand. But Daemon saw the curve hidden beneath the straight line — a quiet lifeline disguised as reprimand.

By imposing the restriction herself, Elder Ping had planted a ready-made escape route in her disciple’s path. Should Chu Ren falter, he could yield without looking cowardly, his retreat framed not as surrender but as obedience to his Sect’s Outer Elder.

Daemon’s eyes flicked to the villagers gathered at the edge of the clearing, noting the way some nodded as if they approved of the Elder’s firm fairness. Others glanced at one another with a mixture of curiosity and speculation, already shaping their own versions of the tale they’d carry home.

Neat little trick, Daemon thought, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. You’ve just lightened the weight of losing before the fight’s even decided.

Chu Ren had been regretting his decision from the moment he stepped forward until this very breath. If it were possible, he would have gladly poured every shred of his Qi into the Earth beneath his boots, split the ground wide, and let it swallow him whole — anything to escape the sea of watching eyes and their thinly veiled judgment.

But there was no turning back now. Not from the pit he had dug with his own hands — or rather, his own mouth. The Elders were right, he thought bitterly. Loose tongues and unchecked desires are the root of all calamities.

He crouched low as though readying himself to dismantle the Earthen walls around him, one hand braced against the dirt. In truth, the motion served a different purpose — hiding the quick wipe of sweat from his brow behind the protective bulk of his Gauntlets. The moment his hand left the ground, the heat clinging to his skin had already cooled into a mask of iron resolve.

When Chu Ren rose, the hardness in his expression and the new light in his eyes told Daemon all he needed to know — the man’s composure was back, his spirit rekindled.

Inexperience still clung to the Inner Disciple like a faint scent, but Daemon knew better than to underestimate the kind of foundation someone like Chu Ren would have. The Sect’s upbringing was strict, its resources abundant, and its training relentless; from the moment a disciple set foot on Ten-Thousand Beast Mountain, they were forged and tempered under constant pressure.

Like a bull scenting red, Chu Ren lunged forward, his movements tight and disciplined, both Gauntlets clenched into hard shields to guard his head. His boots pounded against the dirt, sending tremors through the ground with each step.

Man, Daemon thought, smoothly pivoting to the side, his shoulder twisting at the perfect angle to slip in a sharp, quick jab, his Movement Technique right now reminds me of myself when I’m in Asura form and activating the Rush Skill. Thankfully, this guy’s only got two arms instead of six — and one head with two eyes instead of three heads and six eyes.

The boy wasn’t in a hurry to end it. Not this time. This fight — unlike Yan Ru’s brutal clash with Shen Li and Lin Qinghai, or Yan Jia’s clean exchanges with Yue Lan and Xue Lian — was a lesson wrapped in muscle and grit.

Here, in this style of combat, Daemon could take his time. Watch. Learn. Feel. Every step, every swing, every tell in Chu Ren’s guard was another scrap of knowledge he could add to his own growing arsenal.

He was quick, strong, and confident — true. But raw. Too raw. Against a veteran with patience and experience, someone slower and weaker on paper could still smother all his advantages. Technique was the bridge to those feats, and on that front, Daemon knew he was still walking with bare feet on unpaved ground.

Almost everything he knew about Martial Arts had come second-hand, siphoned from the teachings Yan Ru drilled into Ippo. And Daemon, like a shameless thief, had leeched the practical lessons from his clone’s tireless training.

This phase of the fight might have been the epitome of raw, manly combat — had Chu Ren been trading blows with someone of his own stature. The image, however, was oddly skewed when his opponent was a boy barely tall enough to reach his chest.

Yet the sound of it left no room for mockery. The meaty thud of flesh meeting flesh, the sharp clack of steel-plated Gauntlets colliding with bare knuckles, the cutting whizz of punches and kicks tearing through the air — all of it was too real, too sharp to dismiss.

Bronze skin rippled with every impact, muscles knotting and loosening in the rhythm of the fight. Each time Chu Ren took a hit or was baited into a counter, the power in his frame shuddered under the boy’s precision. Sweat slicked his back and soaked into his tunic, flinging loose in glittering arcs whenever he pivoted or struck. The clearing rang with the steady cadence of their exchange — the bam of impact followed by the low rasp of breath between them.

Daemon kept him busy every step, never allowing him to reset his footing or reclaim the rhythm. There was no mercy in those small, fast hands — only an endless, playful pressure that made every moment feel like the next trap was already laid.

Finally, a quiet admission flickered in Chu Ren’s mind — one he’d never speak aloud. I’m afraid of this little freak.

It wasn’t just the force behind the blows, though that was enough to make any man’s bones ache. It was the dawning realization, shared by every expert eye watching from the sidelines: the boy had him figured out. Worse — Daemon was copying his movements, adapting to his style with a speed that was nothing short of terrifying.

Yan Ru’s lips curved into a proud smile, his head nodding again and again as if each movement in the clearing confirmed what he already knew. A quiet, almost wicked sense of satisfaction swelled in his chest — the sight before him was his handiwork, passed down through lessons to Ippo and now unleashed in full by their young master.

The methodology was merciless by design: break the opponent down piece by piece, strip them of their footing, deny them any chance to recover. Every motion was aimed at stifling the enemy’s breath, forcing them into retreat, punishing each desperate attempt to fight back. It was suppression turned into an art form — relentless, methodical, and cruel.

But this wasn’t a perfect copy of his style. Yan Ru, along with his sister, could see the ways Daemon was adding his own flavor to it. The boy’s small frame moved with deceptive playfulness, weaving in feints that led nowhere, baiting Chu Ren into defending against phantom strikes. His opponent’s Gauntleted arms jerked to shield blows that never came, his posture twisting under threats that dissolved into thin air.

In that instant of overcommitment, Daemon would slip in with a strike from an unexpected angle — a jab to the ribs, a hook to the thigh, a sharp tap to an unguarded jaw — each one stealing more balance, more confidence.

Bronze skin slicked with sweat, Chu Ren looked both confused and cornered, like a bull driven in circles until it could no longer tell which way the spear would come.

Yet all the Cultivators on site found themselves wearing the same expression — furrowed brows and tight lips — as they quietly simulated their own version of a fight against Daemon in their minds. No matter how they shifted the details, the conclusion they reached was disturbingly similar.

Fighting a Body-Refiner like this kid was an utter nightmare.

Chu Ren’s stubborn will kept him rooted in the bout, but even with his desperate attempts to remain standing — fortifying his muscles, bones, and skin by channeling Earth Qi directly into his physique — the punishment was plain for all to see. Each impact from the boy landed with surgical cruelty, and while it was obvious Daemon wasn’t even fighting at full tilt, the bronze-skinned youth was already looking like a battered statue on the verge of crumbling.

It was experimentation, pure and simple. The boy was using Chu Ren as a living test dummy, cycling through new Techniques, shifting his angles, and adjusting his timing as if the fight was a playground. To the watching experts, it was almost more unnerving than if Daemon had simply been trying to crush him from the start.

A faint vein throbbed at the edge of Elder Ping’s temple, her dark eyes clouded as she watched her Sect’s Inner Disciple endure the humiliation of being tossed from pillar to post like a ragdoll in front of a crowd of mortals. Stubborn fool, she thought, her fan tapping once against her palm in restrained irritation.

“Enough,” Elder Ping’s voice cracked the air — sharp, final, and laced with thinly veiled annoyance.

Chu Ren released an involuntary sigh of relief the instant the suffocating pressure vanished. Daemon had paused mid-step, sliding his hands into his pockets with a nonchalant shrug, as though the fight had simply grown boring. That moment of relief, however, betrayed him — and the young man realized, too late, how shameful it must have looked to the audience.

Jaw tightening, he forced himself to give the boy one last look, committing that immature, infuriating face to the deepest vault of his memory. Without another word, he lowered his head and retreated to stand with the two men and two women who had already fallen to Yan Ru and Yan Jia.

Now, the ten Inner Disciples from Ten-Thousand Beast Mountain stood split cleanly in two groups: five losers licking their wounds, and five yet to test their luck against the boy who had just dismantled their brother.

Elder Ping’s gaze flicked toward the remaining three men and two women. The men’s faces carried the subtle shadow of hesitation; the women’s eyes, however, held something colder — measured calculation. She chose not to intervene, folding her arms beneath her chest and letting the silence weigh on them.

Whether they decided to throw forward a sacrificial pawn to gather more intelligence, or to take the risk themselves without teamwork, was their choice. Her role was simply to protect them — and privately, she was already grateful to the boy and his two servants for holding back.

So far, the mission’s “training value” was undeniable. All the Inner Disciples were gaining experience they would never forget. But if the remaining five chose to retreat without lifting a finger, Elder Ping already knew she would file her report to the Sect… and those “geezers” would make sure their return home was the start of a much harsher lesson.

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