A Waste of Time

Chapter 87: Fragrant Silence

The four remaining Sect Disciples felt the invisible weight of Elder Ping’s words settle heavily upon their shoulders. It was as if she had just dragged them, one by one, beneath the relentless glare of a spotlight — a place where refusal was not an option and hesitation could be seen as weakness.

None of them dared show even the faintest flicker of attitude toward the only guardian assigned to watch over them on this mission. She was their shield, their authority, and the one person whose judgment could make their lives far more difficult once they returned to the Sect. Still, beneath the surface of their respectful façades, a low simmer of frustration began to brew — the kind that would ferment in silence until the moment came to uncork it, perhaps only after the ordeal with this infuriating boy was finally resolved.

They had already seen enough to know that facing him would not be a simple matter. Chu Ren’s defeat, though humiliating, could at least be explained away. His Cultivation was weaker than theirs, and his tendency to run his mouth had inevitably drawn trouble upon himself. The “lesson” he had received had left him battered and aching from head to toe, but fortune — or perhaps Daemon’s mercy — had spared him from lasting injury.

Zhao Wei’s case, however, was far more troubling. By no means was he a weakling. His Spiritual Treasure was of high quality, its barbed and scaled form a deadly extension of his will. His mastery of the Whip, paired seamlessly with his Water Qi, was something that could be considered refined even by their own high standards. True, the young man had a reputation for laziness and a tendency to treat his Cultivation as a leisurely pastime, but his standing in the Eighth-Stage, with one foot already pressing on the threshold of the Ninth, made him no one’s easy prey.

Unlike the brute force of Chu Ren — who had relied solely on his physical strength to stand his ground — Zhao Wei’s fighting style was the epitome of measured technique. His Whip flowed like a living serpent, every movement merging effortlessly with the ebb and surge of his Element. And yet… even he had fallen. Worse still, he had been utterly dismantled.

In the eyes of the four, Zhao Wei’s loss was more damning than Chu Ren’s. The brute at least had traded blows, survived exchanges, and weathered Daemon’s tempo for a time. But Zhao Wei? Once the boy had decided to get serious, it had taken only a single calculated strike to end the battle. A single blow — deliberately aimed at a non-vital spot — had been enough to shut him down entirely.

They could imagine, with a wince, just how much that one strike must have hurt. If Daemon had been holding back, then the pain would have been agony without even the dignity of being life-threatening. And the sight of Zhao Wei still lying unconscious now, sprawled and breathing shallowly on the damp ground, was proof enough that mercy from this boy was no less fearsome than malice.

Daemon’s complete disregard for the four remaining Sect Disciples was plain to see. His gaze wasn’t even on them — instead, it drifted toward the large circle in the center of the clearing, now nothing more than a broad puddle of muddy water left behind by Zhao Wei’s defeat. His lip twitched in faint dissatisfaction as his boots sank slightly into the sloshy mess, the ankle-high mud clinging greedily to his steps and making the surface deceptively slick.

Fortunately, the custom-made shoes Qiu had crafted for him were earning their worth today. The deep grooves beneath their soles dug firmly into the muck, giving him steady traction despite the unstable footing. Every step was solid, each movement confident, and that unbothered stability somehow made a few of the Disciples bristle in quiet offense — as if even the ground itself was helping this infuriating boy mock them.

But offense was not the only reaction. Among the four, one pair of eyes brightened with a spark of opportunity.

The tall, lanky young man stepped forward from the group, his strides deliberate and unhurried. His approach was silent, but there was an unmistakable glint in his gaze that told Daemon this one was eager — perhaps too eager — to test his luck. Upon reaching the circle’s edge, he reached into his Space-Pouch and drew out a Spear. The long wooden shaft bore a deep reddish hue, crowned with a vibrant red tassel that swayed faintly even in the still air.

He cupped his fist respectfully, voice clear and carrying a natural authority.

“Zhan Lei, of the Howling-Moon Pack.”

Daemon’s eyes flicked over the Weapon in measured appraisal, then back to the young man’s face.

“You seem to be around the age of my little brothers,” Zhan Lei continued, shifting his grip on the Spear. He gave the shaft a sudden shake, and the Weapon vibrated in response, revealing its surprising elasticity — the kind that could turn thrusts into unpredictable arcs and feints. “I’ve never fought someone so young before… but I’d be a fool not to take this seriously.”

Daemon’s smirk was that of a little devil who had just been handed a toy he’d been hoping to play with all day.

“I doubt you ever have. Pray the next one takes it easy on you… because I won’t.”

Without further warning, arcs of silver-blue light erupted around his form as he activated Lightning-Cocoon, the Electric-Current leaping away from his body in the blink of an eye. Thanks to the water covering the ground, the deadly charge raced unimpeded toward Zhan Lei, linking the two of them in a shimmering web of raw power.

But then Daemon’s eyes narrowed.

A familiar, almost nostalgic purple glow bloomed around Zhan Lei’s frame — the unmistakable radiance of Lightning Qi. The young man met Daemon’s stare head-on, and the smirk that curved his lips mirrored the boy’s own, like two wolves baring their teeth before a pounce.

High above, Kirin gave an excited, rumbling caw, lowering its great head so that its gleaming eyes could drink in the sight. The mingling arcs of silver-blue and royal purple danced in the air like dueling serpents, and the beast shivered with barely restrained glee. But loyal as it was, it didn’t dare step forward to interfere with its best friend’s fight.

On the sidelines, Yan Jia’s sharp gaze followed every flicker of purple Qi enveloping Zhan Lei. So that’s how my Lightning will look when I reach the Ninth-Stage… she thought, her lips curling slightly in satisfaction. Indeed, his Lightning carried far more weight and authority than her own — but she could already imagine her future self surpassing it, especially with the help of her little Crow.

Her confidence, however, was tempered by the faint ache in her chest as she remembered what had happened to little Phoenix. The sigh that escaped her lips was quiet, but in her heart, it sounded like a storm.

Zhan Lei didn’t waste the opening he had been watching for. The instant the result he had hoped to see played out, he struck like lightning. His Spear shot forward with the grace and ferocity of a Flood Dragon breaching the surface of a storm-tossed sea, arcs of purple Lightning Qi crackling faintly along the shaft. The elastic wood flexed mid-thrust, bending the trajectory into an unpredictable arc — a nightmare for anyone trying to guess its true target.

Speed came naturally to him when his body was wrapped in Lightning Qi. His first step was a blur; water and mud splashed high in twin fans as he lunged like a leopard descending on prey.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed instantly. This one was a fast, explosive type — the kind that could be dangerous in the right conditions. Had Zhan Lei stepped forward earlier in the rotation, before Zhao Wei, things might have been different. But here and now, with the battlefield softened into a slick mire and Daemon stuck in unfavorable terrain, the lanky Spearman had a definite edge.

This is going to be messy,

the boy thought, subtly shifting his weight until his left foot found the hardened soil hidden beneath the shallow water. The circle’s surface had suffered brutal transformations during the earlier bouts: torn apart by Gold Qi in Yan Ru’s clash with Shen Li; regrown in lush green by Lin Qinghai’s Wood Qi; frozen, then burned by Yan Jia’s duel with Yue Lan and the eruption of her Martial Spirit's Hellfire scorched plants and earth alike; flattened earth got reshaped by Chu Ren’s Earth Techniques; and finally flooded and churned into a muddy mess by Zhao Wei’s Water Qi.Daemon’s lip twitched in irritation. He would have liked nothing more than to march over and give the unconscious Zhao Wei a few extra slaps for leaving him with this soggy mess — but there was no time for petty revenge. Zhan Lei was moving too freely, his scaled-leather boots shrouded in a soft cyan glow of Qi that let him grip even the slickest mud as if it were dry stone.

Daemon found himself devoting nearly all his attention to evasion. Every attempt to counter with Chain Lightning fizzled — either absorbed harmlessly into the purple Lightning Qi covering Zhan Lei’s body or intercepted by the Spear’s tip, the shock dissipating harmlessly into the flexible shaft.

I really shouldn’t have given Ru his Sword back so soon, Daemon groused inwardly, ducking under a sweeping strike. His left hand touched down in the muck, letting him twist and flip out of range of the smashing follow-up aimed squarely for his head. It’d be humiliating for a Lord like me to keep begging his servant for a Weapon whenever I’m in a pinch.

That’s when an idea struck — a sharp, sparking lightbulb moment in his mind.

But before he could act, Zhan Lei’s next attack landed close enough to send a heavy splash of mud across Daemon’s chest and face. The thick, cold muck clung to his skin, dripping slowly down his cheek.

Yan Ru and Yan Jia saw it immediately — the shift in his aura, the subtle tightening in his posture, and then the sudden, deafening silence that seemed to smother the entire clearing.

Zhan Lei slowed, amused for a brief heartbeat. The sight reminded him of the mud fights and childish pranks he used to share with his siblings in their village. But the warmth of nostalgia vanished in the blink of an eye as his instincts — those deep, primal warnings of a predator nearby — screamed at him. Without conscious thought, his feet retreated, one slow step, then another.

Elder Ping was already on her feet, eyes narrowing. She felt it — the viscous, suffocating Killing Intent seeping from the boy’s temper like smoke from a cracked furnace. He was keeping it in check… barely. That muddy splash had tipped the balance.

“Nie Leixu,” Daemon’s voice cracked across the clearing like a whip as he wiped the muck from his face with one palm and flicked it to the ground. “Where the fuck is my Spear? Bring it over… now!”

The words carried far — past the ring of onlookers, beyond the edge of the clearing, all the way to the Nie’s Smithy, where the family of seven lounged on the wall of their backyard, half-watching the duels.

The broad-shouldered man in question burped loudly, having just drained his mug of ale. Muttering curses about his stubborn beer belly, he heaved himself down from the wall and waddled inside the Smithy with surprising speed.

Zhan Lei stood frozen, as did the rest of the crowd. Every eye stayed fixed on the treeline until, at last, the sound of heavy footsteps announced Nie Leixu’s return.

The man appeared at the backyard door, grinning like a fool, cheeks ruddy from drink — and struggling under the weight of two steel poles balanced across his shoulders. One was slightly shorter and narrower than the other, yet both looked like they could break a mortal’s spine from sheer mass alone. The problem wasn’t that the infamous Smith was weak. No, this was Nie Leixu’s other great handicap — he was drunk.

And that made whatever came next all the more unpredictable.

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