A Waste of Time

Chapter 88: Tempered Riddle

The crowd had already parted before the Blacksmith appeared at the back gate of his Smithy, yet they instinctively retreated even further once they saw the signs of his unsteady footing. Nie Leixu’s wobbling body swayed all over the place as the drunk man whooped and hiccuped his way forward, each stagger a testament to his long-standing relationship with ale. The sight made Daemon’s face darken in displeasure, though the thick layer of mud—still stubbornly clinging to his skin after his earlier attempt to smear it away—concealed much of his expression.

Oddly enough, this ridiculous display worked to lighten the heavy, charged atmosphere. It also helped to ease Zhan Lei’s tension; the young man seized the moment to draw in a deep breath, wiping the cold sweat from his brow before it betrayed his nerves.

Daemon’s eyes locked on Nie Leixu with a glare that could have sent lesser men running, but the Blacksmith—ever the embodiment of reckless fearlessness—completely ignored the looming threat of death in front of him and laughed in that irritating, carefree tone.

“Kid, I didn’t know which one you were gonna use for this fight,” he slurred with a lazy grin, “so I brought you one for each size… since this young man here made you the laughingstock in front of us all.”

Please… just stop talking, Zhan Lei silently begged, shooting the drunk a pleading look as he noticed the subtle twitch at the corner of Daemon’s eye.

But Nie Leixu, in all his ale-soaked wisdom, either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was dumping oil onto a lit forge—or perhaps, being a Blacksmith, stoking heat was simply second nature. “So I brought you one for each size… hicc… j-just in case you’re planning to—”

“Laughingstock, huh?” Daemon cut him off, his voice low but laced with that dangerous edge that promised consequences. “I don’t see anyone laughing. Now get your drunk ass back to your kids before you slip, crack your skull, and save me the trouble.”

“Hicc… whoopsie!” The man patted his beer belly and grinned foolishly in Yan Ru’s direction. The Swordsman’s cold glare could have split an anvil in two, silently promising retribution if the Blacksmith didn’t disappear soon.

Nie Leixu finally caught the unspoken warning hidden in Daemon’s tone—realizing that he’d been seconds away from spilling certain private details about the boy in front of an eager audience. “You guys carry on fighting,” he said hastily, handing over the two Spears. Daemon took them with an expression that all but screamed this conversation wasn’t finished.

“I have to go now… gotta piss before the next round of ale.”

Then, in a comically ungraceful exit, Nie Leixu practically bolted from the circle. Whether he was aiming for the Smithy or somewhere else was unclear, because his path veered wildly—crashing into bystanders like a ship sailing blind through a crowded harbor. His balance was so poor that his chance of walking in a straight line was worse than a baby’s odds of drawing one.

Daemon held onto the Spear best suited for his current body size, then casually planted the larger one between Yan Jia and Yan Ru—right in front of Kirin, who hadn’t moved from its perch since they’d arrived.

It was an image that made the crowd murmur in awe: the massive flying-mount standing fifteen meters tall, and before it, a towering Spear almost six meters in height. Its steel shaft was as thick as a grown man’s arm, looking less like a weapon and more like a war banner awaiting its flag.

Only then did Daemon turn back to Zhan Lei, his Weapon in hand. The young man felt the air shift instantly—his instincts warning him that the difference between facing Daemon unarmed and Daemon armed was the difference between standing on solid earth and dangling from a cliff’s edge.

Unlike Zhao Wei, who had fought the boy from a distance while ensconced in layered Water Defenses, Zhan Lei now faced him in direct confrontation. His earlier advantage—forcing Daemon to focus entirely on evasion, stability, and maneuverability in the slick, ankle-deep mud—was gone.

Now, armed with a heavy Spear, Daemon could root himself like an unshakable pillar, ready to exchange blows whenever he pleased, without the constant distractions that had hindered him before. And from the way the boy’s grip tightened around the shaft, it was clear Zhan Lei’s troubles were about to multiply.

Daemon strode forward with deliberate purpose, each step pressing deep into the sloshy mud as the weight of his Spear pulled his body lower, grounding him like an unyielding pillar amidst the watery battlefield. The ripples radiating from his boots spread outward in slow, heavy waves, a visual warning that his pace might be measured—but every ounce of that momentum was building into something dangerous.

Moment of truth, Daemon thought, his eyes narrowing as the gap between him and Zhan Lei shrank. Let’s see if this fellow has anything else hidden in his bag of tricks. Otherwise… I’ll just pick him apart piece by piece until I’ve vented every last drop of steam.

The boy’s grip tightened on the steel shaft, his fingers flexing once as if savoring the texture of the cold metal before it came alive in his hands. Lightning reflected faintly along the edges of the Weapon—not quite a display of full power, but a simmering promise of what could come if he chose to release it through the Steel.

Across from him, Zhan Lei adjusted his footing, his own purple Qi glimmering faintly over his skin like the shell of a wary beast. His eyes flickered toward the boy’s stance, no doubt noting the shift from a mobile, evasive posture to one designed for direct, brutal, and straightforward exchanges.

The crowd held its collective breath, sensing that the tension in the air was not merely from battle—it was the sharp, charged stillness before a storm breaks. Kirin’s massive form loomed behind its master, neck dipping slightly, nostrils flaring in anticipation of the inevitable clash.

Daemon’s smirk returned—not mocking, but predatory.

If everything happening next does indeed follow his conclusions, this fight was about to tilt entirely his way.

The two figures standing within the shallow mire did not disappoint. Every movement between them fed the crowd’s hunger for spectacle—a dazzling display of Lightning’s crackling fury, the graceful lethality of Spears, and the raw dominance of Physical Strength. Yet, in that final category, the bout was proving heavily one-sided.

Daemon’s most recent exchange had driven Zhan Lei back several meters, boots skidding and spraying muddy arcs behind him. For a breathless moment, it looked as though the young man might lose his footing entirely, but he slammed the butt of his Spear into the muck to anchor himself. The wooden shaft bowed under the strain, absorbing and dispersing the punishing force rather than snapping outright.

That strike hadn’t come easily for the boy. Zhan Lei’s Spearmanship was leagues above his own—precise, fluid, and rooted in disciplined form. Every Technique seemed designed to smother Daemon’s momentum, disrupting angles and forcing him to reset. The man’s constant movement compounded the problem, forcing Daemon to chase openings that rarely stayed open for long.

But the boy was nothing if not persistent. Swing after swing, thrust after thrust, he pressed forward with a predator’s stubbornness. His reaction speed outstripped Zhan Lei’s, sharpened beyond its usual limits by the Asura’s Buff—the silent blessing of a Fiend who bore three heads and six arms. Even without activating the First-Form to manifest those extra limbs, Daemon could feel the difference: his awareness stretched wider, his field of vision broader, his timing honed like the bite of a drawn blade.

And perhaps most importantly, his earlier bouts of evasive maneuvering had paid off. He had studied Zhan Lei in motion—cataloguing attack patterns, movement habits, the subtle tells preceding certain Techniques. Now, more often than not, he knew what was coming before it came.

Zhan Lei, meanwhile, stared down at his own trembling hands, eyes wide with disbelief. They were still buzzing with numbness from the shock of that sweeping blow. He had been forced to take the strike on the shaft or risk a direct hit that might have shattered bone. Such ridiculous Strength! he thought, pulling his Spear free from the sucking mud. Where does all that power come from in such a small frame? How in the world did Chu Ren survive the punishment this kid dished out?

His gaze lingered warily on Daemon. And that was the flat of the Spear… If it had been the edge, the force would have been focused, not dispersed.

A low hum escaped his throat, but it was quickly drowned by the collective shift of attention rippling through the audience. Every pair of eyes turned to Daemon.

The boy planted his Spear deep into the sodden earth, gripping the steel shaft firmly with both hands. Then—without warning—he flared his Lightning-Cocoon Skill to its full, unrestrained output.

The world hissed. Steam began to curl in ghostly tendrils, blurring the edges of the battlefield. The shallow water hissed and bubbled like a cauldron brought to a sudden boil, each droplet dancing in arcs of heat.

Yan Jia’s lips curved into a knowing smirk. To most here, her young master was merely a Lightning user, bound to the limits of his Element. They would soon learn otherwise. Even without Qi to wield additional Elements in the orthodox way, Daemon possessed his own unconventional means—methods that, in the right hands, could achieve results every bit as devastating.

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