A Waste of Time

Chapter 91: Wavering Requiem

Daemon gave a couple of quick, fake coughs into his fist, deliberately turning his head away as if the sudden teasing from that beauty in the black dress had never happened. Still, a faint flush betrayed him, coloring the soft baby fat clinging to his adolescent cheeks. It wasn’t often that someone caught him off guard in such a way, and the ripple of suppressed chuckles in the crowd didn’t help his pride.

Without sparing her another glance, the boy shifted his attention back to the three remaining Inner Disciples. Elder Ping’s earlier assurance still echoed in his ears—nothing to worry about, his flying mount was merely undergoing a power-up, a natural occurrence in their world. That meant the fight could continue without distraction, and his focus could return fully to the task at hand.

Inside the circle, Chu Ren was already busy at work. With a grunt, he hoisted the limp form of Zhan Lei over his shoulder, careful not to aggravate any injuries, and trudged toward the edge. The unconscious Spearman was unceremoniously deposited beside Zhao Wei, the pair of defeated warriors forming an involuntary lineup of casualties.

The bronze-skinned Chu Ren stole a glance toward the boy at the circle’s center, a strange mixture of relief and lingering unease flashing in his eyes. Looks like my big mouth finally saved me for once. His earlier slip of the tongue, reckless as it had been, had inadvertently kept him out of the boy’s direct path—sparing him the humiliation, and perhaps the pain, of sharing the same fate as his two fellow Sect Disciples.

Elder Ping, ever the picture of restraint when it suited her, decided to quit while ahead. Whatever thoughts lingered on her tongue were swallowed whole as she stepped back, putting a respectable distance between herself and the towering Kirin. Before turning fully away, she cast a fleeting glance toward the young man and the two girls of her Sect—a look brief in duration, but heavy with unspoken instructions and layered meanings that only they, as her disciples, could decipher.

One of the girls caught it instantly. Her crescent-shaped eyebrows knit into a faint furrow, betraying the unvoiced question in her mind. The other girl, whether out of disinterest or willful dismissal, kept her gaze elsewhere, as though the unfolding situation was a matter entirely beyond her concern.

The young man, however, felt the weight of that silent exchange press against his composure. He sighed inwardly, schooling his features to mask the stirrings beneath. Straightening, he tugged at the sleeves of his Sect attire, smoothing the creases and adjusting the fall of the fabric until he looked every bit the refined and disciplined disciple he wished to project. Then, in a display of quiet confidence, he let the hem of his yellow robe flutter with a casual flick of his foot before taking a bold, measured step forward—closing the distance toward the boy at the center of the circle.

Yu Tianwu stepped forward, cupping his fist in the formal greeting, his voice deep yet edged with the quiet confidence of one whose victories had been forged through both skill and grit.

“Yu Tianwu, disciple of the Azure-Scale Pool,” he announced, letting each word roll clearly across the circle.

Daemon’s gaze rose to meet him, faint amusement playing at the corners of his lips. The boy rested the butt of his Spear into the softened earth with casual ease, as though this was less a duel and more a passing conversation.

“Hnh,” he murmured, eyes glinting, “let’s hope your skills live up to the shine of that robe… or you’ll end up right next to them.” His chin tilted lazily toward Zhao Wei and Zhan Lei, both lying unconscious at the edge of the circle.

A murmur rippled through the watching crowd, the hum of anticipation swelling like the low growl of thunder before a storm.

Yu Tianwu’s mouth curved in the faintest of smirks.

“Bold words for someone who’s already a spent force. You’ve exhausted yourself in two straight fights—don’t think I can’t see you’re at the end of your rope.”

Daemon tilted his head, as though Yu Tianwu had just commented on the weather rather than his condition. “Good of you to notice,” he said with a bright, almost boyish smile. “Now, what kind of fight are we going to have next? I’d rather not interrupt halfway through just to ask Yan Ru or Nie Leixu to hand me a decent Weapon.”

Yu Tianwu blinked, momentarily thrown. This… was not the reaction he’d expected. Instead of bristling with anger or scrambling to deny his fatigue, the boy had turned the jab on its head, disarming him with open shamelessness and a childlike grin that somehow felt like an insult.

Amusement and irritation warred in Yu Tianwu’s expression. “You want me to tell you what I’m going to do?” he asked, his voice dipped in disbelief.

Daemon only shrugged, leaning slightly on his Spear. “Why not? Saves me the trouble of guessing. Besides, I’d hate for you to think I’m the kind of guy who interrupts a good fight because I’m underprepared.”

Yu Tianwu’s jaw tightened, though the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

By the side, Yan Ru and Yan Jia exchanged a knowing look. That particular flavor of mischief only surfaced when their young master was serious. Somehow, it always worked—drawing opponents into underestimating him, or worse, letting their emotions cloud their focus right before the real danger struck.

From her place at the edge of the crowd, Elder Ping’s eyes narrowed slightly. She could already see the faint ripples forming in Yu Tianwu’s mental composure. The boy had countered everything so naturally, so gracefully, without revealing even the barest hint of intent—hiding his true designs behind a gauze of childish banter.

What kind of mind does he have to be this precise in mental warfare? the beauty in black thought to herself, reflexively fanning in a slow, lazy rhythm. Such perception, such scope… and such acute social awareness in someone this young is absurd. His character’s already set in Steel, far beyond what even many mature Cultivators achieve in a lifetime.

Yu Tianwu’s fingers twitched at his side, the faintest sign of hesitation before resolve tightened his shoulders. Despite his unwillingness to give this boy even a sliver of extra time to prepare, he still reached into his Space-Pouch. To withhold his Weapon now would be to bare his own insecurity before an audience of dozens, and a grown man showing timidity before a mere adolescent? That would be pathetic.

A breath later, steel rang against lacquer as he drew his Weapon. The Blade emerged in a slow, deliberate motion from its blood-red scabbard, revealing a long, curved edge forged from a reddish metal that seemed to drink in the light before giving it back in hungry gleams.

The instant the edge was free, the air shifted. The cold bite lingering in the circle—left over from the slicing wind that followed Daemon’s lightning storm—was driven back as if by an invisible tide. The temperature rose palpably, each breath growing warmer. Heat shimmered faintly along the weapon’s length, distorting the air as Yu Tianwu allowed his Fire Qi to flow into the metal.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Fire was an intimidating Element even in ordinary hands, but in his it was disciplined and suffused with lethal intent.

His cultivation stood just shy of the Peak-Perfection of the Qi-Gathering Realm. The flames licking along his Blade were naturally fiercer, hotter, and more refined than anything Yan Jia could yet produce. But even these fell short of the Phoenix’s Hellfire—a power born of a Martial Spirit whose very existence was fuel for its burning wrath.

That Hellfire had been all-consuming, but it was fleeting, inconvenient for prolonged use, and came at a price—one the tiny bird had paid without hesitation to defend its master’s dignity.

By contrast, Yu Tianwu’s fire was consistent, reliable, and entirely his own—its source no more finite than his own breath. It didn’t flare and die in desperate bursts; it burned on, steady and relentless, like the man wielding it.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed faintly, his gaze flicking over the weapon with a mixture of appreciation and mild curiosity. He shifted his Spear in one hand, the faintest smirk curving his lips as if inviting this new blaze to try its luck against the storm he had already conjured.

“I’m the kind who believes in fighting fire with fire.”

The boy’s voice carried over the murmuring crowd, crisp and confident, his eyes sliding toward the direction of Nie’s Smithy before flicking to the beauty in black who still stood by her wall of thick roots. His lips parted, ready to ask something of her—only to instantly regret it when she returned a faint, knowing smile and gave the smallest of shrugs. It wasn’t just casual; it was deliberate, a tease meant to throw him off.

I walked right into that one, he thought with a faint grimace.

Bending his knees, Daemon suddenly kicked off the hardened earth with explosive force. Dust and tiny fragments of dried soil cracked under the pressure of his leap as his body rocketed upward, soaring past Kirin’s proud head—already fifteen meters above the ground—and still climbing. The crowd gasped as the boy rose higher, framed briefly against the roiling grey clouds overhead, his figure a defiant silhouette in the charged air.

“Nie Xiaoli!” His voice cracked through the arena like a whip. “Bring me my Blade! And I’ll beat every last one of you siblings if you dare send your old man to deliver it!”

The onlookers broke into scattered laughter at the audacity, though most quickly silenced themselves under the oppressive tension between the combatants.

From his vantage, Daemon looked like a hawk surveying his territory. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he gently tossed the unfinished Spear he’d been holding toward the backyard of the Smithy. The weapon cut through the air in a clean arc, landing with impeccable precision between the coal shed and the firewood shed.

The impact drove the butt of the Steel shaft deep into the earth, burying it almost halfway, while the tip quivered and hummed with a low, metallic buzz—like a tuning fork struck in challenge.

Some in the crowd felt the hair on their arms stand at that sound. Whether it was the echo of the boy’s precision or a sign of the storm still lingering overhead, no one could quite tell.

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