The Cold Edge of Survival
The Cold Edge of Survival
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Jiang Yun does not retreat.
His body screams for him to step back, to flee, to put distance between himself and the blade gleaming under the dim valley light. But there is nowhere to run.
He knows it.
The cultivator standing before him knows it too.
The wind drags through the valley, carrying with it the thick scent of blood and damp earth. Somewhere in the distance, a beast's low growl rumbles beneath the dying echoes of Jiang Yun's failed attack. The rusted sword in his grip feels heavier than before, the dull metal slick with sweat. His chest rises and falls, each breath sharp and shallow.
His body is failing.
His stomach is empty.
His limbs are weak.
And yet, he still holds his sword.
The Azure Mist Academy disciple watches him with amusement, tilting his blade slightly. His face is calm, almost bored, but his stance betrays him.
His weight is shifted slightly to his right side. His left arm is stiff, the blood soaking through his robes already drying into darkened stains. He is injured. He is wary.
He is strong. Stronger than Jiang Yun.
But he is not invincible.
Jiang Yun exhales slowly, forcing the tremor from his limbs.
He can win. Not by overpowering this man. Not by clashing swords head-on.
But by enduring.
By surviving.
The cultivator smirks. "A weak mortal like you thought he could take me by surprise?" His voice is smooth, laced with contempt, but Jiang Yun hears the slight sharpness beneath it.
He is not as relaxed as he pretends to be.
Jiang Yun does not respond. Words mean nothing in this place.
The disciple tilts his sword lazily. "If you had waited until I was more exhausted, perhaps you would have had a chance." His smirk widens, his gaze cold. "But now, you die."
The words fade into the silence between them.
Jiang Yun tightens his grip around his sword. The air shifts.
A slow breath.
He steps forward.
The cultivator's smirk vanishes. His body tenses.
Jiang Yun feints a step to the left—then pivots sharply, his blade flashing toward the man's ribs.
A sharp clang. The swords collide.
Jiang Yun's arms nearly buckle from the impact, the force of the counter traveling through his bones like lightning. His opponent barely moves, his blade held firm, his strength unshaken.
The cultivator's counter is fast—far faster than Jiang Yun can follow.
A flash of silver.
Pain.
Jiang Yun stumbles back. A thin, burning line blooms along his shoulder, the fabric of his robes split where the sword has torn through.
Warmth spreads against his skin.
Blood.
The cultivator exhales, shaking his head slightly. "Pathetic."
Jiang Yun does not answer.
He forces himself to straighten, fingers tightening around his sword. The pain is sharp, but it is not fatal.
It is a lesson.
A reminder.
Even injured, even exhausted—a trained disciple is still a trained disciple.
The gap is too wide.
But the gap is not impossible.
Jiang Yun steadies his stance, lowering his blade slightly. The battle is not over.
The cultivator tilts his head, as if considering something. His grip shifts, adjusting the weight of his sword.
Jiang Yun notices. He is adjusting because he has to.
His left arm is slow.
The wound on his shoulder—it is worse than he lets on.
Jiang Yun exhales.
This battle is not one he can win through strength.
But victory has many forms.
And survival is its own kind of victory.
___
Did you know?
A battle isn't always won by strength alone. Jiang Yun, weak and starving, stands against a trained cultivator—outmatched in every way.
But his opponent is not invincible.
A wound, a shift in stance, a fraction of hesitation—small weaknesses that, if exploited, could mean survival. Victory does not always mean overpowering an enemy.
Sometimes, it is enduring long enough to turn the tide.