CHAPTER 4: TRIAL OF BLADES AND BLOODLINES (PART-2)

The trial grounds had shifted once more.

Beyond the mountain steps, a circular valley opened like a great stone basin carved by divine hands. At its center, an ancient arena lay half-sunk into the earth—smooth obsidian platforms inlaid with silver sword runes that pulsed faintly under the midday sun, casting narrow shadows across the stone.

As Lin Feng and Li Meixiu stepped off the final stair, a disciple handed them each a bronze token—marking their successful passage.

"Rest here," the guide instructed. "The next trial will begin shortly."

They were led to a shaded pavilion built into the cliffs, where stone benches overlooked the arena below. A table of steamed buns, warm tea, and medical salves awaited. Meixiu plopped onto the bench like a child after a hike, Mr. Bunbun seated delicately on her lap.

"Whew. Those stairs were rude," she puffed, shaking out her sleeves.

Lin Feng stood nearby, arms folded, eyes on the next arena.

Others were arriving too.

---

From the east side came Feng Yan, the phoenix princess, fanning herself with a vermilion feather and laughing with her entourage. Her red robes clung like flame to her curves, and her beauty drew glances like bees to peach blossoms.

From the north walked Shui Daiyu, Black Tortoise Clan's cold heiress, her green eyes assessing everything like a poison vial watching for cracks. She wore black gloves and carried a silver needle ring—silent as moonlight on still water.

To the west waited Jian Nian, the Rustless Blade Clan's mute swordsman. He stood apart, arms bare, a wooden practice sword across his back. His qi was sharp enough to make the air tremble slightly where he stood.

And drifting like mist across stone were the Phantom Twins, draped in twilight-black robes with masks of bone-white. One of them pointed to Meixiu.

"…She carries a spirit rabbit."

"Or it carries her," the other replied.

Mr. Bunbun blinked once, unimpressed.

---

From above, the inner sect elders remained hidden behind shimmering veils of illusion. Only the outer sect elder appeared in person, standing on a raised dais.

"Candidates," he announced, voice amplified with qi. "You have passed the Mountain Pressure Trial. The second test awaits: The Arena of Seven Slashes."

Murmurs broke out.

"That's the reaction trial, right?"

"Only seven slashes, but each one's lethal."

"They don't let you use qi…"

"You just have to feel the blade."

The elder raised a hand. "Participants must enter alone. No weapons. No spiritual enhancement. Survive all seven waves, and you pass."

---

The first participants went quickly—each of them darting, ducking, screaming, falling. Some limped out after the third wave. One collapsed before the fifth. Medics rushed in again and again.

Then the elder called, "Next."

Li Meixiu stepped forward, holding Mr. Bunbun to her chest.

"I… would like to abstain from this one," she said politely, bowing. "Unfortunately, I forgot to wear my favorite fighting socks today. And Mr. Bunbun disapproves of uneven arenas."

Some laughed. A few stared. One or two considered the absurdity seriously.

The elder squinted. "…You still qualify for the next trial, but only if someone else takes this portion on your behalf."

"I brought my guard," she said sweetly, tilting her head toward Lin Feng.

The girls nearby blinked.

"Guard?"

"That cold guy with the muscles?"

"That's her—her guard?"

Feng Yan tilted her fan to get a better look at Lin Feng and smirked. "Mmm. I wouldn't mind being guarded by him."

Shui Daiyu didn't speak, but her eyes narrowed slightly.

---

Lin Feng entered the arena.

The blades floated above—seven swords made of spiritual light, each one suspended mid-air like a frozen comet. They radiated a pressure that made lesser cultivators shift uncomfortably on the benches.

A hush fell.

From the pavilion, Li Meixiu sat cross-legged with Mr. Bunbun in her lap, eyes sparkling as she sipped tea from a porcelain cup. She didn't blink once.

"Mmm. That's my boy," she whispered, as if watching a casual spar rather than a death-defying performance.

The first wave came—a horizontal slash from the left. Fast as a whisper.

Lin Feng leaned back slightly. It passed.

The second wave: twin blades, one from above, one from the front.

He stepped forward—barefoot against the black stone—and both blades cut air where he'd just stood.

By the third wave, a murmur had rippled through the crowd.

"His movements…"

"They're not cultivator-trained."

"They're like… like a predator."

Wave four twisted mid-strike. He didn't react—his body had already shifted, shoulder dropped, elbow rolled. The blade missed by the width of a thread.

And then—

Rip.

His plain black shirt split along the back, a clean tear across the fabric from the pressure ripple. The collar dipped slightly. The fabric caught on his left bicep.

And beneath—

A glimpse of marble-sculpted muscle, the kind that comes from fighting, not posing. Veins curled like calligraphy over strength carved by time.

A visible wave of female disciples gasped.

"Oh my heavens—"

"That's illegal."

"Did his back just flex the blade off?"

Feng Yan bit her lip. "I'm reconsidering my marriage vows…"

Even one of the Phantom Twins whispered, "…Absurd…"

---

Wave Five spiraled, a blade of light sweeping like a wheel. Lin Feng ducked into a roll, letting it brush his torn shirt.

He rose, expression unreadable, body flowing like a ghost through a rain of phantom blades.

By Wave Six, even the inner sect elders leaned closer.

A stern elder with a white beard and piercing falcon eyes narrowed his gaze. "He's not reacting. He's conducting. Each slash plays to his rhythm."

Elder Xiu folded her fan slowly, silver lashes twitching. "He reads the strikes as if the sword speaks to him—and he answers before it breathes."

"This one," a deep-voiced cultivator muttered beside her, "isn't dangerous because of power. He's dangerous because he makes the sword forget who the master is."

Wave Seven.

All seven swords converged. A cage of light. No escape.

Lin Feng stepped forward once—and vanished into the storm.

The crowd leaned in.

Silence.

Then—

He reappeared.

A tear now across his shoulder. Shirt ruined. Chest half-exposed.

But not a single drop of blood.

Not a scratch.

Not a wasted breath.

He walked off the arena.

---

The outer sect elder coughed once, then cleared his throat.

"…Passed."

Li Meixiu reached up as he approached, lightly brushing away a speck of dust from his jaw with her thumb.

"You always have to show off, don't you?" she said softly.

Lin Feng exhaled. "Didn't even try to."

She smiled, clearly pleased. "Mm. Good. Because if you had tried, I think half the sect would've fainted."

Mr. Bunbun nodded sagely.

"Still," she added, eyes glancing at the gaping female disciples. "Next time, I'm picking your shirt."

A few cultivators still whispered.

"Who is that guy?"

"…I want to duel him."

"I want to date him."

"Aren't you bold?" Li Meixiu smiled, wide-eyed. "But I've always been very territorial about my walking pillow."

---

Before Lin Feng's quiet storm entered the arena, the trial was already a spectacle of ego and chaos.

---

When her name was called, Feng Yan swept down into the arena with her robe sleeves flowing like fire banners and a fan still in hand. The crowd buzzed before the first blade even struck.

She didn't dodge the slashes conventionally.

She danced.

Each step was a spin. Each twirl a pirouette. As the first spiritual blade swept in, her crimson robe fluttered around her like burning wings—avoiding the strike with style more than calculation.

By the third wave, the wind around her had taken on a fiery aura. It wasn't real qi use… but the illusion of it. Her footfalls timed perfectly to make the slashes look like choreography.

"She's… performing," someone whispered.

"She's making it look easy."

By the sixth wave, her sleeve tore, revealing part of her smooth arm. Gasps rose—not from pain, but from the dramatic "Oops~!" expression she gave to the audience.

As the seventh blade passed and she landed in a crouch with her fan raised like a sword, some young male disciples actually clapped.

"Flawless~" she teased, flipping her fan closed and strutting off.

---

Where Feng Yan burned, Shui Daiyu froze.

She entered the arena in silence, her obsidian-black robes trailing across the ground. Her expression never changed. No theatrics, no greetings.

"Start," she said simply.

The first slash came—she didn't move.

Instead, a faint pulse of poison qi released from her skin just enough to alter the trajectory. The blade passed a hair's breadth from her cheek, slowed by her manipulated air currents.

The second wave she walked through, adjusting her body with surgeon-like movements.

By the fourth slash, her robe was nicked—but her eyes never blinked.

When the seventh came in full force, spiraling in a pattern meant to bait panic—

She smiled.

And stepped aside with a single pivot, letting the blade carve only air.

She walked away without a word.

"Terrifying," a male candidate whispered.

"She didn't flinch once."

---

Jian Nian didn't speak. He didn't bow.

He walked into the arena barefoot, eyes half-lidded, wooden sword still across his back. When the trial began, he simply… moved.

No flourish. No reaction.

The blades slashed—

He avoided them like a leaf drifting on water.

His movements were so minimal, many thought he was getting hit—until he stepped out completely untouched.

Wave seven struck from all directions. Jian Nian stopped. Raised his hand.

Not to block.

To wave at the blade.

The blade curved slightly... as if acknowledging him.

He stepped out, and one of the outer sect elders muttered, "He's done this before."

Behind the veil, Elder Xiu narrowed her eyes. "No… the sword techniques are bending for him."

---

The Phantom Twins entered together, though the trial was meant for one at a time.

"Which one of you is taking the trial?" the elder asked.

They tilted their heads in eerie synchronization. "Yes."

"…What?"

The first twin entered—twirling midair, shadow-blending through the attacks.

When they got to wave four, the second twin swapped in during a flicker of mist.

"Are… are they cheating?"

"Are they teleporting?"

Wave seven struck and both landed together in a perfect mirrored stance, their robes barely fluttered. Then they walked out as if nothing had happened.

The outer sect elder's nose twitched. "…I'm going to pretend I didn't see that."

---

And then came Jin Chen—sharp-jawed, frost-blue robed, and carrying the pride of a once-great sect now desperate to return to glory. He descended with arrogance in each step, glancing disdainfully at the lesser sects.

His gaze landed on Lin Feng, and something twitched behind his eyes—envy, bitter and sharp.

He entered the arena.

His first few steps were coldly graceful, sword-light bending gently around a thin layer of frost.

But by the fourth wave, his breath hitched.

The fifth strike clipped his sleeve.

By the sixth, he stumbled.

He barely survived the seventh, emerging with clenched fists and a trembling brow.

"I let my guard down," he muttered, though no one had asked.

---

"Step aside!" bellowed a young man in gold-trimmed robes as he stomped into the arena. "I am Bai Cheng of the East River Sect! My grandfather is Elder—"

The first spiritual blade struck.

His yelp echoed.

The second carved a line across his outer robe.

By the third, he shrieked and ran in wide, comical circles.

The fourth caught him in the rear, flipping him entirely.

He was carried out upside down, sobbing and spitting grass.

---

After Lin Feng left the arena with meixiu, cold and shirt-torn, a hush spread across the pavilion.

The earlier flourishes—the flames, the frost, the footwork—all seemed like child's play compared to the way Lin Feng had stepped through blades like he belonged there.

Even Feng Yan lowered her fan. "He didn't move. He just... understood."

Daiyu turned away, the tip of her gloved finger pressed to her lip.

Jian Nian exhaled—once.

And the Phantom Twins huddled, whispering together like conspiring children:

"If he passes the next trial too—"

"—we should ask to fight him."

---

Up above, Elder Xiu finally made a mark in her scroll—but not under Lin Feng's name.

Instead, she drew a perfect circle where it should have been.

"No… name?" another elder whispered.

"We may not be able to afford attaching it to us just yet."

---