Chapter Twenty-Four: Formidable Opponent

With a resonant clang, Han Yongfeng's longsword flashed from its scabbard, instantly intercepting Lin Xiaobao's incoming blade. The numbing force that traveled up his arm made Han withdraw his earlier disdain, his gaze growing solemn. At the very same instant, Lin Xiaobao felt his own arm go numb as the swords collided. A warrior of the ninth rank truly lived up to his reputation—had Lin not soaked daily in Master Mo’s specially concocted elixir, which expanded his meridians and granted him unusual strength, his sword would likely have been knocked from his grasp in that very exchange.

Now fully alert, Lin Xiaobao kept a measured two-zhang distance from Han Yongfeng, his focus sharp as he watched his opponent. He was waiting: the moment Han struck, there would be an opening, and with his formidable mental acuity, Lin would seize upon it instantly to counterattack with devastating effect.

Though Han Yongfeng knew Lin was only at the seventh rank, the unmoving youth before him seemed as imposing as a mountain, daunting his every thought of offense—any move he made risked a tempestuous retaliation. Since Lin Xiaobao did not advance, neither did Han.

The crowd, expecting a fierce, tiger-versus-dragon duel, found themselves instead witnessing two figures locked in stillness, swords poised. An electric anticipation filled the air, yet no one dared make a sound.

By now, Hu Dequan, the Browless Youth, and Dreamshadow had all reached the eighth warrior rank; only they could sense that Lin and Han were locked in a battle of spirit and will. Whosoever’s resolve faltered first would be the inevitable loser. For the first time, they realized they had never truly seen through Lin Xiaobao.

In just half a year, he had leapt to the seventh rank, and now, his aura was no less imposing than Han’s at the ninth. What kind of prodigy was this Lin Xiaobao? What did his irreverent demeanor conceal?

The Browless Youth suddenly recalled his last visit to Lin Xiaobao, when he’d glimpsed the battered woods near Lin’s thatched hut. He’d thought nothing of it at the time, but now, recalling Lin’s display today, a suspicion arose—could Lin have caused that devastation?

The older disciples watched in shock as Lin Xiaobao held his ground against Han Yongfeng, ranked third among them. No one cared now for the contents of Lin’s storage pouch; all eyes were fixed on the sword in his hand, awaiting the next decisive moment.

“I’ll handle him. You deal with the others!” Sensing their stalemate would not soon end, Han Yongfeng sought to disrupt Lin Xiaobao’s composure in another way.

At his command, the seasoned senior disciples sprang into action, launching themselves at the new disciples. But bolstered by Lin Xiaobao’s lone stand against Han, the newcomers’ morale soared—they leveraged their numbers, pressing the senior ranks. Though the seniors held a slight advantage in cultivation, all were still of the warrior class, and the difference was only one of strength. Facing two or three adversaries at once, they could not quickly claim victory.

The Hall of Hongwu erupted into chaos, yet Lin Xiaobao remained motionless, not even glancing aside. With his powerful spiritual sense, every development was etched in his mind. No matter what befell the new disciples, it mattered little to him.

Seeing Lin Xiaobao unmoved, Han Yongfeng’s estimation of him rose further. He began to circle Lin lightly, searching for an opening. But Lin, sword in hand, stood rooted, waiting for Han to make the first move so he could exploit it with his superior perception—a capability none here could imagine, for only a peak innate warrior was said to possess spiritual sense, and Lin was but of the seventh rank.

Suddenly, the sword in Han’s hand let out a dragon’s cry as he sprang into action. His right arm quivered, and he thrust straight for Lin Xiaobao’s heart. Unlike the monkey’s earlier swiftness, Han’s sword moved with deceptive slowness, as if practicing alone, yet Lin’s spiritual sense detected the complex, shifting intent within the trembling tip—no matter how he responded, Han’s blade was poised to block.

With no opportunity to counter, Lin shifted his feet and stepped back, maintaining his stance. As he retreated, Han advanced by the same measure, his swordpoint tracking inexorably forward.

Step after step—retreat and advance.

On the third retreat, Lin perceived a subtle flaw in Han’s form as he stepped. With a flick of his wrist, Lin’s blade blossomed into a flurry of sword flowers, striking simultaneously at Han’s left and rig