He simply watched.

The way his eyes followed Ye Qingfeng — tracking footwork, breathing, timing — sent a chill creeping up Ye Qingfeng’s spine. It felt less like being observed and more like being studied, as if every movement he made was being catalogued for later use.

Ye Qingfeng exhaled slowly, forcing his turbulent spiritual energy back into a stable circulation. He could feel the drain accumulating, not sharply, but steadily. These opponents were not amateurs seeking glory. They were experienced, disciplined, and patient.

Too patient.

Ye Tuo’s lips curled into a sharp grin as he flicked his wrist casually.

A shrill WHII—! scream split the air as a flying sword tore forward from behind Ye Qingfeng, its edge shimmering with tightly compressed qi. The blade curved unnaturally mid-flight, bending toward Ye Qingfeng’s exposed flank with lethal precision.

"You’re distracted, bastard," Ye Tuo called out, amusement lacing his voice. "That’s a bad habit in a place like this."

The warning would have been too late for an ordinary cultivator.

A soft, feminine voice echoed within Ye Qingfeng’s mind — calm, precise, devoid of panic. His body responded before conscious thought could interfere. He twisted sharply, adjusting his stance by a fraction, just enough to let the flying sword skim past him.

The blade shredded the sleeve of his robe, missing flesh by the narrowest margin before embedding itself violently into the rock behind him. The mountain shuddered as spiderweb cracks spread outward from the impact point.

Ye Qingfeng did not look back.

The hesitation burned out of his eyes as he surged forward instead, turning defense into momentum. Spiritual energy roared through his meridians as he closed the distance, his blade flashing in tight, controlled arcs.

He did not aim to overpower. He aimed to interrupt — to break rhythm, disrupt coordination, and force mistakes.

Sparks burst as steel met steel.

For the first time, Ye Tuo was driven back.

His grin faltered as Ye Qingfeng pressed forward relentlessly, forcing him to retreat step by step. Each exchange shaved away space, Ye Tuo’s arm jerked back under the pressure,compressing Ye Tuo’s options until irritation crept into his expression.

"Tch," Ye Tuo clicked his tongue. "You really are annoying."

From the side, Qin Mo struck.

His attack was heavier, slower, but layered with crushing force that demanded respect. Ye Qingfeng pivoted sharply, diverting his momentum at the last instant as the blow smashed into the ground where he had stood moments earlier. Stone exploded upward in jagged shards as the mountain echoed with the brutal rhythm of combat.

Steel screamed. Qi surged. Footwork shifted and reset again and again.

Time stretched, blurring into a relentless exchange that ground away at stamina and focus alike.

Gradually, cracks began to show — not in Ye Qingfeng, but in his opponents.

Ye Tuo’s breathing grew uneven, the fluidity of his movements dulling by a fraction. Qin Mo’s spiritual energy fluctuated visibly as the repeated strain of high-level techniques began to take its toll.

Their reserves were draining faster than they had anticipated.

"How is he still keeping up?" Qin Mo muttered as he leapt backward, forcing distance between them with a sharp burst of qi. His chest rose and fell as he steadied himself, eyes narrowing. "Didn’t he awaken his cultivation talent only few months ago?"

Ye Tuo did not answer.

His gaze flicked instinctively toward their senior brother.

Mo had not moved.

He stood exactly where he had been since the fight began, feet planted on the fractured stone as if rooted there, posture relaxed to the point of indifference. The clash of steel, the violent surges of qi, the grinding attrition unfolding below him—none of it seemed urgent enough to demand his intervention.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried easily across the battlefield.

"Keep fighting," Mo said calmly. "I’ll step in if you can’t handle him."

There was no mockery in his tone. No impatience. No hint of arrogance.

Only certainty.

The words settled heavily on Ye Tuo and Qin Mo, not as encouragement, but as judgment. They both understood what it meant. This was not reassurance. This was a reminder that their usefulness was conditional.

The pressure on the battlefield shifted subtly after that.

Ye Qingfeng felt it immediately.

Not because the attacks became heavier or more explosive, but because the intent behind them changed. Ye Tuo and Qin Mo no longer pressed for advantage or attempted to overwhelm him outright. Instead, their movements began to herd him—cutting off angles, narrowing retreat paths, forcing him to reposition again and again.

Ye Qingfeng adjusted instinctively, shifting his footing to compensate for the narrowing angles.

A fraction too late.

Qin Mo’s blade slid in low, not aiming for a killing strike, but for space. The edge scraped across Ye Qingfeng’s calf as he pivoted, carving through fabric and skin alike. Blood spattered against the stone, thin but unmistakable.

Ye Qingfeng hissed softly as his footing faltered for half a step.

Ye Tuo was already there.His strike crashed down from above, forcing Ye Qingfeng to raise his blade at an awkward angle. Steel screamed as the impact drove him downward, knees bending under the force.

The mountain beneath them fractured further, stone giving way beneath his boots. They didn’t follow up recklessly, They repositioned, cutting off what space he had left.

The moment Ye Qingfeng recovered his balance, the space he had relied on was gone. Retreat paths narrowed. Angles vanished. Every step he took forced another adjustment, another expenditure of qi to keep from being boxed in completely.

Ye Qingfeng’s breathing deepened, controlled but heavier now. He could feel the drain accumulating, no longer abstract. Each correction cost more than the last. Each exchange shaved away margin he could not afford to lose.

Mo’s gaze sharpened imperceptibly as he observed Ye Qingfeng weave through another layered assault, slipping past angles that should have cornered him. His footwork was too clean. His reactions too precise. Even when pressured from multiple directions, Ye Qingfeng never truly panicked.

How is he dodging that? Mo thought.

Instinct was the first explanation that came to mind—but instinct alone could not account for this level of consistency. Reflexive movement broke down under sustained pressure. Everyone slipped eventually.

Unless...

A perception technique?

Mo dismissed the idea almost immediately. Continuous sensory techniques drained spiritual energy at a terrifying rate. By all logic, Ye Qingfeng should have already been gasping for breath, his movements slowing, his reactions dulled.

And yet—

Mo’s eyes narrowed.

Ye Qingfeng was still keeping pace.

Not matching them blow for blow, but surviving with far more composure than someone in his position had any right to. His breathing remained controlled. His qi fluctuations were minimal. His movements lacked desperation.

Is he truly this capable? Mo wondered. Or is he hiding something?

For the first time since spotting Ye Qingfeng within the sect, Mo felt a flicker of genuine interest.

Should I attack now? he considered.

The thought came naturally, unaccompanied by excitement or bloodlust. If he stepped in, the fight would end quickly. Cleanly. There would be no uncertainty. Ye Qingfeng would not escape.

His fingers tightened briefly at his side.

Then relaxed.

No. Not yet.

Ye Qingfeng had not revealed any treasures. He had not resorted to reckless techniques. He had not panicked or overextended himself. Most importantly, he had not reached for desperation.

That restraint was dangerous.

Mo understood that better than anyone.

This fight, he realized, was not about killing Ye Qingfeng.

It was about forcing mistakes.

With that decision made, Mo lifted one hand slowly.

Spiritual pressure rolled outward from him in a controlled wave—not violent, not overwhelming, but unmistakable. It settled over the battlefield like invisible gravity, pressing down on the air itself. He did not step into the fight. He did not draw his weapon.

Instead, he interfered indirectly.

The flow of qi shifted. Attack angles subtly warped. Timing fractured by fractions of a second—small enough to be missed by the untrained eye, but devastating to someone already under pressure.

Ye Qingfeng’s breath caught for half a heartbeat.

The rhythm changed and the pressure deepened.

And for the first time since the fight began, a single thought cut clearly through his mind, sharp and undeniable:

I’m fucked.