Han Zukong took a long, steady breath as he raised his blade once more. The crowd had gone quiet, watching with bated breath. The flicker of torchlight gleamed along the edge of his sword, and for a moment, his eyes were sharp, cold, and unwavering.

Then, he moved.

The first step was silent, but the second came with a sharp crack of wind. His sword flashed like a streak of silver lightning, cutting the air with frightening precision. Han Zhanjian lifted his blade just in time to parry, the clang echoing through the hall like thunder.

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

The sound of their blades filled the entire place, rapid and unending, until it seemed like a storm of steel had descended upon the Han Family Hall. Each strike came faster than the last. Each parry came with heavier pressure. Sparks scattered, dancing in the air like fireflies before dying in the cold wind.

Han Zukong's expression didn't waver. His movements were calm, steady, yet there was a deep ferocity behind each swing. His sword didn't just move—it hunted. Every motion aimed for weakness, every strike pressed the advantage.

Han Zhanjian's eyes followed his brother's every move. To him, it felt almost too easy. His senses were sharper than anyone realized. His world slowed as the blade approached, his mind calmly calculating the angle, speed, and distance. He twisted his wrist and redirected each attack, his breathing even and his feet light on the ground.

But despite that, Han Zukong's strikes were unrelenting.

"Your sword has improved," Han Zhanjian said between clashes, his voice calm, almost admiring.

Han Zukong didn't respond. His only answer came in the form of another swing, faster, stronger.

Clang!

The floor cracked beneath their feet. A gust of spiritual wind burst outward, scattering dust and fragments of tile.

The disciples of the Sword Shandian Sect watched in awe.

"They're fighting without any sword techniques," one whispered, unable to hide his disbelief. "This is pure sword control and combat instinct."

"Impossible. How can two youths fight like that?" another said, his voice trembling. "Their footwork, their timing—it's beyond what even our senior disciples can match."

The elders, however, remained silent, their gazes locked on the two brothers. They could see it—the contrast. One fought with calm mastery, the other with pure emotion.

Han Zukong's attacks flowed like a raging river, fierce and alive. Every time he swung, the air cracked with tension. Sweat formed on his brow, but his eyes burned with determination. His blade whistled through the air, creating arcs of light that shimmered like crescents of moonlight.

Han Zhanjian deflected every strike with ease, but he began to sense something unusual. The rhythm was changing. Han Zukong's movements were not random—they were building up to something.

He frowned slightly. "You're pushing yourself too hard, brother."

Han Zukong gritted his teeth, his breathing rougher now. "You're not even trying."

Clang!

Another powerful strike. The sound of metal hitting metal echoed like an explosion.

"I can see it in your eyes," Han Zukong continued, his voice rising as his sword swept again and again, faster, sharper, his footwork becoming erratic but somehow more dangerous. "You're holding back. You think you're above me."

"That's not—" Han Zhanjian started, but his words were cut short as a heavy strike forced him back a step.

Han Zukong roared, his calm expression breaking for the first time. "You are underestimating me, younger brother!"

The words boomed through the hall. His spiritual energy surged, pouring into his sword, and suddenly his attacks became violent, almost wild.

Every swing carried the weight of frustration. Every step slammed into the ground with the force of his rising anger. His blade trembled with power, leaving glowing streaks in the air.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Each impact shook the floor, sending shockwaves that rattled the furniture and cracked the pillars. The spectators had to take a step back, shielding their faces from the flying dust.

Han Zhanjian's heart tightened as he saw it—the strain, the sheer desperation hidden behind his brother's anger. But even with that, his body moved on instinct. His sword flowed effortlessly, redirecting Han Zukong's power, letting it pass him like a river splitting around a rock.

But then Han Zukong's strikes grew heavier, sharper, more chaotic. The calm swordsman was gone, replaced by a warrior whose sword screamed with emotion.

The crowd couldn't look away. Servants clutched their chests in awe and fear. Members of the Han Family leaned forward, eyes wide.

"Look at the power in his swings!"

"He's lost control, but his spirit burns like fire!"

"The younger one is still calm, he's reading everything…"

It was true. Han Zhanjian could see every motion. His eyes, hidden beneath his calm face, flickered faintly. He saw everything—the tremor of muscles, the shift of weight, the flicker of energy before each strike.

The world moved slower for him. Every droplet of sweat in the air, every dust particle swirling between them—he could see it all.

His Sword Eyes were open, though no one knew.

He sighed quietly, parrying another blow with ease. "Brother," he said softly, "if I fight seriously, you might get hurt."

Han Zukong shouted in frustration, his body glowing faintly as his spiritual energy surged. "Then hurt me! Show me what you really are!"

Clang!

Their swords met once more, the vibration running through the entire courtyard. Han Zukong's arms trembled from the impact, but he pushed forward. His blade scraped along Han Zhanjian's until it came within inches of his neck.

Han Zhanjian stepped back just in time, his sword spinning smoothly to block. The movement was effortless, but Han Zukong's next attack came even faster.

"Stop holding back!" Han Zukong shouted, his voice breaking.

He swung again, again, again.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The tiles shattered beneath his feet. The wind howled around them. His attacks blurred into a storm of steel, each swing cutting through the air with a scream. His spiritual energy burst like lightning around him.

Han Zhanjian was no longer smiling. The calm mask began to fade as he realized his brother's strikes were reaching a level that could cause real harm. His parries grew tighter, his footwork more precise.

The crowd was speechless.

"This is no longer a spar," one elder murmured. "This is a battle of pride."

"Han Zukong's energy is out of control," another said. "He's fighting with his heart, not his head."

Still, they didn't stop it. They wanted to see how far the brothers could go.

Han Zukong's sword came down again with terrifying force. The floor split open where it hit, the shockwave pushing Han Zhanjian back several steps.

Han Zhanjian gritted his teeth. "Enough."

Han Zukong charged again, his sword raised high. "Then fight me properly!"

In that moment, Han Zhanjian's eyes changed. A faint silver light flickered within them, subtle at first but growing brighter with each heartbeat. The air grew cold. The entire hall seemed to hold its breath.

Han Zukong swung with all his might.

Han Zhanjian's eyes glowed.

The next instant, a wave of invisible energy rippled outward.

Bang!

Han Zukong's body was flung backward, skidding across the cracked floor until he crashed against the far wall. The sound echoed through the hall like thunder. Dust and debris fell from the ceiling.

Silence followed.

Everyone stared in shock, unable to believe what they had seen. Even the elders were frozen.

Han Zhanjian stood in the center, his sword still in his hand, his glowing eyes fading back to normal. His chest rose and fell slowly.

Han Zukong coughed, pushing himself up, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. Then, despite the pain, he smiled.

"You are finally getting serious," he said, his voice hoarse but filled with pride.

The crowd remained silent, every heart pounding, knowing this duel had just crossed the line between sibling rivalry and destiny.

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