One of the Sword Shandian Sect elders stood frozen in place, his mouth slightly open, his hands trembling as he stared at Han Zhanjian. His eyes widened more and more with every passing second. The faint glow that shimmered in the boy's eyes a moment ago—it wasn't imagination. It wasn't a trick of the light. That was the mark. That was the unmistakable brilliance of the Sword Eyes.

His heart began to race.

Impossible.

The ritual earlier should have revealed such a thing instantly. The sect had used an ancient incantation, one that had never failed to detect a trace of sword lineage before. For the formation to give no response—it could only mean someone had hidden it.

But who?

His gaze swept through the other elders. None of them looked aware. They were whispering among themselves about the brothers' fight, eyes still drawn to the spectacle before them. No one else had seen it. No one else had noticed the faint silver glow, the shimmering reflection that appeared when Han Zhanjian blinked.

The elder's throat tightened.

Who would dare interfere with their detection ritual? To suppress it meant someone had the power to twist the laws of their spiritual perception. Someone terrifying. His eyes narrowed, scanning the corners of the hall, trying to feel any foreign spiritual energy that did not belong—but the air was calm.

He swallowed his suspicion, not daring to voice it.

If this was true, then the implications were enormous.

He turned his gaze back to the duel, trying to calm his racing heart.

Han Zukong had already stood back up from the previous clash. His knuckles were pale from gripping the hilt, but his breathing was steady again. He raised his sword, eyes burning with a mixture of pride and defiance.

Han Zhanjian, meanwhile, stood straight, the faint glimmer in his eyes fading slightly as he exhaled. He didn't want anyone to notice. His sword arm hung loose, but there was quiet confidence in his posture.

"Brother," Han Zhanjian said softly, his tone calm, "this is enough."

Han Zukong's lips curled into a half-smile. "Not yet."

He dashed forward, his steps exploding with spiritual energy. The floor cracked under his feet, and his sword cut through the air with such speed that it created a shrill whistle. Han Zhanjian moved to parry, but the strike came faster than he expected. Their blades collided once again, sparks bursting like fireflies.

Clang!

The two swords locked for a heartbeat, their faces only inches apart. Han Zukong's breath hit Han Zhanjian's cheek, hot and uneven.

"You're still using it," Han Zukong whispered quietly, just loud enough for him to hear. "Those eyes of yours… they see too much."

Han Zhanjian's pupils dilated.

"I know what they are," Han Zukong continued, his voice low and controlled. "You can see through everything, can't you? You can predict the next swing, the next move, the next breath."

Han Zhanjian's grip tightened slightly, but he said nothing.

"But there's one thing you didn't see," Han Zukong said. He twisted his blade, breaking the lock, and suddenly his movement changed.

It was erratic—no, it was deceptive.

Han Zukong lunged, and Han Zhanjian saw it, every detail, every intention. His Sword Eyes traced the faint line of energy where the sword would travel. He moved to block—

—but the strike changed midway.

Han Zhanjian's sword missed.

The flat side of Han Zukong's blade grazed his shoulder, a shallow cut, but it was enough to draw blood.

The crowd gasped.

Han Zukong smirked faintly, eyes gleaming. "You can see the flow of a fight, but if I twist my own rhythm, what will your eyes show you?"

He stepped back, then surged forward again.

Han Zhanjian focused, watching, predicting. He saw the next swing, the feint, the angle—he was sure of it this time. He blocked right.

The sword came from the left.

Clang!

He barely deflected it in time. His heart raced.

Han Zukong's voice came again, low and taunting. "Your eyes tell you the truth of the world. But if I feed them lies… what then?"

The words struck him harder than the blade itself.

Han Zukong's movements became more and more unpredictable. He would raise his sword high but attack low, shift his stance as if falling yet strike upward. Every time Han Zhanjian's eyes traced a path, Han Zukong's body betrayed it, weaving false signals, baiting his senses.

Han Zhanjian found himself losing rhythm for the first time. He had never experienced confusion like this. His Sword Eyes—his greatest advantage—were now turning against him.

Clang!

Another strike.

Clang!

Another parry, a half second late.

Han Zhanjian's breath grew heavier. Sweat rolled down his temple.

Han Zukong's grin widened, though exhaustion was beginning to creep into his arms. "You see? Even those special eyes can be blinded. As long as I twist your sense of truth, you'll doubt yourself. You'll hesitate."

"You—" Han Zhanjian tried to retort, but Han Zukong pressed forward with another wild sequence of swings.

The hall filled with the ringing of swords. The sparks lit the air. Each blow carried fury, and each block carried desperation.

The servants and sect disciples watching were frozen.

"Did you see that?" one whispered. "Han Zukong is pressing him back!"

"Impossible. The younger one clearly has some kind of special ability!"

"No… look closely. Han Zukong's sword rhythm—he's controlling the tempo of the battle."

Even the Sword Shandian elders exchanged uneasy glances. None of them could deny the truth before their eyes.

The elder who had first noticed the Sword Eyes could barely breathe. His mind raced. He has them. He truly has them. But even more terrifying was what he was seeing now—his brother, Han Zukong, who didn't possess those eyes, was still holding his ground.

The elder's fingers trembled. "He's countering the Sword Eyes… through instinct alone."

Back in the duel, Han Zhanjian staggered back after another clash. His sword quivered in his hand. His eyes flickered, the silver light dimming slightly as doubt crept in.

Han Zukong pointed his sword at him, his expression hard but sincere. "This is what you need to learn, brother. Seeing everything doesn't mean you understand everything. A true swordsman feels, not predicts."

Han Zhanjian clenched his jaw. The words cut deep because they were true. His brother was fighting not just with skill, but with heart.

He exhaled slowly, grounding himself. "Then I'll feel it too."

The two brothers locked eyes again. For a long moment, no one moved. The tension in the air grew thick enough to choke on. Even the smallest breath felt loud.

Then, in perfect unison, they moved.

The next exchange was faster, sharper, more intense than before. Each swing carried pure emotion—Zukong's pride and defiance, Zhanjian's calm and precision. Their blades clashed and sparked again and again until the entire hall seemed to pulse with their rhythm.

Clang!

Bang!

Crack!

The ground trembled under their feet. Spiritual energy whipped around them, shaking the walls.

The elder's heart pounded harder. He's using them both—instinct and sight. Incredible…

Finally, after what felt like a hundred exchanges, both brothers jumped back, panting. Neither yielded. Neither spoke. Their eyes burned with mutual respect.

But among the onlookers, one figure had just arrived.

He moved silently through the edge of the crowd, his gaze sharp, his killing intent hidden behind calm eyes. His steps were light, almost ghostly, but the spiritual pressure that came with him was suffocating.

Wei Ji's eyes scanned the crowd slowly, deliberately. His expression didn't change, but the moment he saw a certain man standing near the disciples of the Sword Shandian Sect—his pupils contracted.

There you go.

That face.

The man went to Lu Shaohua.

A faint, cold smile curved on Wei Ji's lips as his killing intent flooded the air for a brief second before vanishing again like smoke.

"There you are," he whispered under his breath, his voice low and filled with venom.

The crowd didn't even notice the sudden shift in aura. But the heavens themselves seemed to hold their breath.

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