The air in the grand hall quivered with the sound of clashing steel. Every swing, every parry sent a shockwave that rippled through the air and made the lanterns flicker above. The servants had long since retreated to the edges, their faces pale, their breaths short. The disciples of the Sword Shandian Sect stood with mouths half open, unable to believe what they were seeing.

Han Zukong's sword blurred like a streak of silver light. He struck again and again, his expression filled with fierce delight. His laughter echoed between the columns. "Come on, little brother! What's wrong? You were moving faster a moment ago!"

Han Zhanjian's hands were trembling. Each impact sent a violent tremor through his arms, and his lungs burned with each breath. He could still see his brother's attacks through his Sword Eyes, but now, every movement looked wrong. His instincts screamed one thing, his vision another. The two clashed, tearing his concentration apart.

Han Zukong pressed on, relentless, like a storm without end. His blade crashed down again, shaking the marble floor beneath their feet. "You've got those fancy eyes," he said through gritted teeth, "but you're not using them right!"

Clang!

Their swords met once more. Sparks burst between them, and the force sent ripples of air that knocked loose the decorations hanging on the walls. Han Zhanjian staggered back, sweat dripping down his face, his breaths coming out ragged. His chest heaved, and for a second, he thought he saw his older brother's face overlap with another memory—Wei Ji's cold gaze from years ago. The same weight pressing down on him. The same feeling of helplessness.

No. He wouldn't let it happen again.

He tightened his grip, forced his trembling legs to stand firm. But Han Zukong was already upon him. The older brother's eyes burned with wild fire. His strikes had rhythm, but it was the rhythm of chaos. Each swing flowed into another with no pause, no hesitation.

Clang!

Bang!

Crack!

"You're hesitating again!" Han Zukong shouted, his voice filled with fury. "Do you think battles wait for you to decide? The world won't slow down for your doubts!"

Han Zhanjian blocked one strike, but another came immediately after. His vision blurred from the speed. His brother's sword was everywhere, above, below, beside. Each swing forced him a step back until his heel scraped against the cracked floor.

"I'm not hesitating!" Han Zhanjian yelled, his own anger rising. His sword flared with faint light, and his eyes burned brighter. For a brief moment, he felt it—the flow of the fight.

Han Zukong grinned. "That's more like it!"

Their swords met again, but now both were moving at terrifying speed. The air around them distorted, the sound of their clashing blades sharper than thunder. The disciples watching couldn't even follow the movements anymore. To them, the two brothers were just streaks of light, colliding, vanishing, and reappearing across the hall.

"Are they even human?" one whispered.

"They haven't even begun formal cultivation yet…" another elder murmured, disbelief coloring his tone. "Their bodies alone shouldn't be able to handle this pressure."

Every impact shook the foundation of the hall. Every swing left a line of light etched into the air. The elders tried to reinforce the walls with their spiritual energy, but cracks still crawled along the stone pillars.

Han Zukong's laughter rang again, wild and confident. "What's wrong, little brother? You look like you're about to collapse!"

Han Zhanjian's answer was another strike. His movements grew sharper, angrier. The clash became brutal, every collision releasing waves of spiritual pressure that scattered the dust and sent robes fluttering across the room.

But inside that chaos, another presence moved quietly.

At the far side of the hall, Wei Ji stood still, his arms folded loosely. His expression was calm, too calm for someone surrounded by such fury. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his senses spread through the floor and the surrounding ground.

Thin threads of energy extended from his fingertips, crawling across the hall unnoticed. He whispered softly, almost to himself. "Grow."

From beneath the cracks of the marble, something stirred. Tiny roots began to sprout, invisible to the untrained eye. They slithered quietly across the surface, weaving between debris, curling around the edges of furniture, and spreading outward like a silent web.

The fight went on before him, but Wei Ji's attention stayed on the growing plants. Each thread of green carried a faint trace of his energy. He was careful, painfully careful, ensuring not a single spiritual ripple would leak out. If anyone noticed, if even one elder sensed what he was doing, they would tear apart his plan before it could bloom.

He narrowed his eyes.

Another flick of his fingers. Another whisper.

The roots twisted again, morphing into blades of grass that grew upright, perfectly blending into the ground. To anyone looking, they were nothing more than the natural growth that had always been there. But Wei Ji knew better. Each strand was a conduit, each leaf a hidden eye, each patch of green a trap waiting for his command.

The process demanded precision. Every breath, every twitch of his hand had to flow in rhythm with the chaos of the hall, using the noise of the brothers' battle to mask his own work.

Han Zukong roared again, his sword glowing bright. He slashed forward with everything he had. "Fight me properly, Han Zhanjian! Stop holding back! You've got power, so use it!"

Han Zhanjian parried, their swords locking once more. His arms were numb, his shoulders screamed in pain. His vision blurred again, but this time, he could feel the difference in his brother's swings—raw emotion, fierce pride, and a challenge he couldn't ignore.

"You think I'm holding back?" Han Zhanjian shouted, pushing forward with all his strength. "You're the one who's underestimating me!"

Their swords clashed again and again, each time harder than before. The energy between them built up, waves of force bursting outward, shattering tiles and splitting the air with each collision.

The servants were on their knees now, covering their heads. The disciples held onto the pillars, afraid the shockwaves might blow them away.

An elder yelled, "Stop this madness before the hall collapses!" But none dared interfere.

Han Zukong's grin widened even as his arms trembled. "That's it! That's the spirit! You finally sound like a swordsman!"

Han Zhanjian's chest heaved. "You talk too much."

"Then stop me!"

Han Zukong lunged again. Their blades met, and the entire hall exploded in a flash of light. The impact sent both sliding back several steps. Their boots screeched against the marble. The air smelled of dust and iron.

The crowd could hardly breathe.

But behind it all, Wei Ji's plants had spread completely. Every corner of the hall, every crack, every shattered stone had a trace of green hidden within. The air shimmered faintly with unseen energy as he merged the last of his control into the formation.

It was ready.

He opened his eyes slowly, the faintest flicker of emerald light reflecting in his pupils.

From where he stood, he could see the entire field of chaos—the two brothers locked in combat, the sect elders caught between awe and confusion, and the tension that filled the air like a drawn bowstring ready to snap.

He raised a single hand.

The grass across the hall trembled in unison, an invisible pulse spreading outward.

Wei Ji's calm voice broke the noise of battle, quiet but powerful enough to reach every corner of the room. "Enough."

The sound carried authority—cold, commanding, and final.

Han Zukong froze mid-swing. Han Zhanjian stopped as well, his sword still raised. Their eyes turned toward the voice almost instinctively.

The sudden silence was deafening.

Even the lingering echoes of their last clash seemed to fade faster than normal, swallowed by the stillness that filled the air. The disciples didn't move. The elders held their breath.

Han Zukong frowned, lowering his sword slightly. "Eldest brother…?"

Han Zhanjian's eyes widened, realizing who it was. The faint glow in his pupils faded completely.

Wei Ji stood among them now, his expression unreadable. The faint breeze rustled his robe as the last traces of dust settled around him. The aura that surrounded him wasn't overwhelming, but it carried a weight that made even the elders tense.

He looked at both of them in silence for a long moment, then spoke again, his tone calm but carrying the strength of an unspoken command. "That's enough."

The brothers said nothing, but the way their bodies stiffened showed they understood—neither could move, not even if they wanted to.

The hall remained silent, except for the faint rustling of the disguised grass swaying gently at Wei Ji's feet.

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