On the National Boulevard, the wind picked up slightly, stirring up swirls of sand and dust while also scattering some of the smoke ahead.
After stepping down from the vehicle, Mashiba Masaru rested one hand on the long saber at his waist and gazed forward with a solemn expression. A moment later, under the watchful eyes of his allies, he began walking toward the front, step by step.
His hair was tied in a topknot, and he wore a white Waves Hall training robe cut in the traditional style of an older era, its wide sleeves billowing in the wind.
Though taking White Infant Wine made him appear two or three years younger than his actual age—looking no older than sixteen or seventeen—the relentless focus in his eyes and the resolute aura surrounding him caused anyone who saw him to turn grave and solemn.
The third limit fighter stationed there immediately bowed respectfully upon seeing Mashiba approach, then stepped aside.
Though brought in from out of town, he was also a fighter funded by the Ferris Wheel Company, trained in the etiquette and weaponry of the Outer Ocean.
Mashiba gave him a nod, never pausing his stride.
At that moment, the Ferris Wheel Company's gunners ceased fire. Biological weapons and combat personnel alike swiftly fell back.
Seeing them withdraw, Advisor Yao sensed something amiss and ordered his men to hold their fire as well, refusing to waste ammunition pointlessly.
Then, he saw a handsome youth clad in white strolling slowly toward them.
Yao's gaze sharpened, his face turning grim as he watched the figure ahead. Another third limit fighter?
Moreover, whether judged by the subtle threat rolling off the youth or the reaction of the enemy forces, it was glaringly obvious that he was by no means an ordinary third limit combatant.
Spotting a long-range marksman raising a rifle, Yao quickly warned, "Hold your fire." Someone like this possessed acute danger senses; hitting him at range was out of the question. As things stood, Yao was the only one who could face him.
Mashiba walked forward as though entirely unconcerned, passing by an unmanned escort vehicle parked ahead as a barricade. Yet when he was barely two or three meters past it, a sudden tremor ran through the vehicle behind him. The upper half of its cabin roof slid cleanly off, crashing diagonally onto the asphalt.
An esoteric cult operative hiding inside and the ritual pattern drawn within were both cleaved neatly in two. Blood washed across the seats in an instant, yet almost no one on either side had seen him draw his blade.
Even Advisor Yao had barely caught a faint twitch of Mashiba's right hand; by the time he registered it, the saber was already back in its sheath. Yao's heart sank. The enemy was far stronger than he had estimated.
Mashiba advanced until he stood less than twenty meters from the escort convoy before coming to a stop. At the same time, he released his biological field.
It was more than just the field itself. Through a synergy of stance, gait, gaze, and presence, he projected it directly into the minds of his foes to strike terror into them. In the secret teachings of Waves Hall, this technique was known as "heart shock."
Advisor Yao's breathing turned ragged. This was his mutated tissue reacting to the sheer stimulation of facing an overwhelmingly dangerous adversary.
Though they had not officially clashed, he already knew he had zero chance of victory.
By then, Chen Chuan had returned to the convoy. He immediately felt the field radiating from the youth.
It differed from those he had encountered before, carrying layers of extra information—both a display of martial might and an invitation to battle.
The intent came across unmistakably: if Chen Chuan did not step forward, the swordsman would carve his way in.
Chen Chuan immediately discerned that this visitor had come specifically for him.
Whether for the safety of the convoy or his own pursuit of martial arts, he had no reason to decline such a challenge.
Resting a hand against his boundary credential, he said, "Advisor Yao, leave this one to me. Just stay on guard—they likely have more people lying in wait here. The moment I leave, they will probably show themselves."
Advisor Yao replied gravely, "Understood. That is my duty."
Pausing, he chose to divulge a bit more: "We've made preparations. If there are no more than two and it doesn't take too long, we should be able to hold them off."
Chen Chuan ended the transmission. Gripping the Xuejun Saber, he stepped out from the convoy onto the open roadway. Gusts of wind buffeted him, flapping his esoteric cult smock.
Seeing him emerge, Mashiba Masaru's expression turned profoundly solemn. Clasping his saber with one hand and resting the other at his flank, he bowed with utmost gravity. "Mashiba Masaru of Waves Hall. I ask for Chen-kun's guidance."
Chen Chuan slowly raised his hands, cupping his fist around his sheathed saber in a salute. "Mr. Mashiba, please."
As if influenced by a storm blowing in from the sea, the sky turned a slate gray-blue. Heavy cloud banks pressed low overhead, and the wind blew harder and harder.
Hundreds of combatants faced off on either side, yet the stretch of road cleared between them was utterly desolate, as if the two of them were the only souls standing beneath the vast sky.
Mashiba took a step back with one foot and slowly drew his blade from his waist, holding it level directly before him.
Chen Chuan raised his long saber crosswise before him. With a light flick, the scabbard flew free of the blade, baring the bone-chilling gleam of the Xuejun Saber. Gripping the hilt with both hands, he turned his body slightly sideways and held the blade beside his head, the tip angling downward toward the ground.
His saber was considerably longer than his opponent's, and he was taller as well, giving him an advantage at range.
However, a clash between third limit fighters was never decided merely by reach. Especially against an opponent of consummate skill, an ineffective strike simply handed the other person an opening.
What was more, Mashiba's field felt gossamer and elusive, making it impossible to gauge the truth beneath the surface. He clearly possessed master-level field techniques, such that even if Chen Chuan unleashed his field completely, it would yield little advantage.
Both sides watched with bated breath, well aware that the outcome of this duel would decide the fates of nearly everyone present.
After facing off for a moment and seeing that Mashiba had no intention of striking first—clearly favoring a counterattacking style—Chen Chuan dispensed with pleasantries. He took the initiative, stepping forward with his saber as his center of gravity pressed ahead.
Mashiba fixed his gaze on Chen Chuan. The latter's field was equally well-concealed, masking his true intentions and preventing Mashiba from tailoring specific tactics against him.
Yet as an inheritor of Waves Hall, years of sparring with his peers had long accustomed him to fighting blind to field information. Even if internal workings remained hidden, physical movements could not be concealed.
The moment he saw Chen Chuan's center of gravity shift, he stepped backward at nearly the exact same speed Chen Chuan advanced. In Waves Hall, this was called the "measured step"—adjusting one's own movements in perfect harmony with an opponent's advance and retreat.
The core of all Waves Hall techniques lay in the "spirit." Put in Great Shun terms, it prioritized the cultivation of the changeless mind and the field: within one's field, all movement and stillness of the enemy are laid bare to observation.
As Mashiba retreated, Chen Chuan felt that while his opponent ostensibly mirrored his movements, Mashiba had actually initiated his retreat half a beat ahead of him, seemingly anticipating each shift.
Not only was this anticipation decisive and direct, it was astonishingly accurate. More than mere combat experience, it was an unseen technique—wholly unlike what he had faced before. He had never encountered an opponent with such a style.
Chen Chuan picked up his pace slightly. No matter how his adversary fought, he had only to maintain his own tempo; even if Mashiba could match it, he could not keep retreating forever.
Moreover, combat ultimately hinged on physical strength and conditioning; a fighter's fundamental physical attributes decided everything.
As Chen Chuan pressed forward, Mashiba kept backing away. But after just a few steps, Chen Chuan's speed surged. With a solemn expression, Mashiba rapidly adjusted his footing and stepped forward to engage.
Chen Chuan's arms moved, thrusting his blade straight ahead. Mashiba snapped his hands across to deflect it. Upon contact, their respective jin collided. After a momentary hitch, both blades shifted in a flurry of maneuvers, clashing continuously in a rapid, unbroken cadence of ringing steel.
Chen Chuan maintained the offensive, yet every slash he delivered was intercepted cleanly by Mashiba. Not only that, every parry met the blade at the most mechanically advantageous point of leverage.
Mashiba made none of these moves through conscious calculation, analyzing nothing of how to strike. Instead, he emptied his mind, allowing the spirit within to guide him entirely, his body simply following the blade.
This was "the spirit knows, I know not."
So long as the opponent offered no flaw, all remained well; but if Chen Chuan grew impatient or his cadence faltered even slightly, an inspired counterstrike would strike like lightning, capable of ending the duel in an instant if properly timed.
Yet after more than a dozen rapid exchanges of steel, Mashiba's mind suddenly tightened. A prickle of dread made his hairs stand on end, and he hurriedly raised his blade in two frantic parries.
Clang! Clang!
Amid the reverberations shivering down his blade, Mashiba retreated, swiftly channeling the immense force transmitted from the weapon into his body and dispersing it through his shifting footwork.
The two abruptly broke apart, opening distance once more.
To the spectators, their movements were an indistinguishable blur. It looked as though they had merely rushed into a brief clash before instantly separating.
Chen Chuan's eyes flickered. Mid-exchange, he had abruptly increased the force behind his strikes. A blow like that would have challenged even the Iron Demon to withstand, yet Mashiba had not only intercepted the attack half a step early, but had also dissipated the force completely through shifting blade craft and subtle body movements.
Chen Chuan could tell this was an exceptionally sophisticated deflection technique. Not only did the body participate, but the blade itself became an active part of the dispersal, executed to perfection at every link of the chain. Setting physical power aside and judging purely by technical mastery, Mashiba was markedly superior to the Iron Demon in handling subtle variations.
Yet the two walked entirely different paths; combat prowess could not be weighed so simply. Whoever the fighter, victory lay in playing to one's strengths while masking one's shortcomings.
Then that was enough testing.
He raised his saber once more and drew a deep breath. Layers of mutated tissue across his body activated in sequence. Lowering his center of gravity slightly, his field began to expand. Then he snapped his gaze toward Mashiba Masaru. Just as the latter's expression shifted, the pavement beneath Chen Chuan shattered, and his entire figure vanished from where he stood in an instant.
Chapter 464