The promotion tournament was already past its halfway point. Relying on their formidable overall strength and rotation strategy, Shrek Academy charged ahead triumphantly, their winning streak growing ever longer. Those shit-green uniforms had become synonymous with strength and victory; no one dared mock them lightly anymore.
Yet beneath this glorious surface lay hidden worries only those involved could truly understand.
Night blanketed the camp. Most of the team had already sunk into sleep, gathering strength for the coming matches. But at the edge of the camp, in the clearing used for daily training, a lean figure repeatedly practiced movements with his left hand beneath the moonlight—punching, blocking, controlling Blue Silver Grass, throwing Hidden Weapons.
It was Tang San.
His movements were swift and precise, carrying an almost harsh rigor. Beads of sweat rolled down from his temples, and his breathing was slightly more hurried than usual. Most striking of all was his right arm, still secured in bandages and hanging at his side. It swayed faintly with his movements, like some superfluous, uncontrollable appendage.
After flinging several Willow Leaf Knives with his left hand and striking the bullseye drawn on a tree trunk fifty paces away, Tang San stopped and breathed lightly. He raised his left hand, looked at the thin calluses worn into his palm from repeated practice, then slowly clenched it.
Not enough. Far from enough.
With the support of the Mysterious Heaven Skill, his left hand's dexterity and strength had improved quickly, but it still could not fully replace his dominant right hand. Especially when using intricate Hidden Weapon techniques that required both hands, or conducting high-intensity, highly precise Blue Silver Grass control, the weakness in his right arm clung to him like a parasite, constantly reminding him of his limitations.
He tried, very slowly, to guide