Attack! Attack! Attack!

Wu Zhangkong did not move. He merely gave the Sky Frost Sword a gentle flick.

A streak of icy-blue sword light crossed ten meters and slashed straight at Zhong Shenxiu's face.

There was no probing, no holding back.

The first strike was a killing blow.

Zhong Shenxiu's pupils suddenly contracted.

Fast.

Too fast.

So fast that his eyes could barely catch the sword light's trajectory; so fast that before his brain could issue a command, his body had already moved on instinct—

He twisted aside, slid a step, and raised the shaft of his spear horizontally to block.

Clang!

The instant the Sky Light Dragon Spear collided with the Sky Frost Sword's light, Zhong Shenxiu felt a terrifying force travel through the spear.

That force was freezing to the bone, carrying a chill that seemed to seep into his marrow. It numbed the web between his thumb and forefinger and sent him stumbling back three steps.

When his third step landed, his foot slipped—the ground had already frozen over with a thin layer of ice.

Zhong Shenxiu lowered his head and glanced at it.

Ice.

After only one exchange, Wu Zhangkong's chill had already covered the entire central area of the battlefield.

He raised his head and looked at Wu Zhangkong.

The man in white still stood where he had been, without taking a single step.

The Sky Frost Sword hung at his side. Six Soul Rings revolved slowly around him, radiating a suffocating pressure.

He did not pursue.

He was merely waiting.

Waiting for Zhong Shenxiu's next attack.

Zhong Shenxiu took a deep breath.

Cold air flooded his lungs, carrying a faint scent of blood—though that sword strike had not hit him directly, the edge of the sword light had still grazed his left shoulder. His school uniform had been torn open, and a faint white mark lay across the dragon scales beneath it.

It was a mark left by the invading chill.

It hurt.

But it was not enough.

Zhong Shenxiu tightened his grip on the spear shaft. The fighting spirit in his molten-gold vertical pupils burned even fiercer.

He moved.

Not with a charge, but a slide.

His feet glided over the ice, and his body became a streak of golden light, crossing ten meters in an instant to appear before Wu Zhangkong.

The Sky Light Dragon Spear thrust out.

There were no flashy moves, no unnecessary techniques.

Just a thrust.

A straight thrust.

The spear was as swift as lightning. Its tip tore through the air with a piercing shriek.

The spear shaft hummed as the light gathered at its tip compressed to the extreme, becoming a blinding point of golden radiance that stabbed toward Wu Zhangkong's throat.

Wu Zhangkong's brow twitched slightly.

It was not surprise.

It was... confirmation.

Confirmation that this child truly dared to stab.

Confirmation that this child truly wanted to kill.

The Sky Frost Sword rose.

Clang!

The spear tip collided with the blade.

Amid the ring of metal, Zhong Shenxiu felt an even more terrifying chill travel from the spear tip.

The cold spread along the spear shaft, instantly covering his hands and arms. Even his blood seemed about to freeze.

But he did not retreat.

With a flick of his wrist, he spun the spear. Its tip slid down the sword's edge and stabbed directly toward the hand holding Wu Zhangkong's sword.

The shift in technique was unbelievably fast.

Wu Zhangkong's gaze sharpened slightly.

This was...

He had seen countless Soul Masters wield spears, but not one of them could change moves like that from such a distance and angle.

That was no longer a matter of technique, but instinct—an instinct carved into the marrow after struggling at the edge of life and death countless times.

The Sky Frost Sword trembled lightly.

A streak of sword light burst from its blade and forcibly knocked Zhong Shenxiu's spear tip aside.

At the same time, Wu Zhangkong finally moved—he retreated half a step to open the distance, then slashed downward.

Frost Slash.

Third Soul Skill.

A ten-meter-long icy-blue sword light descended from above, carrying a chill that could freeze everything as it cleaved toward Zhong Shenxiu's head.

Zhong Shenxiu did not retreat.

He looked up at the sword light, at the terrifying attack that could split him in half, and the corner of his mouth curled upward.

Then he stepped forward.

Not backward, not dodging, but forward.

With that single step, he had already slipped into Wu Zhangkong's reach.

The sword light fell behind him and struck the ground. The metal floor was instantly ripped open with a ten-meter-long gash as frost spread out to cover the entire area.

But Zhong Shenxiu was no longer there.

He was in front of Wu Zhangkong.

The Sky Light Dragon Spear thrust out.

Still a thrust.

Still a straight line.

Still as swift as lightning.

Wu Zhangkong's pupils contracted slightly.

The angle of this thrust was too tricky—it came at precisely the moment when his sword momentum had been exhausted and new force had yet to rise. Against an ordinary Soul Master, this spear would have struck without fail.

Unfortunately, he was no ordinary Soul Master.

The Sky Frost Sword turned sideways, its blade blocking the spear tip.

Clang!

The spear tip struck the blade, and the terrifying force made Wu Zhangkong's arm tremble slightly.

A trace of surprise flashed through his eyes.

This child... his strength was wrong.

Twenty-first-rank Soul Power should not have possessed such strength.

Zhong Shenxiu gave him no time to think.

As the first spear thrust went out, the second was already following.

The second thrust.

The third thrust.

The fourth thrust.

Every strike was a thrust.

Every strike was as swift as lightning.

Every strike was tricky and deadly.

There were no flashy moves, no unnecessary techniques.

Only thrusts.

Thrusts.

And more thrusts.

Every thrust was an attack pushed to its absolute limit, every one aimed at a vital point. That attacking rhythm, that unceasing sense of pressure, reminded Wu Zhangkong of something—

A beast.

A beast on the verge of death.

A trapped beast making its final struggle.

No.

Something even more terrifying.

A beast that had died countless times already, numb to death and reveling in desperate combat.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

The clashing of metal echoed through the training room, dense as a rainstorm.

Zhong Shenxiu became a streak of golden light, circling Wu Zhangkong as he attacked madly.

Every thrust sent ice chips flying, brought the erosion of cold, and splashed blood—

Yes, blood.

Zhong Shenxiu was bleeding.

Wu Zhangkong's sword was too fast. So fast that even with his frenzied assault, Zhong Shenxiu could not completely evade the counterattacks.

A sword wound deep enough to expose bone ran along his left arm, left by the third strike.

A scorched black mark lay beneath his ribs, where sword light had grazed him.

His face, neck, and chest were covered in fine wounds, each one seeping blood.

But he did not stop.

He seemed unable to feel pain, unable to feel the cold, unable to feel the injuries that would have brought an ordinary person down.

He only attacked.

Attacked.

And attacked again.

The Sky Light Dragon Spear came alive in his hands, turning into a golden mad dragon that savagely tore at Wu Zhangkong's defenses.

Every thrust came from a trickier angle, every thrust was faster, every thrust struck with more violent force.

His eyes grew brighter and brighter.

Within those molten-gold vertical pupils burned a nearly insane light.

It was excitement.

It was satisfaction.

It was... the feeling of finally being alive again.

Wu Zhangkong sensed it.

He sensed the change in the child before him.

At the start, the child's attacks had been sharp, yet there had always been an indescribable... awkwardness to them.

Not an awkwardness of technique, but something more fundamental.

As though an invisible membrane stood between his body and soul.

But now, that membrane had shattered.

With every thrust, that awkwardness lessened.

With every wound that split open, that barrier grew thinner.

With every passing second, this child became more... complete.

Yes, complete.

As though he had always been suppressing something, only to finally release it now, at the edge of life and death.

Wu Zhangkong's expression changed.

From indifferent to serious.

From serious to... grave.

Because he realized that he was beginning to need to respond seriously.

This two-ringed child, this nine-year-old child, this child covered in blood yet growing braver with every battle—

Was forcing him to take this seriously.

Not because of strength, not because of danger.

Solely because of this attitude!