The sky above the Iron Dragon Sect stood still, as if it had forgotten how to breathe. Elder Lang stood at the center of the courtyard. Every disciple watched him.
And across from him... He stood there.
Kaen.
He didn't move. He didn't need to. His presence was heavier than the entire courtyard. Some disciples thought the ground beneath his feet slightly caved, as if the world itself agreed he shouldn't walk on equal ground with anyone else.
Lang moved first. No words. No warning. His Qi erupted upward like a flame, and his body blurred with speed.
The first strike—sharp, fast, precise—hit nothing but air. Kaen was no longer there.
Lang clenched his teeth. He spun mid-air, shortened the distance, and unleashed a flurry: elbow to the jaw, fist to the ribs, knee to the thigh. Each blow carried the strength to shatter stone walls.
Kaen didn't block. He watched. Hands still in his pockets, he weaved through the strikes like a dancer drifting between raindrops.
