It was a quiet, cool morning when Huang and Lan Qin departed from Central Peak, the mist curling softly along the paths between the mountains. The walk to Battle Peak was longer than most routes, its elevation steep, its ridges carved by ancient duels and elemental clashes.
But the tension in the air didn't come from the mountain.
It came from what awaited at its gates.
Lan Qin kept up a cheerful pace, clearly excited. "They say Battle Peak has the best sparring arenas in the outer sect. Qi reinforcement platforms, elemental resistance chambers—real cultivator playgrounds. I heard the top disciple here can split a mountain if you insult his saber polish."
Huang walked silently beside him, wearing plain disciple robes. He had left his Head Disciple robe folded in his storage ring. No sword banners, no announcements, no symbols of authority.
> "I'll only use my title when I must," he'd said that morning.
But not using a title didn't mean abandoning purpose.
As they turned the final bend and the grand archway of Battle Peak came into view—its twin gates adorned with crossed golden swords—what they found was not the proud majesty of elite cultivation, but a sour spectacle.
A group of third-year disciples in crimson-trimmed uniforms stood lounging by the entrance. Behind them, a group of freshmen—barely arrived from the testing grounds—stood in a nervous huddle.
One of the older disciples was holding out his hand. "Standard toll. One mid-tier spirit stone. Or three basic talismans. Don't have it? Then you'd better have something valuable on you. Let's see that ring."
"I-I don't have anything like that…" a nervous youth said.
"Oh? Then maybe you can pay with something else," another senior chuckled darkly, stepping forward.
"Just give it," a girl whispered beside the boy. "It's not worth getting injured over…"
Lan Qin scowled. "Disgusting. This isn't how the sect should work."
Huang didn't speak.
But he walked forward.
Calmly. Quietly.
The seniors turned as he approached.
One of them—a broad-shouldered man with a jagged saber on his back—stepped forward.
"This is Battle Peak business, freshman," he said, eyes narrowing. "You want to pass, pay the price."
Huang stopped three steps away from the freshman he was threatening.
"I don't recall this toll being part of the sect's rules," he said.
Another senior snorted. "It's a local tradition."
"Tradition?" Huang echoed softly.
The saber-wielder stepped closer. "Last warning. Back away, or—"
He raised his hand.
And went to strike the freshman.
He never landed the blow.
Because the moment his fingers twitched toward the motion—
Huang's eyes flashed.
He didn't move.
He didn't draw his sword.
He simply unleashed his Sword Intent—focused, sharp, and ancient in depth.
It came like a flash of memory carved into the marrow of the air.
And in that instant, the saber-wielder's arm jerked mid-strike—twisting violently.
A sickening crack echoed.
He screamed, dropping to his knees, clutching his arm—every bone in his hand and wrist shattered, crushed under invisible pressure.
The other seniors froze.
Sweat beaded on their temples.
> "Wh-what was that…?"
> "That wasn't Sword Qi… that was Sword Intent."
> "That kind of force—he didn't even draw—what level is he?"
Huang took one step forward, his voice calm but cold.
"Who told you this Peak belonged to you?"
None of them answered.
He glanced once to the fallen saber-wielder, then to the others. His gaze was like a whetstone scraping against their spines.
> "This mountain doesn't tolerate parasites."
> "You extorted the wrong people."
The seniors looked around, seeing no backup, no excuse, no retreat in his eyes.
Then they turned—and fled.
One shouted as he ran, "You think this is over?! You don't know who you're messing with!"
The mist swallowed them like cowards running from dawn.
The freshmen stared at Huang in stunned silence.
One bowed deeply. "T-thank you, Senior."
Huang looked at him and said simply, "You shouldn't have to thank someone for stopping corruption."
Lan Qin stepped beside him, wide-eyed.
"You shattered his hand without even moving."
"...He raised it to strike someone weaker," Huang said.
"Still. You didn't even pull your sword. That's just... terrifying."
Huang exhaled slowly, his Sword Intent retreating like a tide drawn back into the sea.
He turned to the freshmen.
"Go on. This peak's open to you."
And then, without fanfare or applause, he entered Battle Peak—just another disciple in appearance, but not in truth.Battle Peak was a place forged in pride and tempered by discipline. Of all the Outer Sect peaks, it had the highest injury rate—and the fewest complaints. The culture was simple: if you couldn't endure the clash of fists and steel, you didn't belong.
When Huang entered, he wore no badge, displayed no title, and spoke to no elder of his own accord.
He was just another disciple… at least on the surface.
But everyone knew.
The wind had carried the tale to every pavilion and every courtyard—of a third-year whose hand was shattered by a single pulse of Sword Intent, with no blade drawn.
Disciples whispered behind cupped hands.
> "They say he didn't even use spiritual force. Just will."
> "He could have crippled them all. But he stopped at one. That's worse."
> "What level is his Sword Intent? That wasn't Bronze… maybe not even Silver..."
Some respected him immediately. Others feared him. And more than a few resented him deeply.
But none of them challenged him.
Not openly.
—
Huang spent his first days in Battle Peak moving through the routines with quiet dedication. While Lan Qin joined a formation group to refine his Wind-Footwork style, Huang worked alone—cycling through sword forms passed down from Jiang Fei, reshaped by the ancient scrolls of the tomb, and molded with new precision through his own insight.
Every strike he made was clean. Minimal. Measured.
But every time he moved, someone watched.
Even upper-year instructors paused longer than necessary to observe.
Even the inner disciples began noting his habits.
And so the murmurs spread beyond the common disciples.
> "No badge. No robe. But even Peak Elders talk about him."
> "The man he shattered? That was Wu Gan. Not just a gate thug. He was Zhao Kun's junior."
That name came up more and more.
Zhao Kun—Third-Year Head, Inner Court Candidate, disciple of the infamous Saber Master Feng.
A man whose pride was woven from ten years of dominance at Battle Peak.
He did not speak at first. But he heard everything.
—
One night, after training concluded, Huang returned to the dorms. Lan Qin was already flopped on a straw mat, fanning himself with a talisman.
"You're making waves," he said, not looking up. "I saw Wu Gan trying to practice sword forms with his left hand."
Huang poured water from the basin, washing dust from his hands.
"He shouldn't have raised his right," he replied.
Lan Qin smirked. "You know Zhao Kun is going to respond, right?"
Huang shrugged, wringing water from his sleeve.
"I'm not looking for trouble."
"Maybe not," said a voice from the doorway, "but you've already drawn blood. And this Peak honors blood more than titles."
They turned to see Instructor Pei, arms crossed.
"You've disrupted the order," Pei said, his voice low but calm. "There's a price for that."
Huang said nothing.
Pei stepped inside and lowered his voice.
"Zhao Kun is preparing a challenge. You should know—it's not just about strength. His saber has a reputation. It's shattered six swords in clean duels. His style consumes momentum. He's never been touched twice in a match."
Lan Qin stood. "He's not really planning to duel Huang over Wu Gan's hand, is he? That thug was extorting disciples."
"It's not about Wu Gan," Pei said, eyeing Huang. "It's about the symbol. Zhao Kun rules this Peak like a general. And you broke the ranks."
Huang quietly lifted his spirit sword, inspecting the grip.
"What happens if I refuse?"
Pei raised an eyebrow.
"Then he'll call it a coward's retreat. And he'll tell every instructor that you hide behind reputation. He'll control the narrative. And Battle Peak follows stories more than facts."
Lan Qin opened his mouth to argue, but Huang raised a hand to silence him.
"I didn't come here to claim anything," Huang said, looking at Pei. "But if someone wants to take something from me—"
He sheathed the sword.
"—they're welcome to try."
Instructor Pei's expression flickered—just slightly. Then he gave a single, small nod.
"The challenge will be issued formally tomorrow. It will be a witnessed duel, with all three years present."
And then he left.
When the door shut behind him, Lan Qin turned to Huang, wide-eyed.
"This is going to be a spectacle," he muttered.
"It always is when you cut into the roots," Huang said, sitting back down, folding his legs, and closing his eyes.
> But even as he meditated, he knew—
This would be more than a duel.
This would be the moment when Battle Peak decided whether it would follow fear… or form.