The moment Han collapsed to his knees, the atmosphere twisted.
What was once an arena teeming with fervor turned stagnant, as though time itself had recoiled in disbelief. A murmur passed through the crowd like wind brushing tall grass—light at first, then rising into a chaotic storm of confused voices and darting glances. No one cheered. No one jeered. They simply did not understand.
To the untrained eye, Han had the upper hand. He had endured. He had retaliated with precision. Every strike, every feint, had looked deliberate—measured. And then, in the blink of an eye, it was over. The devastating energy he had conjured turned on him, and without warning or visible wound, he knelt.
As if bowed by something only he could see.
Among the crowd were disciples from various peaks, whispering urgently to one another, their voices thick with doubt and disbelief. Some looked upon Han with sympathy, moved by the fact that he had fought two-on-one and almost prevailed. Others cursed his name under their breath, their silver tokens lost in bets made out of confidence—or desperation.
And high above the crowd, obscured behind sect formations or quietly observing from hidden alcoves, sat the watching peers. Fellow elders, ambitious juniors, and even a few from rival sects who had managed to find their way inside to witness this duel firsthand.
Many of them disliked Han. Some carried long-held resentment—old slights, rivalries, wounds never mended. But even they, those who would have delighted in his downfall, remained silent.
Because none of them understood how he had fallen.
They saw no wound. No deflection. No visible technique that countered his own. The moment his power turned traitor, it simply happened—swift, brutal, and with no room for comprehension.
In that silence, confusion gave birth to unease. As if they were not watching the defeat of a man, but the beginning of something they had no name for.
And somewhere in the center of it all, Han remained motionless—his back hunched, his breath shallow, his head low—not in submission, but in the heavy stillness of a man who had just realized he'd been outmaneuvered long before the fight began.
A deep silence washed over the arena the moment Han's knees hit the ground.
It wasn't the silence of awe.
It was confusion. A stuttering pause, as if the world itself had hiccupped.
No one spoke immediately. The air still hummed faintly from the aftershock of spiritual energy, the battlefield coated in haze. But there was no eruption. No scream. No final explosion to mark a cultivator's fall.
Just Han, unmoving. His head low. Chest rising and falling, but slowly. Shallow.
A few gasps followed. Then came the whispers.
"…What just happened?"
"Did… did Elder Han collapse?"
"Impossible…"
It had looked like he was winning. No—he was winning. The signs had been there, clear as day. The way Lin had been pushed back, the way Wu had been forced into defense. The tempo had shifted. Everyone could feel it.
They thought he was preparing his finishing blow.
Some had already begun to celebrate in their hearts. Others were waiting, breath caught between seconds, ready to see how the legend would end this battle with a flourish.
But this—this wasn't a flourish.
This was defeat.
And it came without warning.
"He was dominating just a moment ago."
"Wasn't he about to strike? I saw it. He gathered qi into his palm—he had something."
Several disciples looked at each other, searching for answers in each other's eyes, but all they found was mirrored confusion.
Further back, a young man cursed under his breath, slamming a talon token onto the floor.
"Damn it! That was all my contribution points!"
"You bet everything?" his friend whispered, stunned.
"Of course I did! You saw him—it was two against one and he still held them back! Everyone thought he'd win!"
More voices joined in, muttered complaints layered over lingering disbelief.
"This doesn't make sense…"
"Was it a trick?"
"Maybe he's faking it—maybe there's a trap…"
But no trap came. Han remained still.
And not everyone was angry. Some were just stunned.
Others, strangely, seemed disappointed—not in Han, but in reality.
A few younger disciples who had looked up to Han felt something hollow in their chests. He had looked untouchable. Indomitable. They had watched him in the early exchanges, a single man standing firm against two elites.
He had made them believe. That someone alone could still win.
Now, all of that belief cracked like thin ice underfoot.
On the far edges of the crowd, barely visible to the regular disciples, stood several silent figures tucked into the shadows—observers not meant to be seen. Peers of Elder Han, Wu, and Lin. Veterans of the same generation. Their faces showed little, but even they leaned forward subtly, heads tilted, watching closely.
They didn't understand either.
And that—that said something.
Above them all, the guardian finally moved.
He hadn't spoken throughout the fight, letting the silence speak where words could not. But now, he stepped forward and his voice echoed across the arena, low and sure.
"…The match is over," he declared. "Elder Han has lost."
A tremor ran through the stands.
"No way…"
"He lost?!"
"You're kidding—he had the upper hand!"
"Was the attack incomplete? Did it get stopped somehow?"
More noise broke out. Even disciples who hadn't bet anything were emotionally invested. The duel had pulled them in—it had the scent of something epic, something worth remembering. The ending had denied them that catharsis.
"Why did he kneel like that?" someone asked. "He didn't even get hit."
"It's like… the attack fired, and then—nothing."
Another voice joined in, sharp and full of frustration.
"That's the problem! He released that last move! So what happened after that?!"
Amid the murmurs, one of the disciples stepped forward.
A young woman. Sleeves singed from her training robes, hair slightly disheveled, but eyes sharp. Her gaze was locked on Han's still figure.
"…Guardian," she called, voice restrained but respectful. "Elder Han released that final technique, and he doesn't look injured. What happened?"
The guardian didn't answer her directly. His eyes were still fixed on the center of the arena.
When he finally spoke, it was more to himself than to anyone else.
"…The first exchange was even. No damage taken, just probing."
A pause. Then:
"The second—Elder Han began to press. Forced movement. Small injuries."
He tilted his head slightly.
"The third, Elder Lin and Wu staggered again. Not fatal damage. But decisive enough to shift momentum."
The disciples fell quiet.
He continued.
"It was turning into a war of attrition. Han had better control, sharper tempo. They were losing."
More than a few nodded. That part, at least, they had seen.
The guardian's voice dropped lower, almost lost in the wind.
"…They forced his hand."
The young woman stepped forward again. "Guardian… if the technique turned on him somehow then is that mean Elder han suffered a backlash? If that is the case then….why isn't he hurt?"
Now the guardian looked down.
"It doesn't injure the body."
The words slid through the air like a blade through silk.
The students stilled.
"…What?"
"It's a trump card," the guardian said, still not looking at anyone in particular. "One use. Targets the spiritual energy of its enemy. That's all I know."
A hush spread across the stands. Some disciples instinctively clutched their chests, as if to shield their own cores.
"Wait… so it bypasses body entirely?"
"No wonder no one saw it."
"Then what actually happened? did elder han actually suffer a backlash? or maybe the technique was actually shot but for some reason it bounced back?" another asked, eyes narrowing.
The guardian shook his head.
"I don't know when or how it hit. Elder Han is… secretive. From what I've heard, nearly everyone who ever saw it—died."
The students stiffened.
"And yet Elder Lin and Elder Wu were prepared," the young woman muttered, half to herself.
The guardian's gaze sharpened, but he only said:
"As for how they knew? I also do not know that."
From the sidelines, the hidden observers remained still.
Even now, they didn't speak. But one of them—an old man with frost-rimmed hair—exhaled through his nose, slow and thoughtful.
Something wasn't right.
The duel had ended.
But no one, not even the most experienced, could say how or why with certainty.
And that—that made all the difference.