The days after the Silent Edge Sect's approach pass in focused silence.
De does not let the recruiter's words linger in his mind. His path remains unchanged.
Strength first.
Control first.
Only then will he decide what comes next.
De spends his time methodically reinforcing his cultivation.
✔ Qi Circulation – The Qi Solidifying Pill continues to refine his energy output, making each technique smoother, more precise. His attacks no longer waste strength—every movement is sharp, efficient.
✔ Physical Conditioning – He pushes his body through rigorous drills, increasing endurance, striking speed, and core balance. Training with Kalia hones his adaptability, each exchange sharpening their instincts.
✔ Weapon Familiarization – He spends hours in the forge, working with different weights and materials, further attuning himself to the Cheon Ma Sin Gun's Sword. The blade is powerful, but raw power means nothing without control.
Kalia notices the difference in his strikes, the seamlessness of his movements.
She doesn't comment, but he catches her watching.
She sees the gap widening.
She just doesn't say it.
By the fourth day, his control has reached another level.
It is precisely then that the challenge comes.
It starts subtly—a murmured conversation among young warriors in the training district.
The name Cheon Ma De has begun to carry weight.
Not from arrogance.
Not from self-promotion.
But from his presence, his silence, and the brief but decisive fights he has already won.
That alone is enough for someone to step forward.
A young man from the Stormfeather Pavilion, a mid-tier sect known for its speed-based combat style.
His name is Wei Jun.
He is not reckless like Liang Ren.
He does not attack out of anger, but curiosity.
"You fight without waste," he says, watching De as he tightens the cloth around his forearm. "It would be a shame not to test how deep that strength runs."
De doesn't refuse.
He never does.
The training grounds clear slightly, leaving them space.
No official match. No need for a witness.
Only skill, and the understanding that when warriors meet, the outcome is its own proof.
Wei Jun is fast.
His movement is like wind, barely touching the ground before striking. His sect's footwork technique allows him to feint with near-perfect unpredictability.
But De has fought speed before.
And unlike others, he does not chase the storm.
He lets it come to him.
The moment Wei Jun shifts into a forward thrust—
Shadow Phantom Steps.
De shifts into the air, redirecting his body by a fraction. Wei Jun's attack whistles past him, missing by the width of a breath.
For a moment, Wei Jun's balance falters.
A single instant of misalignment.
And that is all De needs.
Domineering Demon Palm.
The impact doesn't throw Wei Jun across the field.
It doesn't break bones.
It simply ends the fight.
Wei Jun stumbles back, chest rising sharply. His hands clench, then relax.
A slow exhale.
And then—
He smiles.
"You're not just here to participate, are you?"
De doesn't answer.
He doesn't need to.
The fight is brief, clean, and leaves no unnecessary disruptions.
Yet, as De steps away from the sparring grounds, he feels it again.
A presence.
Not like before. Not the Silent Edge Sect.
Something else.
Something less patient.
De does not turn. He does not look.
But he knows.
Someone is watching.
Someone who will not wait as long as the Silent Edge Sect did.
The evening air is thick with lingering heat as De steps from the training grounds, his body still humming with residual energy from the sparring match. Wei Jun's technique had been impressive—fluid, disciplined, fast—but not beyond his ability to counter.
He had walked away from that match without unnecessary fanfare, his presence neither boasting nor shrinking beneath the weight of watching eyes.
But some eyes do not leave.
As he makes his way back through the quieter streets of Ironhold, the weight of a presence lingers behind him.
Not the casual curiosity of wandering warriors.
Not the cautious admiration of those who had witnessed his fight.
This presence is silent. Calculating. Hidden.
It does not move toward him. It does not flee.
It waits.
De does not alter his path. If they wanted to strike from behind, they would have already.
This is not an assassin.
This is a test.
The streets thin as he nears the outskirts of the city, where the rented house sits tucked away from the movement of the main roads.
Solar, padding at his side, lets out a quiet rumble in her throat, ears twitching as she senses it too.
Someone is following.
Not clumsily. Not recklessly.
But deliberately.
Their steps measured, mirroring his own pace.
De does not stop. He does not turn. If they want to test him, they will have to show themselves.
And then—
The moment shifts.
A ripple in the air.
A breath of intent sharpened to a needlepoint.
De steps forward and vanishes.
Shadow Phantom Steps.
His body flickers, appearing ten paces away in an instant.
He turns.
The alley behind him is empty.
But not untouched.
The air stirs with residual qi—not overwhelming, not crude, but focused.
A technique meant to trace movement, to probe for weaknesses.
De exhales slowly. This is not a simple rogue cultivator looking for a fight.
This is someone who has been sent.
A faction that has remained hidden, watching.
And now they are ready to see his limits.
A breeze shifts through the alley.
And then—
A figure steps forward.
Clad in black and gray robes, their movements seamless with the night, as if the shadows themselves had given them form.
They do not speak.
They do not posture.
They simply move.
A single flick of their wrist—and three throwing daggers flash through the air, nearly silent, no wasted motion.
De does not hesitate.
His right hand shifts, fingers tightening as his palm meets the first blade mid-flight.
A sharp twist— and the metal spins off-course, embedding itself into the stone beside him.
The second dagger is already past him—he does not move to block.
Instead, he steps forward.
The third dagger—meant to force him back—
Never reaches its mark.
Solar's form blurs, intercepting the weapon mid-air, her teeth snapping shut just before it reaches De's ribs.
She lands smoothly, growling softly, the blade now cracked between her fangs.
De does not speak.
Neither does the attacker.
Instead, they rush forward—silent, efficient, unrelenting.
They are fast. But not faster than him.
Their blade slashes forward in a blur, aiming for his throat.
De shifts—a sidestep, a breath of movement—just enough to feel the steel pass within inches of his skin.
They do not falter.
The blade whirls downward, adjusting mid-strike, aiming for the exposed ribs beneath his arm.
De does not step back.
Instead, he moves inside the strike.
His hand meets the attacker's wrist, redirecting their force before it fully forms.
A sharp palm thrust to the chest.
Not meant to kill.
Not even meant to incapacitate.
Just enough to reveal their balance.
The impact lands—a precise shock sent through their ribs, not deep enough to break, but enough to unsettle.
The attacker stumbles back—not far, but far enough.
They do not panic.
They land lightly, adjusting.
Their body shifts lower, their grip adjusting—not for speed this time, but precision.
They are learning.
Testing.
This is not a battle to the death.
It is a study of skill.
And that means someone—**somewhere—**is watching.
De does not pursue. There is no need.
The message has been received.
His presence here is known.
The attacker does not attempt another strike.
Instead, they step back.
A silent nod.
And then—without another word, they vanish.
The weight in the air lifts.
Solar exhales softly.
De does not chase.
He already understands what this was.
A message.
We have seen you.
And we will not wait long.
De does not return home immediately.
Instead, he stands at the edge of the alley, his gaze tracing the rooftops, the distant corners of the street.
Whoever sent that attacker will come again.
Next time, they may not send a test.