BATTLES OF THE WORLDS

The Inner Academy Market—once alive with murmurs, deals, and warm laughter—had become a battlefield draped in dust and silence.

Stone paths lay fractured, spiderwebbed with cracks. The small fountain at the square's center trickled unevenly, disturbed by the tremors of combat. Around its edge, abandoned stalls leaned awkwardly, fruit baskets upturned, rolls of fabric fluttering in the sudden breeze.

Above, the sky had dimmed to a pale grey, as though the sun itself paused to witness what unfolded below. A leafless tree stood near the arena ring, its last few autumn-colored leaves curling at the edges, stirred by a strange wind.

Mike and Jin Hao faced each other like titans carved from two separate legends. The cracked tiles beneath their feet bore scorch marks and blood stains—testaments to the strikes exchanged before.

Jin Hao's chest heaved with effort. His white battle robe, once spotless, now hung loosely, torn near the waist and damp with sweat. He took a breath, lips curling into a grim smile as his fingers tightened around his spear, knuckles pale.

"Mike," he spat, the wind catching his voice, "let me show you what legacy tastes like."

He lifted the weapon. Tiny arcs of golden light crackled down its shaft. The air turned heavy, like the slow build before a thunderstorm.

"Years of Spear Technique!" Jin Hao roared, voice echoing against the tall, dark wood structures lining the square. The glass panes of a nearby tea house quivered.

A whirlpool of spear energy surged outward. His spear lit like a torch, blazing with the aura of decades of battle-worn will. He slammed the tip down.

"Ten Years of Spear!"

The floor shattered. Loose pebbles and sand lifted off the ground, dancing in the force of the blast.

Mike stood unmoving, head lowered, war hammer planted like a gravestone before him. His robe was stained, shoulder torn, fresh blood trailing down his arm.

"You're not the only one with fire in your veins," he murmured. He tightened his grip.

Then, without flourish: "One Big Hammer Shot."

The hammer whistled through the air as he launched it forward. The weapon's head, infused with his aura, glowed silver and red—like molten iron being struck on a forge.

The two forces met in the center of the square.

And the world cracked.

A blinding shockwave erupted, tearing across the market like a scream. Bricks peeled from nearby walls, paper lanterns burst into flame. The cherry blossom tree by the southern path shook violently—pink petals flung into the sky like sparks.

Mike flew back, his body smashing into a stone pillar near the old archives. Blood spattered across the carvings. His hammer clanged once, then fell silent—split down the middle.

Jin Hao staggered but remained standing. His knees buckled, lips bleeding, but he managed a grin. His cultivation had cushioned the blow.

Ling Xue cried out. Her voice cracked like dry bark underfoot.

Feng Jian rushed to Mike, his boots kicking aside broken tile. "Mike! Wake up! Don't do this, not now!"

Mike's eyelids fluttered, vision swimming in and out. The sky above blurred—clouds drifting slowly past the academy's peaked towers. Somewhere, wind chimes trembled.

> "Always check your storage ring, Mike…"

The voice came softly. Familiar. Like a hand on the shoulder during a cold night.

Mike reached within himself, breathing shallowly, spirit dimming.

And then—he found it.

Tucked in the corner of his storage ring: a scroll. Worn at the edges. Smelling faintly of sandalwood and old ink.

He pulled it into his hand.

Autumn Technique.

He could almost hear his father's voice, whispering over an old flame, "Use it only when your soul is ready."

He opened the scroll.

Suddenly, everything changed.

A golden-orange wave spread from his feet. Leaves curled mid-air, their colors deepening to amber and rust. The broken stone tiles beneath him shimmered with a layer of frostlike gold dust. Trees around the square, even those green and full, lost their color. Leaves fell in slow motion, dancing around Mike like messengers from a forgotten season.

The crowd gasped. Students took cautious steps back. The air smelled different—cool, crisp, and dry, like the scent before a harvest.

Jin Hao staggered. "What… is this?"

Mike's form shimmered. His eyes glowed faintly, and when he spoke, his voice carried with it the rustle of leaves.

"Autumn Technique."

Jin Hao roared in frustration and threw his spear high.

"Hundred Years of Spear!"

The spear tore through the air, wrapped in violent arcs of energy. Even the wind split where it passed. It raced toward Mike like a comet.

Mike raised a single hand.

The spear dissolved mid-air—into golden leaves.

Dozens of them. Hundreds. Swirling, dancing.

Then they reversed direction.

The leaves converged in a violent vortex and struck Jin Hao in the chest. He flew back, colliding with a marble statue of a lion. The statue cracked from the force.

He crumpled.

Silence.

No one moved. The market was a graveyard of noise, holding its breath.

Mike stood, swayingly, on trembling legs. His arms fell limp at his sides.

Then his knees buckled. He fell backward like a tree cut at the base.

A mentor was the first to move, rushing through shattered stalls. "Get a stretcher!"

Feng Jian knelt beside Mike, shaking his shoulder gently. "Stay with me, brother… please…"

Above them, a single yellow leaf drifted from the last tree standing, spinning gently, until it landed on Mike's chest.

A whisper through the crowd.

"That… that wasn't a normal technique…"

From the rooftop of the North Dorm, Jian Wu watched in stunned silence.

Jian Dao stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back. His face was unreadable.

"That was the Autumn Technique," he said softly. "A power long buried."

The breeze blew gently through the ruins of the market. One student sneezed. Another wept.

But the sky, for the first time in hours, cleared.

And the academy—scarred, shaken, changed—watched the fallen boy breathe.

Still alive.