Bonds Of The Silent Flame

Chapter 4

Scene 1: Trial Matches Begin—The Power of the Shuilan Clan

As drums rolled gently like distant thunder, the trials began.

A Shuilan disciple stepped forward, scroll in hand, voice ringing clear across the arena:

"First match: Mei Zhen of the Shuilan Pavilion versus Han Kuan of the Ruohe Sect. Step forward."

The first match pitted a rising disciple from a nearby riverside clan against a swordswoman known for her icy precision. Mei Zhen entered the dueling ring with the grace of falling snow—robes of pale mist-blue brushing the ground, hair bound in silver thread. Her spiritual pressure shimmered cold and clear, like water drawn from a mountain spring.

Han Kuan bowed deeply, blade in both hands—a respectful gesture, but his stance was taut with nerves. The duel began slowly: measured steps, eyes locked, testing distance with feints and spiraling footwork.

Then, Mei Zhen moved.

Her blade danced like frost on glass—fast, delicate, and cold. With each swing, ice crystals bloomed midair, catching the sunlight in fleeting prisms. She conjured a trail of translucent arcs, her sword slicing elegant, disciplined paths that controlled the space between them.

Han Kuan countered with a burst of flame from his palm, his saber igniting with golden-red qi. He launched wide, sweeping attacks—bold, but slightly wild.

The crowd gasped as sparks collided with frost. Clang! Clang! Steel met steel, steam hissing between them like a sudden storm.

But he couldn't match her rhythm. Mei Zhen stepped through his final arc with barely a rustle of fabric and coiled her sword in a spiral—qi forming a glacial ribbon that wound around his wrist. The moment he tried to strike again, the ribbon solidified in a crystalline snap. His sword dropped with a hollow clink on stone.

A respectful bow. The crowd clapped, restrained but impressed.

From a low stone wall near the arena's edge, Lin Ye whistled low, legs swinging lazily as he leaned back on his elbows.

"She's good," he said, eyes glinting with admiration. "She's clean. Cold. Doesn't waste a breath. I wonder what she'd do if someone broke her rhythm."

Mu Fan, beside him, chuckled and nodded. "Her control is incredible. Not a flick of energy out of place."

Lin Shen, arms folded, gave them both a flat look. "She'd slice both of you in half before you even blink."

Mu Fan laughed, not even denying it.

Lin Ye leaned forward again, resting his chin in one hand, eyes still on Mei Zhen as she exited the ring with silent poise.

He tilted his head and murmured,

"Why are all the Shuilan so quiet?"

He blinked, watching her disappear.

"Is it a clan rule or do they just not like talking?"

Mu Fan snorted beside him, but said nothing.

Second Match:

The Shuilan disciple stepped forward again, voice steady.

"Second match: Wei Lian of the Shuilan Pavilion versus Rong Zhi of the Yunhe Sect."

A proud-looking youth from the minor Yunhe Sect strode into the ring, dual fans in hand, each etched with shifting wind markings. Across from him stood a tall, silent Shuilan disciple, blades already drawn—one low, one high.

The duel began in a flash of movement.

Whoosh! Swish! Rong Zhi opened with a sweeping arc of wind, fans spinning with practiced flair. But Wei Lian didn't clash—he drifted. Each attack was met with sidesteps, redirects, and quiet turns, as if he were always just a breath ahead.

The crowd barely had time to follow when it ended: a faint shuffle of boots, a sharp pivot, and suddenly—Wei Lian stood behind his opponent, one blade resting cold across the back of Rong Zhi's neck.

Match over before it even began.

On the stone wall, Lin Ye squinted, brows raised.

"That guy doesn't fight. He conducts."

Lin Shen sighed.

"You're supposed to be learning."

Lin Ye placed a hand over his heart, mock-offended.

"I am. Learning how not to blink and lose."

Lin Shen rolled his eyes and looked away.

Scene 2: The Rebel and the Jade Sword 

Third Duel: Lin Ye vs Fan Xing

The arena had been reset. Mist from earlier bouts had thinned, and sunlight filtered through the pine trees that circled the dueling ground—casting shadows that stirred like restless spirits.

A scroll unfurled.

"Next match: Lin Ye of Baizhu Village… versus Fan Xing of the Shuilan Clan."

Gasps rippled through the benches.

Fan Xing—an advanced disciple, known for a sword style said to mirror the precision of Young Master Xuan Luo himself.

Lin Ye tilted his head, eyebrow arched.

"They're really throwing the fancy ones at me now?"

Lin Shen straightened.

"Don't joke around this time."

Lin Ye flashed a grin and stood. He didn't walk to the ring—he strolled, loose-limbed, like someone browsing festival stalls.

But the moment he crossed the spiritual boundary and drew his blade, something in him aligned. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared. His stance steadied, like wind snapping into a current.

Across from him stood Fan Xing—robes immaculate, hand resting lightly on the jade hilt at his hip. His eyes held no warmth—only the stillness of a sealed pond.

Lin Ye stepped into the ring, blade in hand—but before turning to face his opponent, his eyes flicked toward the judges' platform. Casually, he tilted his head and let his gaze wander… until it landed on Xuan Luo.

The Shuilan young master stood motionless—robes still, posture straight, face unreadable. Not a blink. Not a breath out of place.

Lin Ye stared for a second longer than necessary.

Then he gave a small huff and muttered under his breath,

"Still looks like he's carved from jade."

He turned back toward the center of the ring and offered his salute, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

A respectful bow.

"Begin."

The Duel Begins

Fan Xing moved first—silent, sudden, a stroke of silver slicing the air with flawless precision. Shing!

Lin Ye blocked—not stiffly, but at strange angles, spinning out of lines, turning defense into momentum. Clang! Clang!

His footwork was fluid, unpredictable. A flicker here. A sidestep there. Sparks snapped where blades met, but nothing about his rhythm could be anticipated.

Where Fan Xing fought like a calligrapher drawing perfect strokes, Lin Ye moved like spilled ink catching wind—chaotic, yet somehow landing exactly where it should.

On the bench, Lin Shen leaned forward despite himself.

"He's… using broken rhythm. That's dangerous."

Mu Fan whispered, "Or brilliant."

Lin Shen frowned slightly, adding under his breath, "Broken rhythm throws off the opponent's timing, making their strikes miss or falter—if you can control it. But if you lose your own flow, you're exposed."

A Clash of Styles

Fan Xing unleashed a three-part sequence—an advanced flow known among the Shuilan, meant to trap and break any loose technique. His blade danced in arcs, timed to the breath. Swish! Swish! Swish!

But Lin Ye broke the breath. He twisted mid-step, his blade flicking out just enough to skim Fan Xing's sleeve, breaking the rhythm and forcing a recalibration.

He grinned.

"You Shuilan disciples really do love your footwork. I half expected a dance partner."

Fan Xing's eyes narrowed. White-blue qi surged along his blade, intensifying.

Lin Ye's blade ignited—not with flame, but with something wild and unshaped. It wasn't elemental. It was spirit—raw, instinctive, his own.

He didn't outmatch Fan Xing's discipline. He unraveled it.

A turn into a reverse grip. A pivot from under a high arc. A clash—then a slip—and Fan Xing's posture shifted.

He faltered.

That was enough.

Lin Ye ducked low, swept his blade up in a spiraling bind, and twisted.

Fan Xing's sword flew from his grip, landing upright in the dirt with a soft, final thud. Clink.

Gasps echoed.

Lin Ye rose, blade poised gently at his opponent's neck.

His voice came soft, not mocking—measured.

"Yield?"

Fan Xing, breathing hard, stepped back and bowed.

Despite the final flare, no blood had been drawn. Not a single tear marked Fan Xing's robes. Lin Ye had walked the edge of recklessness—and landed, perfectly, on control.

At the edge of the ring, a senior disciple narrowed his eyes.

"Unorthodox… but not disqualified."

Xuan Luo did not speak. But his gaze lingered, unreadable. Then—barely—a nod. The kind given when something has been understood, even if not fully accepted.

"Victory: Lin Ye."

Fan Xing bowed and stepped back. The arena rustled with murmurs and disbelief.

Lin Ye lowered his blade. But before stepping off the ring, he glanced once more toward the judges' seat—specifically, at Xuan Luo.

Still unmoving. Still unreadable.

Lin Ye squinted, then raised one eyebrow with exaggerated effort, as if asking from across the distance:

"Did you see that?"

Lin Ye turned, walking back toward the benches.

Xuan Luo had not moved.

He did not turn his head.

But his eyes—still and deep—followed Lin Ye's form with quiet intensity, the only motion a subtle tightening of the fingers resting on his sword hilt.

Not a word spoken.

Not an expression changed.

Back at the benches, Lin Ye dropped down beside Lin Shen and Mu Fan, wiping sweat from his brow with theatrical flair.

His cousin was silent.

Lin Ye tilted his head with a smirk.

"Not bad for a 'drunken crane,' huh?"

Lin Shen glanced sideways, arms still folded, jaw tight—but a flicker of something had changed in his eyes.

"…You were reckless," he said gruffly.

Lin Ye blinked innocently.

"But—" his cousin muttered, barely audible, "you were... impressive."

Lin Ye made an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest.

"Quick! Someone record this moment—Lin Shen gave me a compliment."

Mu Fan burst out laughing. Even Lin Shen looked away, half-hiding a smirk.