Deep Night was over Jianghe Hunter Academy, draping the training grounds and dormitory blocks.
The noise of the day had faded—the clashing of weapons, the shouted instructions, and the restless movement of students preparing for what tomorrow would bring. In its place was a stillness that carried weight.
In one of the dorm rooms near the edge of the residential block, a faint light remained on.
Lin Yi stood alone.
The room itself was simple—a bed, a desk, and a narrow window overlooking the dimly lit courtyard—but it felt smaller tonight, as if the walls themselves were pressing inward under the quiet pressure of the coming tournament.
He didn't sit. He didn't rest.
Instead, he raised his hand. A flicker of light gathered in his palm, condensing with practiced ease.
The Froststeel Hunter Dagger materialized, its cold-blue edge reflecting the dim light of the room, a thin mist of frost clinging faintly to the blade.
Lin Yi stepped back, giving himself space, and then he moved. The first motion was slow and deliberate. The dagger cut through the air in a clean arc, his wrist steady and his posture controlled. No wasted movement, no flourish—just a basic strike.
Then another, and another.
The rhythm built gradually: step, turn, cut. His feet shifted across the floor in measured patterns, each motion grounded and each transition smooth. There was no rush in him, no urgency. Just repetition and precision.
The blade traced lines through the air, faint wisps of frost trailing behind each movement. His breathing remained even, his gaze focused not on the room, but on the flow of his own motion.
Again. Again. Again.
Time passed as minutes stretched into something longer. Sweat began to gather at his temples, sliding down the side of his face, but he didn't stop. He adjusted his grip slightly, changed angles, and repeated the same sequence with minor variations—higher cuts, lower cuts, tighter turns, faster transitions. A basic form practiced until it was no longer basic, until it became instinct.
The dagger moved faster now, the air giving a faint whistle each time the blade passed through it, the frost beginning to linger longer with each strike as his control sharpened.
His steps grew lighter, his body more fluid, each motion connecting seamlessly into the next. At some point, the room was no longer the room; there was no desk, no bed, and no walls. Just movement.
And then, he stopped.
The final strike cut cleanly through the air, the dagger halting with perfect control just short of where an opponent's throat would have been.
His arm remained extended for a moment, steady and unmoving. Then he exhaled slowly. The frost along the blade faded as the dagger dissolved into particles of light, disappearing from his hand.
Silence returned.
Lin Yi stood there for a moment longer before stepping back and sitting down on the edge of the bed. His breathing was heavier now, not uncontrolled, but enough to show the effort he had put in.
He then leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, and for the first time since he started, he let his thoughts settle on the man everyone was watching.
Chen Feng is a high-tier combatant with an optimized build, and if I'm going to take him apart, I can't let him settle into a rhythm. He's going to rely on that reach advantage with his longsword to keep me at bay, likely using wind-pressure to disrupt my footing before I can even get close, so my first move has to be a hard commitment to close the distance regardless of the initial cost. He'll expect me to be cautious, to probe his defense like everyone else, but if I force a high-intensity exchange from the very first second, his tactical advantage starts to slip because he's used to controlling the pace of the match.
I need to watch his core, not his blade—wind can be deceptive and he can create illusions with those high-speed strikes, but his weight distribution will always give away his true intent, and that's the moment I need to exploit. One scratch from the froststeel is all it takes to eat into his reaction time, and once he realizes his body isn't responding with that S-rank fluidity he's pampered with, he'll start to panic and overextend. That overextension is the key because a swordsman at his level only commits fully when he thinks he has the kill, and that's the only window I'll get to slip inside his guard and end it.
He's consistent, he's talented, and he's dangerous, but every storm has an eye where the wind doesn't reach, and I just have to be the one standing in it when he swings. There's no point in a long fight; I need to be decisive, forcing him to defend until he makes the one mistake his ego won't let him see coming. If I can't break him in the first exchange, I'll break him in the second, because no matter how much wind he throws at me, he still has to stand on the ground, and as long as he's on the ground, he's within reach.
The thoughts settled heavily.
Lin Yi then stood up slowly, the tension in his body easing now that his path was clear. He walked over to the window and looked out across the academy grounds. Even at this hour, there were a few figures moving in the distance—students who, like him, had chosen not to rest, preparing, worrying, and hoping.
Tomorrow would decide something for all of them; for some, it would be opportunity, and for others, an ending. For Lin Yi, it was neither. It was just the next step.
He turned away from the window and moved back toward the bed, the quiet of the room returning once more.
Outside, the academy slept under the weight of expectation. Inside, Lin Yi lay down, his breathing steady and his mind clear. The night passed without disturbance, and somewhere beyond the silence, the tournament waited.