Chapter Fifty-Five: The Game, I Won

"You actually dared to strike first?" The young man in the purple robe had been watching Shen Qingyun with a cold sneer, never expecting that Shen Qingyun could be so audacious as to attack him first. He was at once infuriated and amused—angry at Shen Qingyun's ignorance of his own limits, and amused because, despite such ignorance, Shen Qingyun would dare to make a move on him.

Shen Qingyun was already in a foul mood. The Grand Elder had sent him to find this person but arranged so many obstacles to hinder his ascent. Now, just as he was about to reach the summit, this young man had appeared out of nowhere.

Was this all some elaborate joke at his expense?

Upon hearing the young man's words, Shen Qingyun's irritation and fighting spirit surged to their peak. Whoever this person was, he'd deal with him first and ask questions later!

Seeing Shen Qingyun charge forward, the purple-robed youth swept his sleeve with a furious shout: "Out of my way!"

With a flick of his robe, blue and red spiritual energy surged forth. Flame and wind, wild and violent—the wind fanned the fire, making the onslaught all the more ferocious.

"Wind and fire dual spiritual roots?" Shen Qingyun remained outwardly calm, though he was inwardly surprised. Wind and fire roots—just like his own, with a variant root mixed in.

Variant spiritual roots were exceedingly rare—out of a thousand people, perhaps one might possess such a constitution. The wind and lightning attributes were variant roots, the only two of their kind.

Of course, spiritual roots determined little more than whether one could cultivate, how high one's talent might soar, and which path one would walk. They had some further significance, but overall, it was limited.

The type of spiritual root dictated the type of spiritual energy one wielded. For instance, a fire root allowed swifter mastery of fire-based arts, supported a career as an alchemist or a smith, and endowed one's spiritual power with fierce offensive strength—hence, fire roots were highly sought after.

Did this mean those with other roots could not practice fire arts? Certainly not. Even someone with water spiritual energy could cultivate fire arts, but the interplay of the five elements made it far more difficult—sometimes even causing the technique to backfire dangerously.

This was the advantage of variant spiritual roots: a dual-attribute variant root was not restricted by the cycle of the five elements, making it compatible with both the standard roots and the other variant root. In other words, a variant root could cultivate any elemental technique without suffering backlash.

Moreover, the purer the variant root, the greater its compatibility. In dual roots where one was a variant and the other was not, compatibility with the non-variant root increased, while compatibility with its opposing element decreased.

Still, the road of cultivation was long and winding. Humanity's strength lay in its adaptability. Over time, the most gifted among mortals devised arts that transcended not only the five elements but even the variant roots. For instance, Wu Qing's Dreamweaving Technique lay outside the realm of the five elements—anyone, regardless of their spiritual root, could train in it.

But to return to the matter at hand.

Shen Qingyun's surprise lasted only a moment. Sword shadows gathered at his side, and as the wind and fire spiritual energy drew near, he launched them forth. They collided with the purple-robed youth's power.

The sword shadows and spiritual energy merged in silence; a brief calm, then a string of explosions. The force of the blasts scorched the young man's sleeve, though whatever fabric it was made of prevented it from being reduced to cinders—only a faint scent of charring lingered in the air.

"Scoundrel!" The purple-robed youth's face darkened; he hadn't truly expected Shen Qingyun to dare attack him. He had only used thirty percent of his strength, just enough to teach Shen Qingyun a lesson without causing real harm.

Now, however, he was truly enraged.

From the pouch at his waist, a golden flash appeared. The young man seized it and hurled it down at Shen Qingyun.

The golden blur tore through the air with a thunderous roar, as if bearing the weight of a mountain.

"You think I'll cower when you get serious?" Five more sword shadows formed around Shen Qingyun as he leapt back. The purple-robed youth pressed his advantage, advancing relentlessly.

Each sword shadow met the golden blur in succession, each one shattered on impact, unable to leave a mark.

Yet, through these exchanges, Shen Qingyun discerned the true nature of the golden weapon—a gilded staff, roughly twenty feet long.

The young man in purple furrowed his brow deeply; gripping the staff, his palm trembled with pain and numbness. Clearly, Shen Qingyun's sword shadows had not been without effect.

Shen Qingyun halted his retreat. At his side, a dark red halberd materialized. He seized it and swung at the golden staff—a shrill clash rang out, and once more Shen Qingyun stood empty-handed.

But by then, the purple-robed youth had already been sent flying, utterly bewildered by what had just happened. All he saw was a flash of crimson, and then—nothing.

He flew a long way, landing with a heavy thud before a thatched cottage, raising a cloud of dust.

Shen Qingyun had, of course, wielded the Heaven-Suppressing Halberd. Only that weapon could produce such overwhelming might—one strike, and the foe was vanquished.

"Have I... lost?" The young man stared up at the sky, his eyes filled with confusion. Such a bewildering defeat—who else could say the same?

Footsteps approached. He lifted his head to see Shen Qingyun ascending with measured steps, finally crossing the stone stele and claiming the summit.

With a resigned sigh, the purple-robed youth lay back down and gave a wry chuckle. "So I've failed my task."

Shen Qingyun stepped to his side, looking down from above. The young man glanced at him, then closed his eyes. "You've won. Do as you wish—kill me or whatever you please."

To Shen Qingyun's eyes, the young man's posture was that of someone who had given up all resistance. Besides...

With such a rare request, how could he not oblige?

Thus, a nearly solid sword materialized at Shen Qingyun's side, its sharp aura prickling the young man and forcing him to open his eyes.

As Shen Qingyun grasped the sword, the young man opened his eyes fully. "Hey, what are you doing?"

"Why, I'm only fulfilling my senior brother's wishes," Shen Qingyun replied airily.

"Fulfilling my wishes? When did I ever—hey—!" Before he could finish, the sword flashed and struck the ground, forcing the young man to dodge at the last moment.

Shen Qingyun raised the sword and advanced slowly. "Senior brother, how does it feel to be looked down upon?"

"What are you doing? No, wait—damn it!"

The purple-robed youth sprang to his feet, narrowly avoiding another slash. It was only now, as he dodged repeatedly, that he realized Shen Qingyun truly meant to kill him.

"Damn it, I shouldn't have put on such a front!" he cursed inwardly as he evaded Shen Qingyun's attacks.

"Junior brother, let me explain!"

"No need. I don't want to hear it."

"Damn it!" The young man was out of options and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Master!"

No sooner had the words left his lips than a stern voice rang out from within the thatched hut: "Enough!"

Shen Qingyun, hearing this, did not halt his attack; his sword still thrust toward the young man.

"I said stop! Did you not hear me?" The voice grew sharper, and a surge of spiritual energy shot forth, shattering Shen Qingyun's sword into countless glimmering motes.

Unfazed, Shen Qingyun clenched his now-empty hand into a fist and sent it flying all the same.

With a dull thud, the purple-robed youth staggered back several steps, a bruise already blooming around his left eye.

After that punch, Shen Qingyun felt his mood had thoroughly improved. He turned to the thatched cottage and remarked with a faint smile, "Grand Elder, I have won this game. Does it count?"

There was a long silence from within the cottage before a single word finally emerged: "It counts."