Chapter 129: Trials of Spears VIII
With his declaration complete, Lan Yuheng sank into stance. His spear rose in both hands, steady as a rooted oak, its polished shaft thrumming faintly with the qi woven into it.
A breath.
Then—movement.
The spear swept forward, and at once the training grounds answered. The air thickened, saturated with emerald brilliance. Roots of qi tore through the stone tiles underfoot, twisting upward into thorned vines that lashed in tandem with each strike. The crowd of disciples flinched instinctively, as though the hall itself had been dragged into a living forest.
His first form struck—a downward cleave so forceful it seemed to split the very earth. From the arc of his spear, a colossal phantom tree manifested, branches whipping outward in a storm of thorns. The technique roared with vitality, crushing yet inexorable.
The second flowed seamlessly. With a thrust sharp enough to whistle through the air, roots burst outward like iron chains, snapping and binding an invisible foe. "Root Bind Thrust"—its execution crisp, its intent undeniable.
Finally, he spun the spear in a wide, whirling circle. Vines coiled tightly around him, weaving a barrier of living wood that deflected even the suggestion of intrusion. It was defensive, suffocating, and yet—regal. A forest’s embrace, unyielding and eternal.
By the time the vines retracted and the emerald light faded, the hall had fallen into reverent silence.
The elder’s cold expression shifted just slightly, eyes narrowing with scrutiny. His voice, though sharp, carried the faintest note of recognition.
"Four-star Wood affinity... impressive control. You’ve not merely borrowed the element—you’ve compelled it to obey. This is a path worth treading."
A stir ran through the disciples. Murmurs rose, half envy, half awe.
Lan Yuheng lowered his spear with solemn composure, his breath measured, his face calm. He bowed lightly and stepped back, the echoes of his art still lingering in the air like the scent of fresh rain on leaves.
The elder’s gaze, however, had already moved on, sweeping coldly across the line of remaining disciples. And when it finally rested on Tian Lei—there was a faint pause.
"Next."
The command was simple, but in the elder’s tone there was weight, as if he expected much—or suspected even more.
More figures stepped out as the elder’s voice echoed through the hall.
The fourth disciple leapt forward with visible excitement, his spear bursting in a flare of crimson flame. His strikes were wild and passionate, heat rolling off him in waves, but they lacked refinement. The fire sputtered, unstable, each form cracking apart under its own force.
The elder’s brows furrowed.
"Unstable. You mistake force for mastery. Sit down."
The disciple’s shoulders slumped as he retreated, shame written across his face.
The fifth came next, his movements graceful, like rippling streams. His water affinity curved with each spear arc, flowing smoothly but without edge. It was beautiful—yet the elder’s judgment was swift.
"A river without a source. Decorative, but hollow."
Gasps followed, and whispers filled the air. Some disciples clenched their fists, others paled, realizing their work might not even earn acknowledgment.
Then came one who shocked them again. The seventh disciple stepped forward, her body wrapped in pale golden light. With every motion of her spear, holy radiance lanced outward, suppressing even the faint traces of qi lingering in the room. Her art was far from complete, but the purity of her element gave her strikes a divine sharpness.
The elder gave a faint nod, his voice low.
"Three-star Light affinity. Rudimentary, but promising."
The hall stirred once more—jealousy flashing in the eyes of those who struggled to even stabilize their own affinities.
The next few were dull, their efforts meager and their spear arts shallow. One disciple’s spear sputtered with scattered sparks of lightning that refused to obey his call, while another tried to fuse earth into his movements, but produced nothing more than cracks along the floor.
The elder’s disdain grew colder with each failure.
"You’ve wasted time."
"You’ve built nothing."
"Your will is weak."
Each rebuke fell like a hammer, and the disciples retreated one by one, faces pale, shoulders sagging.
The atmosphere of the hall grew heavier. Awe from the prodigies, dread from the failures, and anticipation that crackled like thunder for what was still to come.
And then—his eyes returned to Tian Lei.
"You."
The single word carried more weight than all the judgments before. The hall quieted at once, breaths caught in every chest. Even the air seemed to thin, as if the walls themselves leaned closer to watch.
It was Tian Lei’s turn.
Tian Lei stepped forward. His gait was unhurried, almost quiet, but each step seemed to thrum through the training hall as though the ground itself acknowledged his presence.
He lowered his spear, fingers tracing the worn shaft, and closed his eyes for a breath. When they opened again, they burned with starlight.
A pulse rippled outward from his body—subtle at first, then overwhelming. Gold glimmered faintly along his frame, sharp and unyielding. A veil of Death followed, chilling the air until frost formed across the stone tiles. And beneath it all, Soul surged—resonant, endless, a crown of unseen will that pressed upon every disciple present.
Whispers caught in throats. The silence deepened. Even the elder’s gaze sharpened, his cold eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
Tian Lei moved.
The spear thrummed, its hum no longer that of iron, but of a dragon roaring in the abyss of the heavens. With a single thrust, the world seemed to lurch—light and shadow split apart before the spearhead, dividing the very air.
"Death Dominion Dragon Soul Spear Art."
The words left him like a decree, and his strike manifested it.
A dragon’s phantom bellowed behind him, scales shimmering with starlight. Its eyes burned with death’s inevitability, its breath carried the weight of judgment. The spear thrust forward, and with it came Splitting—the intent that parted all things.
The training hall shuddered. Sound tore in two. The floor beneath cracked along a perfectly straight fissure, dividing the tiles cleanly without rubble. The lantern light above was cleaved, its flame continuing to burn on both halves, undisturbed yet undeniably split.
The disciples gasped. Some staggered back, trembling, unable to meet the weight of his intent. A few fell to their knees, crushed not by qi but by the sheer will embedded in the art.