The explosion echoed through the battlefield, sending dust and debris into the air, momentarily blinding both Lin and Wu. Their assault stalled, faces twisting in surprise as the ground beneath their feet trembled.
Han took the opportunity to retreat a few steps, breathing heavily as the last remnants of the talisman's effect dissipated. His heart thudded in his chest, the weight of the decision pressing down on him.
One more move, he thought, his grip tightening on the spiritual essence swirling within him. One more chance…
Wu and Lin recovered quickly, but the lizard's sacrifice had bought him just enough time. Han's resolve solidified as he stared them down, anger and exhaustion mingling in his gaze.
The tension in the air was palpable, every breath drawn as if the world itself held its breath. Wu and Lin were relentless, their steps measured, their energy crackling with purpose. The battlefield had shifted, but Han, despite his fatigue, stood resolute, his eyes locked onto them with an intensity that matched the stillness of the ground beneath him.
He could feel the weariness in his limbs, the slow ache creeping through his body as the talisman's effect faded. His mind, however, was sharp—razor-sharp, calculating, plotting the next move. Time had been his greatest enemy, but now, after all the chaos, after the dust settled and the last moments of that precious talisman slipped away, Han knew something the others didn't: the final move had arrived.
A quiet chuckle escaped him, low and almost delirious. It wasn't loud, but it was enough to catch their attention. His lips parted into a grin—a grin not of joy, but of sheer defiance.
He had stalled. He had endured. He had waited. And now, now the waiting was over.
Han's grip tightened around his cultivation, his spiritual essence swirling with purpose. His breath slowed, the weight of the decision falling into place. It was time.
For the first time in what felt like ages, Han laughed—not at the situation, but at his own perseverance. The pressure that had built within him, the strain of staving off defeat, all of it came to a head in that single moment.
Just as Han's attack surged forward, his heart pounding with the culmination of all his waiting and strategizing, a sudden burst of laughter rang out from behind him.
Both Lin and Wu stood unfazed, their expressions now twisted with amusement. The tension in the air flickered, the intensity of the moment shifting as Lin's voice broke through.
"Is that what you think?" he sneered, a cold, mocking edge in his tone.
Wu chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. "You really thought it was over, didn't you?" he added, his voice smooth, almost taunting.
Han's grin remained, held by sheer momentum. But something in their eyes—
Something didn't make sense.
His attack was almost on them. They should be worried. At the very least, tense.
Why weren't they?
Then—Wu's hand moved.
In one fluid motion, he dipped into his pouch and drew a mirror—small, unassuming, yet unnaturally pristine. It shimmered with an eerie stillness, catching light and bending it in strange ways.
A flash.
The air twisted.
Han blinked.
What…?
His technique—the one meant to cripple, to seal, to end—buckled midair, folding in on itself as if caught by invisible threads.
He stared, dumbfounded, his mind scrambling to process what he was seeing.
Then it turned.
Like a viper snapping its neck, the energy reversed course, its binding power twisting toward him at impossible speed.
Before he could even take a step—
Impact.
The force crashed into him, full-bodied, merciless. His breath vanished. Limbs locked. Pain erupted across his body, not from an outside strike—but from his own power turned traitor.
He hit the ground hard, knees buried in the dirt, muscles seized in place.
Still, even then—he didn't understand.
His chest heaved, eyes wide.
How…?
He hadn't sensed anything—no deflection, no technique cast. It had all happened in an instant, quiet, lethal.
The realization didn't come as a sharp stab, but a slow chill climbing up his spine.
Not outplayed.
Not yet.
Just—what did they do?
And in that space of not knowing, as the dust began to settle and his body refused to respond, the fear began to bloom.
…
Han's mind reeled. His body locked, limbs paralyzed by the recoil of his own technique. The surge he'd built up, the power meant to end it all, had returned like a curse—merciless and precise.
His knees hit the earth. Confusion clouded his gaze.
How…?
Then—
Laughter.
It cut through the silence like a blade.
Wu.
That smug, self-satisfied grin stretched across his face like a scar.
"How is it, Han? Huh?" he sneered, stepping forward with cruel delight. "You won?"
He broke into a fit of laughter, sharp and mocking. "HAHAHAHAHAHA! You're a real damn comedian, Han! I'm dying!"
Han's lips parted, dry. His mind hadn't caught up yet. His pride hadn't accepted it.
Then Lin's voice came—calm, cutting.
"You lost, Han."
And that was the first wound that truly bled.
Han's voice cracked as he choked on his breath. "How… how did you… what…?"
Wu crouched down, eyes sharp as blades. "How? You really want to know?"
He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.
"We knew."
—
Yun stood before Lin and Wu, his expression unreadable as he handed them a small, polished mirror. Its surface was dull, but it pulsed faintly with power.
"You won't beat him head-on," Yun said. "He's not stronger, but he's desperate. When the time comes, and he uses that technique, let him believe it'll work."
Wu furrowed his brows. "You're sure he'll use it?"
"He always does," Yun replied, certain. "It's his final card—he just never played it in front of anyone who lived."
He glanced between the two. "Make sure he thinks he's winning. Then use this."
—
Back in the present, Wu stood tall again, eyes gleaming.
"We kept attacking you—even though we had this—because we wanted you to use your trump card."
His voice darkened.
"And once you did… you got overconfident."
Lin stepped forward, voice flat.
"You thought you were untouchable, because no one who saw your trump card survived. Isn't that right?"
Han's eyes widened—just a little.
His breath caught, shallow and uneven.
The pieces… they didn't fall into place.
They crashed.
Reality struck not like a slap but a slow, cold knife, dragging its edge through every inch of his pride.
Wu's voice dug in deeper.
"We knew exactly what you were planning," he said, almost gently. "You just didn't think anyone else could've known."
A trembling exhale escaped Han's lips.
His chest rose and fell, faster now, as the weight settled.
The weight of certainty—not just that he lost, but why.
He hadn't been overwhelmed by force.
He hadn't been outlasted by endurance.
He hadn't even fallen to chance.
No.
He was dismantled by preparation.
By foresight.
By someone who saw through him before the fight even began.
And that was when it hit.
The attack—the one that had turned on him—suddenly felt like an afterthought.
This was the real damage.
This was what broke him.
It wasn't the pain.
It was the shame.
The humiliation. The helplessness. The invisible hands that had moved long before he took the first step.
He thought he was in control.
He thought he was one step ahead.
And now?
Now he saw the truth.
He had been nothing more than a piece on their board. Not the strategist. Not the master.
Just another fool with a hidden card…
…that everyone saw coming.
And for the first time in a long, long time—Han didn't know what to do next.