The azure-robed messenger stood rigid on the threshold, iron greaves sunk two inches into the dirt. Mo Qianshu, startled, nearly tripped over a particularly stubborn weed. A deathmatch? For Su Ranyue? The Nine-Yuan Annihilation Lightning felt closer than ever, its ozone stink prickling his nostrils. His student was rocketing toward renown like a stray firework. This was precisely what he refused to allow. Then a calm calculation settled over his chest. A deathmatch. A brutal trial against an elite sect's pride. This was no backwater scrap where an awkward stumble could accidentally decapitate an opponent. This meant total ruin on a grand stage. Su Ranyue would surely be crushed, her nascent legend extinguished before it could truly ignite. Yes! This was a gift from the Heavens! A chance for his path of Insignificance to right itself. He forced a dry cough, clutching his ribs with theatrical weakness. “A duel of slaughter? How frightful. The girl can barely lug a water pail without twisting an ankle.” He waved a dismissive hand, trying to project a cowardly aversion to conflict. “Perhaps we can just… concede? Save everyone the trouble?” “Master!” Su Ranyue stepped forward, chin lifted. “I accept. Qixia Pavilion will not fall. I will face Elder Qiang!” Jian Wuchen, who had been observing with the intensity of a scholar deciphering ancient runes, stroked his beard. “Just as I suspected,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on Mo Qianshu. “Grandmaster Mo’s reluctance is but a profound ruse. He speaks of frailty, yet cultivates an underling capable of humbling a sect’s prodigy. He seeks to lull his opponent into underestimation, a classic stratagem of the Hidden Serpent Dao.” He gave Mo Qianshu a knowing nod, a gesture that promised Mo’s plans for quiet obscurity would be shattered by Wuchen’s relentless overthinking. Feng Jiao, however, merely sneered. “Spare us, Jian Wuchen,” Feng Jiao scoffed, adjusting her jade hairpins. “Mo Qianshu is a yellow-bellied weed-puller. The girl is a stray dog that caught a rabbit by accident. Let her face Elder Qiang. Their warriors will grind her into paste.” Her eyes glinted with barely contained schadenfreude. The messenger grunted, satisfied. “Very well. The challenge stands. Tomorrow, at high noon, in the Grand Scion Arena of Cloudhaven City. Do not be late.” With that, he turned, his powerful strides shaking the cracked earth, and vanished into the gathering twilight. Mo Qianshu sagged against a particularly thorny spirit-cactus, relief washing over him. High noon tomorrow. Perfect. He had just enough time to ensure Su Ranyue’s defeat would be swift and decisive, leaving no room for accidental heroism. Later that night, under the pale glow of a single spirit-lamp, Mo Qianshu rummaged through a dusty, forgotten corner of the Qixia Pavilion’s dilapidated armory. His fingers brushed past rusted iron swords, chipped training staves, and even a child’s toy crossbow. He needed something truly, unequivocally useless. His eyes landed on a bundle of practice swords, long neglected. One, in particular, caught his attention. It was a ghastly thing: dark with mildew, riddled with active termite tunnels, and so soft in places that his thumb could leave an impression. The hilt was wrapped in frayed, sticky cloth, smelling faintly of old sweat and desperation. It was, in a word, perfect. He presented it to Su Ranyue with solemn gravity. “Ranyue,” he began, brandishing the decayed scrap. “For tomorrow’s trial, you shall wield this.” Su Ranyue took in the pitted timber, an unhinged awe dawning across her face. “Master… this is…” “Observe its form, Ranyue,” Mo Qianshu interrupted, cutting her off before she could voice a complaint. “It is weak. It is flawed. It is on the verge of collapse. It forces you to rely not on external power, but on your inner spirit. It teaches humility, the ephemeral nature of all things, and the wisdom of knowing when to yield. This, my child, is the Dao of the Unburdened Plank. It will teach you true insignificance.” He kept his expression impassive, even as a wood-boring grub wriggled over his knuckle. Su Ranyue received the moldering timber with two cupped palms, treating it like ancestral jade. “The Dao of the Unburdened Plank… Master’s wisdom is unfathomable! I will strive to comprehend its depths and bring honor to Qixia Pavilion!” Her voice was filled with a conviction that made Mo Qianshu want to bury his face in his hands. The next day, the Grand Scion Arena was packed to the rafters. Banners painted with spiraling serpents and storm clouds snapped in the dry wind. In the center, a vast circle of polished jet stone shimmered under the noonday sun. Elder Qiang, a hulking bruiser with a beard plaited in iron rings, waited on the northern rim, his broadsword humming with killing intent. On the southern edge stood Su Ranyue, clasping her insect-chewed scrap as if it were a celestial relic. Jian Wuchen, seated in the VIP stands beside a smirking Feng Jiao, leaned forward. “Observe, Elder Feng. The supreme austerity. Grandmaster Mo strips his student of all worldly crutches to awaken the void within!” Feng Jiao merely snorted. “It’s a rotten stick, Jian Wuchen. She’ll be flattened in seconds.” The referee, a grim-faced elder from a neutral sect, raised a hand. “Let the trial begin!” Elder Qiang wasted no time. With a roar that shook the arena, he unleashed his signature technique, the ‘Sky-Rending Azure Torrent.’ His greatsword blazed with an inferno of brilliant azure Qi, forming a torrent of destructive energy that surged towards Su Ranyue, promising to incinerate her and her pathetic wooden stick into cinders. Mo Qianshu, watching from a discreet corner near the concession stands, winced. That was a bit much. He quickly reached out with a subtle, almost imperceptible surge of his true power – a flicker of the cosmic forces he once commanded. He focused on the decaying wooden stave, pinching space around its center into a microscopic vice. The intention was simple: squeeze the wood just enough to snap it, ensuring Su Ranyue's immediate, harmless defeat. No broken bones, just a broken 'weapon' and a clear loss. But the universe, as it always did, seemed to delight in thwarting Mo Qianshu. The primordial spatial squeeze, focused on such pithy timber, failed to snap the shaft. Instead, the crushing weight collapsed every worm-bored grain into zero volume. The wood shrieked, a sound unheard by mortal ears, as it was compacted beyond comprehension. Its mass remained, but its density skyrocketed. The timber did not merely harden; it altered at the elemental root. The bark collapsed into a mirror-black gloss, pulsing with dense, ancient pressure. A hardened rod, unyielding as forged star-iron, rested in Su Ranyue's hands. The Sky-Rending Azure Torrent slammed into the newly formed artifact. There was no explosion. Instead, the blackened rod drank the torrent like dry silt swallowing rain. A moment of eerie silence descended. Then, with a deafening *CRACK* that echoed through the arena, the stick didn't just reflect the energy—it amplified it tenfold. A blinding discharge of condensed cerulean force rebounded sideways, gouging the boundary formations to scrap. A trench sixty paces long sheared clean through the stone pavers, leaving glowing magma in its wake. The arena trembled, dust and debris raining down onto the stunned crowd. Elder Qiang, untouched by the deflection, stared slack-jawed at the melted chasm. Silence. A furious bellow shook the eastern viewing gallery. A silhouette wrapped in the suffocating pressure of a Nascent Soul patriarch dropped onto the arena like a falling anvil. It was Elder Guan Qi, a patriarch whose name inspired fear across Taiheng. His face was contorted in a mask of incandescent fury. “You insolent wretch! To humiliate my sect’s finest with such a vile trick!” His hand flew to his back, and with a resonant *shing*, he drew forth a legendary crimson blade, its edge glowing with malevolent intent. He fixed Su Ranyue with a glare that promised annihilation. “I will execute you where you stand!”

The Diamond-Hard Rotting Wood