As attack after attack blasted from the soot-blackened barrel, another question surfaced in everyone’s minds.

Why did he seem tireless?

The Vital Qi Flow drained by the War God Mark accumulated fatigue. Normally, the more Sorcery Techniques unleashed, the heavier the exhaustion. Releasing a set number of techniques meant depleting a fixed amount of Vital Qi Flow. Once it hit a critical low, no more techniques could be cast.

By all logic, Xiao Hao—a Second Stage Initial War God Mark Cultivator—should’ve felt fatigue rapidly. So Jiang Huoer’s exhaustion should’ve hit fast too.

But—

It never came.

Everything they’d expected simply hadn’t happened. No one knew why.

“This—” Pang Dun muttered, brow furrowed. “This Vital Qi Flow output… it’s nothing like Second Stage.” He paused. “Could Huoer not actually be Second Stage Initial?”

He quickly dismissed the thought. If Huoer weren’t Second Stage Initial, the damage output wouldn’t match. He *had* to be.

With no answers, many eyes shifted to the boy’s Contract Weapon. When someone displayed power beyond their rank—or things they shouldn’t possess—it had to be external aid. Right now, that aid was the soot-blackened weapon in his hands.

“There’s got to be something we don’t know.”

Since the fight began, Jiang Huoer had shattered their understanding again and again. And something else baffled them: Why wasn’t Zhao Meng counterattacking?

If you hated your opponent and stayed passive, you changed tactics—turned defense into offense. That’s what they’d learned in class. So why wasn’t he moving?

Zhao Meng was just as confused. He wanted to fight back, but the Skyshaking Hammer in his grip refused to unleash its power. No strength stirred within it. He was trapped in passivity.

“Damn it—!” he snarled through gritted teeth. “What’s wrong with you?!” The weapon he’d always prided himself on now filled him with bitter hatred. He *could* end this—he *should* crush this arrogant kid with one strike—but nothing came.

He couldn’t endure this any longer. He felt the mocking gazes of the spectators, especially Class A. *Can’t even handle a Second Stage Initial? What good are you?*

With a roar, he hurled the Skyshaking Hammer aside. If the weapon failed him, he’d use his body. Vital Qi Flow surged across his skin. A flesh-and-bone strike would land solidly. It had to.

He charged at Huoer, fist already raised.

“Let’s see you block *this*!!!”

His fist—coated in Ninth Second Stage Vital Qi Flow—slammed forward.

This brute-force assault caught Jiang Huoer off guard. Zhao Meng was from Fire A Class, an elite. He should’ve fought with elite techniques, not raw savagery. Yet here he was, swinging like a street brawler.

But close combat?

That was Huoer’s specialty.

His hands formed a sphere—a stance drilled into him since childhood.

He caught the fist.

“!!!!!!”

Zhao Meng’s eyes bulged. *This punch held my full Ninth Second Stage power! How—how could he just—?!*

Redirecting force.

This was what Huoer had mastered since he could walk. What he’d honed in countless real fights. To him, it was effortless. Simple. True.

But here, simplicity became impossibility.

Eight ranks separated them. Why couldn’t he win?

After today, Zhao Meng’s worldview would shatter.

Because the idiot standing before him turned impossibility into reality.

Huoer had promised to rewrite his values at the fight’s start. And now? He’d done it thoroughly. Every belief Zhao Meng once held—every “impossible” he’d mocked as delusion—was proven true. If anyone was the clown now, it was Zhao Meng himself. His stubborn disbelief had made him the fool. The joke.

“Why! Why! Why!!!” Zhao Meng’s mind was unraveling. Today’s events were a lifetime of humiliation.

*Now.*

This was the moment to end it. Huoer knew. Striking while his opponent was lost in despair wasn’t dishonorable—it was strategy.

“I win.”

Body Technique.

If Jiang Huoer had one true strength, it was this. Softness overcoming hardness. Redirecting force. This was his mastery.