Chapter 24 Humiliation

• As Tan Xuan squared off against Zhou Liyan and Ma Shan, the stone plaza's morning mist still lingered, curling around the carved pillars that ringed the training ground. Sunlight filtered through the latticework of the Scripture Pavilion, casting diamond-shaped shadows across the flagstones—now slick with the day's first dew. Disciples spilled from adjacent courtyards, their jade pendants clinking as they jostled for position, some clutching bamboo practice swords still sheathed. Zhou Liyan's lip curled, exposing a sliver of teeth like a cornered fox. His silk robe, dyed the deep blue of senior disciples, rippled with restrained mana—each thread seemed to pulse as he flexed his fingers. Ma Shan, standing half a head taller, had already summoned a water dragon that coiled around his arm, its scales formed from compressed water droplets that refracted the sun into miniature rainbows. Yet the creature's eyes were pits of black mana, glaring at Tan Xuan with predatory intent. "Show some respect, runt," Zhou Liyan hissed, his voice carrying a mana-infused growl that made the nearest disciples' ears ring. The air around him chilled, causing frost to bloom on the stone between them. Tan Xuan's jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He'd spent the morning meditating beside the waterfall, still tasting the residual power of his recent breakthrough—now that energy thrummed under his skin, a counterpoint to the humiliation of being blocked. When he shouldered past, his sleeve brushed Ma Shan's arm, and the water dragon snapped at his elbow, its misty breath leaving a trail of ice crystals. "Filth!" Ma Shan roared, slamming both palms together. The water dragon launched forward, its maw wide enough to swallow a man. Tan Xuan didn't think—he'd drilled the *Dragon-Taming Cloud-Somersault Art* until his muscles ached, and now his body moved on instinct. His form blurred, each step landing on a different shadow, until nine overlapping phantoms of a dragon shimmered around him. The water dragon crashed into the stone where he'd stood, leaving a frozen crater. "By the Ancestors..." A disciple behind him dropped his water flask, the ceramic shattering. "He's manifesting a dragon soul with basic footwork?" Zhou Liyan's nostrils flared. He sprang into the air, mana condensing on his fingertips until ten icicles hung from each digit, each as long as a man's arm and sharper than a razor. As he swooped down, the ice spikes left trails of frost in the air, and the crowd ducked as the temperature plummeted. Tan Xuan saw his chance. The Water Thunder Pearl felt warm in his palm, a gift from Patriarch Shi that still smelled faintly of the sea. He shouted an incantation, spitting the words like curses. The pearl shot upward, trailing a stream of water that instantly turned to crackling blue lightning. When it collided with the ice spikes, the explosion sent shards raining down—one embedded itself in the stone not an inch from a disciple's foot. Zhou Liyan flew back, his robe smoking where the thunder had struck. Blood trickled from his ear, but his eyes burned with fury. "You think a borrowed toy makes you strong?" He gestured, and the entire plaza's irrigation channels burst open, sending a wall of water arcing toward Tan Xuan. For three quarters of an hour, Tan Xuan danced between the water arrows, his robes soaked and heavy. Each time the Water Thunder Pearl destroyed a volley, Zhou Liyan simply summoned more, his mana seemingly endless. Tan Xuan's lungs burned, his legs trembled—he could feel the True Demon Blood stirring in his chest, but he forced it down. *Not here. Not like this.* When he finally collapsed, the stone was cold against his cheek. Zhou Liyan's boot pressed into his temple, grinding his face into the frost. "Learn your place," the senior disciple sneered, but his voice wavered—perhaps at the sight of Tan Xuan's eyes, which had gone as red as burning coals. "I... will... kill... you," Tan Xuan gasped, each word a promise. The crowd fell silent, even the wind seeming to hold its breath. Later, as the burly disciple—who introduced himself as Pang Shitou—helped him up, Tan Xuan noticed a figure in the shadow of the Scripture Pavilion. Shi Yan, one of the inner disciples known for his cruelty, watched them with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, twirling a gold coin between his fingers. Pang Shitou's quarters were a simple cell with a thatched roof, but the air smelled of healing herbs. He fumbled with a clay jar, his huge hands surprisingly gentle as he applied the green paste to Tan Xuan's wounds. "Don't worry, Junior Brother," he mumbled, "I used to get beat up too. Master says it builds character." Tan Xuan winced as the paste stung, but he didn't pull away. Outside, the plaza had cleared, but he could still feel the weight of Zhou Liyan's boot, the chill of the ice, and the heat of his own fury—all simmering under his skin, waiting to boil over.