Data-Driven Cultivation: I Defy Heaven and Overthrow Interstellar Domestication

Three days passed in the blink of an eye.

For the past three days, the Qingyun Sect seemed to have lost its backbone. The outer disciples held their rice bowls, eating without tasting anything, their eyes constantly glancing towards the inner sect; the inner sect was even worse off, even the martial arts arena, where they usually gathered to boast, was much quieter, and the occasional passerby carried an uncontrollable restlessness in their steps.

At noon, the scorching sun hung high in the sky, causing the bluestone slabs of the central arena to emit a layer of almost invisible white smoke. This arena, usually locked, was now fully protected by its surrounding reinforcement arrays, and spiritual light flowed under the blazing sun, stinging the eyes. A dense crowd of people packed tightly together, the smells of sweat and dust mingling with suppressed breaths, sticky and clinging to everyone's faces.

On the high platform, several elders had taken their seats at some point, their eyelids drooping as if they were resting. Only in their occasional glances at the arena did a barely perceptible ripple of emotion flash through their eyes.

"They're here."

Someone shouted, and the crowd automatically parted to make way.

Lin Qinghan was dressed in pristine white robes. He walked slowly, but with each step, the spiritual pressure of a half-step Foundation Establishment cultivator spread outwards, causing the disciples in the front row with slightly lower cultivation levels to feel as if a stone was pressing on their chests, their breath suddenly catching in their throats. The gleaming white longsword at his waist trembled slightly, emitting a faint dragon's roar that could only be heard by those with high cultivation levels.

Xie Yanchen appeared a moment later.

He was still wearing the same faded outer robe, the cuffs even frayed. He carried no sword, his hands hanging at his sides as he stepped onto the stone steps. The sun cast his shadow long and thin, and his footsteps on the scorching bluestone made not a sound.

One exuded an air of nobility, while the other was shabby and down on his luck.

One possessed an abyss-like spiritual pressure, the other was as still as a withered tree.

"Incredibly arrogant! He didn't even bring a sword?"

"I'll bet one move. No, half a move!"

"It would be a joke if Senior Brother Qinghan were to show mercy!"

The commotion from below the stage exploded like a powder keg, crackling and popping. But when these sounds hit the two fighters on the stage, they vanished without a trace.

Lin Qinghan stopped in the center of the arena, her gaze fixed on Xie Yanchen's expressionless face, and lightly tapped her knuckles on the hilt of her sword. The tap was very light, but several inner disciples nearby subconsciously took a half step back.

"Xie Yanchen," he said, his voice dry from the sun, "this is your last chance. Bow your head now, and it'll be as if this never happened."

He spoke calmly, but the arrogance that emanated from his very bones was impossible to suppress. In his eyes, this was already an immense favor—a half-step Foundation Establishment cultivator personally offering him a way out, shouldn't a useless outer sect disciple be overwhelmed with gratitude?

Xie Yanchen didn't respond. He merely raised his eyes, as if looking at a roadside stone, or perhaps at the scorching sun in the sky, and after a long while, uttered three words: "No need."

The last trace of warmth in Lin Qinghan's eyes vanished. He stopped speaking and flicked his wrist—

"Clang!"

The sword's cry wasn't a single sound, but a series, like ice shards scraping against one's brain. Several disciples at the third level of Qi Refining in the front row turned pale, instinctively raising their hands to shield their eyes. The white light wasn't a "flash," but rather as if someone had ripped a gash through the air with a knife, causing the wind to scream.

"Clouds rise."

Lin Qinghan's voice arrived almost simultaneously with the sword light. In a flash, the sword was already three inches from Xie Yanchen's brow. Stone fragments, whipped up by the sword's energy, struck his face, causing a sharp pain.

It was too fast. So fast that many people couldn't even gasp in surprise.

  

But at that very moment, Xie Yanchen moved.

It wasn't a dodge, nor a retreat. He merely lightly rubbed his toes against the scorching bluestone slab, his body shifting slightly to the side as if pushed by the wind. The sword's edge grazed his nose as it fell, the force of the wind whipping back the stray hairs on his forehead to reveal a pair of frighteningly still eyes beneath.

"clang--"

The sword blade struck the arena, slicing the bluestone like tofu, sending shards flying. A piece of stone the size of a fingernail bounced up and drew a thin line of blood on Xie Yanchen's cheek near his ear. The blood slowly seeped out and was dried by the sun.

He didn't even lift his eyelids.

Below the stage, several inner disciples who were ready to make a scene had their mouths open, but couldn't utter a single sound. Someone subconsciously swallowed, the sound of their Adam's apple bobbing clearly audible in the deathly silence.

Lin Qinghan's pupils suddenly contracted. Having missed his first strike, he didn't even look at the deep trench; with a flick of his wrist, the sword's momentum abruptly changed.

"The wind surges!"

A myriad of sword shadows appeared out of thin air, no longer a single killing move, but a dense, impenetrable net descending from all directions. The wind howled fiercely, sand and gravel danced on the arena, and the surging spiritual energy made it impossible to open one's eyes. The Thirteen Swords of Azure Cloud, linked together, once unleashed, became a tidal wave of attacks, giving the opponent no chance to breathe.

This is the real Lin Qinghan, the true genius of Qingyun.

The audience felt a tremendous shock, and the horror they had just suppressed surged back up. Such swordsmanship was so powerful that even watching it was suffocating, let alone receiving it.

Yet, amidst the sky filled with sword light, Xie Yanchen's figure appeared increasingly eerie.

He neither met a direct attack head-on nor made a hasty retreat. He was like a drop of mercury moving on the surface of water, or an unpredictable gust of wind. Lin Qinghan's sword was fast, but his movements were even faster, yet they were so fast that they were imperceptible. Sidestepping, shifting his steps, twisting his waist—every movement was streamlined to the extreme, perfectly timed within the tiny gap between sword strikes, where the old force had been exhausted and the new force had not yet arisen.

Even though the sword light had completely engulfed him, each time the spiritual light exploded, the figure that was revealed was always completely unharmed.

Sweat streamed down Lin Qinghan's forehead, dripping onto the scorching stone slab and rising in wisps of white smoke. He gritted his teeth, his swordplay growing faster and faster, the thirteen sword techniques rotating repeatedly, even forcibly changing his moves in an attempt to disrupt his opponent's rhythm. But no matter how he changed his tactics, Xie Yanchen always managed to take that crucial step half a step ahead of him.

This feels so eerie.

It's like... it's like the opponent has already dissected this sword technique a million times, and knows even the slightest delay when he flips his wrist.

On the high platform, an elder who had been keeping his eyes closed suddenly opened them. A glint of light flashed in his cloudy eyes, and he uttered two words in a low voice: "Prediction."

On the arena, Lin Qinghan's breathing was heavy, like a bellows. His spiritual energy was being consumed rapidly, and his wrists were tingling and numb. His once-proud swordsmanship now felt like he was slashing at thin air; each missed strike was like an invisible slap across his pride.

Xie Yanchen suddenly stopped.

He stood in the center of the chaotic arena, his white robes, though dusty, still neat. He looked at the panting Lin Qinghan and spoke, his voice soft yet clear enough to drown out the wind:

"I've seen your sword."

After he finished speaking, he moved.

This time, it's no longer about dodging and weaving, but about attacking.

His speed was so fast that it exceeded the limits of everyone's retinal perception, leaving only a blurry afterimage. Lin Qinghan's pupils contracted, and he instinctively raised his sword to block, but Xie Yanchen's target was neither his sword nor his chest.

That seemingly ordinary hand struck first, precisely hitting an acupoint on the inside of his wrist where he was holding the sword.

"Snapped!"

It was a crisp sound, not loud, but so clear it sent chills down your spine.

Lin Qinghan felt an irresistible, gentle force penetrate his body, instantly dissipating the spiritual energy in his entire arm, as if his bones had been removed. With a loosening of his fingers, the gleaming white longsword that had once terrified countless peers flew out of his hand, tracing a desolate arc in the air before crashing onto a stone slab in the distance with a loud thud, rolling several times before coming to a stop.

At the same time, Xie Yanchen delivered another clever force, causing Lin Qinghan to stagger back seven or eight steps, each step leaving a clear footprint on the stone slab. Finally, she barely managed to steady herself, her face deathly pale.

The arena was deathly silent.

Only the sword lay on the ground, trembling slightly, emitting a resentful hum.

Lin Qinghan looked down at his trembling right hand, where a red mark burned painfully. He then looked up at Xie Yanchen, whose once arrogant eyes were slowly peeling away, revealing an unprecedented bewilderment, which then turned into a bitter smile.

He remained silent for a long time, so long that some people in the audience thought he was so ashamed and indignant that he wanted to die.

Then, under everyone's gaze, he slowly bent over. That spine, which had never bowed to anyone before, bent into an extremely difficult, yet undeniably real, arc.

"I lost."

His voice was hoarse, but every word was clear.

"I am inferior in skill, but I accept it wholeheartedly."

He paused, as if using all his strength, before squeezing out the last few words: "The number one among my peers in Qingyun... from this day forward, it belongs to you, Xie Yanchen."

No one spoke again. Those who had previously clamored that "he would kneel down in three minutes" didn't even dare to breathe, feeling a chill run down their spines.

Xie Yanchen glanced at him, said nothing, but nodded slightly, acknowledging his defeat. Then, he turned around and walked off the stage with his usual unhurried steps.

The crowd parted automatically to make way for him, and all was silent.

The sun was still scorching, baking the earth until it was burning hot. But everyone felt a chill creeping up their spines from the soles of their feet, slowly rising to their hearts.

The figure in the faded outer uniform walked away step by step until it disappeared at the end of the mountain path.

From this moment on, the world of Qingyun Sect has truly changed.