The second round had begun, and the platforms erupted into fierce clashes. Elder Lǐ's sharp eyes observed each match, noting every display of strength, skill, and cunning. From Platform One to Platform Six, each battle was a test of resilience and wits. But all eyes lingered on Platform Six, where Duō Yī and Duō Zhì's showdown held the crowd's attention.
Duō Yī and Duō Zhì circled each other, studying each movement and measuring the distance between them. In Duō Yī's hands was the staff he had carefully chosen from the armory, its pristine white hue catching the sunlight. The staff was unadorned, deceptively plain, yet its quiet elegance set it apart. To the untrained eye, it looked like a polished piece of wood, yet Duō Yī sensed an energy within it, one that resonated deeply with him.
Across from him, Duō Zhì held Lǐ Huǒ, his crystal-tipped sword, with a self-assured grip, its sharp edge gleaming coldly. Smirking, he sneered, "Is that all you've got, Duō Yī? Or are you waiting for your father to come save you?"
Duō Yī's expression remained impassive, his cold gaze fixed on his opponent, ignoring the jeers. Instead, he shifted his stance subtly, his hands adjusting on the staff with a practiced grip that showed confidence beyond his years.
Irritated by Duō Yī's silence, Duō Zhì lunged forward, his sword sweeping in a calculated arc toward Duō Yī's left side. But Duō Yī reacted instantly, shifting his grip and rotating his body to deflect the blow. He spun his staff with a quick, fluid motion, redirecting Lǐ Huǒ away from his side with an elegant simplicity.
The crowd gasped as Duō Yī continued, employing movements inspired by Kali Eskrima , a staff wielding arts he had mastered during his time as an assassin. The swift strikes and counters of the martial art making his every movement efficient and unpredictable. He wove around Zhì's attacks with ease, each rotation of his staff seamlessly transitioning into the next. Where other fighters might have exhausted themselves, Duō Yī's light, rapid movements conserved his energy while keeping Zhì off-balance.
"Oh? Looks like the Clan Head's son has some bite after all," Zhì sneered, but his confident smile was beginning to falter.
Seeing his opponent's uncertainty, Duō Yī quickened his pace, his staff moving in rapid, circular strikes. Each motion was precise, his grip adjusting and rotating the staff to deflect, strike, and feint, keeping Duō Zhì guessing. With each counter, Duō Yī used Zhì's own momentum against him, Kali Eskrima principles flowing through his movements. Zhì was forced into a defensive stance, his sword barely able to keep up with the speed and unpredictability of Duō Yī's attacks.
Nearby, other platforms were engaged in intense battles. On Platform Three, Duō Xuān's sword clashed against Duō Jié's twin daggers in a rhythm of quick parries. On Platform Four, Duō Míng's fluid footwork and sweeping strikes drew murmurs of admiration from the crowd as he deftly countered Duō Jùn's attacks. But even these impressive duels failed to capture the crowd's attention as much as the clash unfolding on Platform Six.
Duō Zhì, growing increasingly frustrated, abandoned his calculated approach and charged forward with a flurry of attacks. His sword flashed in wild, desperate arcs, hoping to overpower Duō Yī. But Duō Yī, maintaining the calm and flow of Eskrima, easily sidestepped and used the angles of his staff to lock, deflect, and neutralize each frenzied blow.
Duō Yī's controlled, efficient counters only fueled Zhì's frustration. Finally, with a desperate snarl, Zhì brought his sword down in a powerful swing toward Duō Yī's head. His form faltered in his anger, leaving an opening—a split-second chance. Duō Yī pivoted sharply, sliding his grip to one end of the staff, and swept it upward in a diagonal arc. The tip of the staff connected with Zhì's wrist, knocking Lǐ Huǒ from his grasp and sending it clattering to the ground.
A stunned silence fell over the assembly. Gasps echoed through the spectators, many of whom had expected an easy victory for Duō Zhì. Even the most skeptical onlookers couldn't deny what they had seen.
Duō Zhì's face flashed with shock, then with anger, as he stumbled back, momentarily thrown off balance. His humiliation was clear.
Eyes blazing, Duō Zhì clenched his fists. "You got lucky, that's all."
Duō Yī shook his head, his voice steady. "Skill, not luck."
In one last, desperate attempt, Zhì lunged barehanded toward Duō Yī. But Duō Yī's movements were smooth and calculated—he sidestepped with ease, spinning his staff around to halt just inches from Zhì's throat.
Elder Lǐ's voice echoed over the crowd. "The winner of Platform Six is Duō Yī!"
The murmurs turned to applause as Duō Yī stepped down, his pristine white staff still in hand, looking like a natural extension of himself. He met his father's gaze, receiving a silent nod of acknowledgment. With one round down, Duō Yī felt a quiet sense of purpose settle over him.
He left the platform, his unassuming yet resonant staff at his side, leaving behind a trail of whispers and wide-eyed spectators.