Before dawn broke, the Northridge forest lay steeped in a cold, deep blue.
Li Fan stepped onto the circular training ground.
Morning moss, saturated with dew, was slippery yet springy.
Cutting in from the outer edge, he shifted his center of gravity back, dissolving the faint squelch of his combat boots against the wet moss into the fluid motion of his muscles, without disturbing even a whisper of wind.
Instructor Hawksbill was already waiting in the center of the ring.
A forty-centimeter iron disc spun rapidly on his fingertip.
Its outer edge was lined with fine, razor-sharp sawteeth that glinted with a cold, sinister white in the morning light.
The deadly rim, sharp enough to cleave flesh and bone, whirled on his finger with effortless nonchalance.
The veteran ranger Ailong stood pinned to the edge of the ring like a withered log.
Usually as motionless as a tree, today his posture unconsciously leaned three degrees toward Li Fan.
Hawksbill stopped the disc’s spin and caught it in his hand, weighing it casually.
“Human, do you know what a ‘greeting gift’ is?” Li Fan unslung the black bow from his back, his eyes sweeping over the serrated edge of the iron disc.
“The kind forcibly given just to make someone look bad?” “Spot on.
And now, you’re going to give it back to me completely unscathed.” The muscles in Hawksbill’s right arm bulged as he cupped the iron disc in his palm, laying down three rules: “First, the disc will fly at any time, in any direction.” “Second, if the teeth graze even a shred of skin, that body part is out of commission for the day.” “Third, return it to me—by whatever means necessary.” The moment the words left his mouth, Hawksbill went completely relaxed.
His feet splayed slightly outward, his weight centered.
It was a stance of absolute relaxation, yet ready to explode into action at a moment’s notice.
Firas leaned against a wooden post with arms crossed, a sneering look on his face as he waited for the show.
Li Fan glanced around and slung the black bow back over his shoulder.
He took a deep breath of the cold air and closed his eyes.
For three full seconds.
When he opened his eyes again, he walked to the exact center of the arena, his feet planted shoulder-width apart.
His arms hung naturally at his sides with palms facing forward.
His waist, neck, ribs—every vital spot was exposed without defense.
This completely unguarded posture plunged the surroundings into instant silence.
Hawksbill’s eyes narrowed, his wrist snapping with explosive force.
The iron disc shot out!
It sliced through the air in a wildly spinning arc, heading straight for Li Fan’s undefended left flank.
The serrated edges cut through the morning fog, letting out a low, whistling hum.
In the silence, Li Fan’s ears caught the subtle anomaly in the airflow.
The sound on the right side carried a fine, raspy friction—the sawteeth tearing through air.
The airflow on the left, however, was exceptionally smooth.
*The smooth side is on the left.* The instant before the disc sliced into his flesh, Li Fan moved.
Instead of retreating, he drove from his hips, spinning his upper body at lightning speed along the disc’s trajectory!
At the same time, his right arm shot straight out.
A dull thud of flesh meeting iron echoed through the air.
The web of Li Fan’s right hand clamped down like an iron vise onto the smooth left edge of the disc.
His grip pinpointed the exact central axis of the high-speed spin—the vacuum point of the kinetic vortex.
The rotational force tore outward at the instant of contact, only to be completely dissipated as he rode the momentum of his body’s turn.
The disc sat firmly in his hand.
The sharp sawteeth pointed outward; the rough surface had left a red mark across his palm, but the skin wasn’t broken.
Li Fan lifted the heavy iron plate, weighed it twice, and tossed it back to Hawksbill.
“Quite a heavy greeting gift.
Accepted.” Hawksbill caught it one-handed and flicked his wrist to look.
The serrated edge was clean, completely free of blood.
Frowning, he flipped the disc over to check again.
Firas straightened up, the sneer frozen on his face.
He briskly walked into the ring, snatched the disc from Hawksbill, and turned it over twice.
“How did you know which side was smooth?” Firas held up the disc, glaring at Li Fan.
“It was spinning at high speed on its way over!
The naked eye couldn’t possibly tell!” “I didn’t use my eyes,” Li Fan said flatly.
“It was the sound of the air breaking.” Firas froze, looking up.
“When the serrated edge cuts through the air, there’s a faint raspy rustle in the friction.
The smooth side doesn’t have that.
Half a second after it left his hand, the sound of the wind gave me the answer.” Firas stopped turning the disc, holding it in a dead silence that lasted five seconds.
Then, he threw the disc back to Hawksbill, his voice dry.
“If you heard it so accurately, how did that red mark on your palm get there?” “Just bad luck by about 0.3 seconds when shedding the force.” Firas didn’t pry any further.
He stared at the red mark on Li Fan’s palm, his lips twitching, but he couldn’t squeeze out a single word.
At the edge of the ring, Ailong took half a step toward Li Fan.
But he froze mid-motion, driving his feet back into the mud.
His face remained expressionless, but a sense of recognition had quietly taken root.
Behind the shadow of a pillar, Vereesa stood quietly.
She had come to deliver documents and was passing the training field when the metallic rush of wind caught her attention.
She had witnessed with her own eyes how the human spun, reached out, and caught the deadly blade with his bare hands on the brink of death.
A process lethal enough to kill had been condensed into less than two seconds of composed fluid action.
A look of undisguised amazement surfaced in Vereesa’s eyes.
A human with no pulse of magic whatsoever had flawlessly dismantled Hawksbill’s deadly move?
She was about to leave.
But after just two paces, intense curiosity compelled her to stop and turn back for another look.
The human was casually wiping the red mark on his palm with his apprentice robe, as though what he had just avoided was not crippling injury, but a game.
Vereesa’s curiosity grew even deeper.
A moment later, she turned and slipped into the corridor.
Hawksbill carried the iron disc toward the storage area.
As he brushed past Li Fan, a big hand slapped down onto Li Fan’s shoulder.
The slap looked heavy and forceful, but the angle was oblique.
Only a third of the palm made contact with the muscle, and the shockwave veered across Li Fan’s shoulder, dissipating instantly without leaving a trace of soreness.
The instructor didn’t pause, throwing a line over his shoulder without turning back: “Starting tomorrow, disc practice every day.
Different specs every day.” Before the last word died out, he had vanished into the storage area.
Li Fan pulled his gaze back and turned to look at the rigid Firas.
“Why didn’t you get a priest to treat the injury on your hand instead of wrapping it yourself with fresh gauze?” Li Fan asked curiously.
Firas opened his mouth instinctively.
“Not only didn’t you see a priest, but the bandage is done wrong.
You left the knot gap on the inner web of your hand.” Li Fan pointed at his right hand.
“A ranger’s laughable pride won’t heal torn muscles.
The moment you draw a bow full-draw, the tension will rip the wound right open again.
Go get it treated by the resident priest.” Firas’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but no sound came out.
He looked down at his hand wrapped in white gauze.
Just as Li Fan said, that tight knot sat directly on the main stress line where his hand drew the bowstring.
He pressed his lips tight.
His proud head didn’t nod, but his feet honestly shifted an inch toward the resident priest’s quarters.
Daylight broke fully, and Northridge Camp slowly came alive.
The savory aroma of roasted fat wafted from the kitchen, barely carrying through the damp, chilly air.
Li Fan unslung his black bow and plucked the string.
The note was crisp, the structure intact.
Suddenly, the beating of wings echoed from the camp entrance.
A messenger dragonhawk landed, bringing a blast of cold air with it.
Its massive wingspan whipped up dead leaves off the flagstones.
A messenger ranger leapt down, grim-faced, and handed a letter stamped with Silvermoon City’s wax seal to Alleria, who had just stepped into the camp.
Alleria snapped open the wax seal, her eyes scanning the parchment.
Her steady stride faltered for a brief instant.
Then, with a cold expression, she folded the letter in half and gripped it tight in her palm.
Turning sharply, her combat boots clicked out a swift rhythm as she headed straight for the camp hall.