Quinn Shepherd and Ben Coates walked side by side, leaving Jade Perfume Pavilion and heading down the street toward the city outskirts.
Early spring in the Imperial Capital was still chilly. Even at midday, the sun hung low in the southern sky, its light gentle rather than dazzling.
Despite the cold, the city bustled with life. Young nobles and ladies from wealthy families strolled together, their fur coats plush and luxurious, the girls wrapped so snugly that their pale skin looked almost luminous.
In past years, this season saw the rich sailing south for winter, returning only at the turn of spring and summer. But this year was different: disaster had struck, making the south as cold as the north—colder, even. Most people stayed put, preferring the safety of the capital to the chaos beyond.
Quinn and Ben walked slowly, each adjusting his own state. Ben, after all, was a master who had lived twenty lifetimes through nineteen reincarnations; he quickly tuned himself to peak condition, while Quinn was still settling in.
Ben let his killing intent surge, locking onto Quinn, and began to pick up his pace.
His murderous aura targeted Quinn, forcing him to react—to change his gait, to avoid showing a single weakness.
Back in the Imperial Academy, Quinn had once done the same to him—forcing Ben to limp and stagger, using shifting posture to hide any flaw and deny Quinn an opening.
Now Ben returned the favor, pressing Quinn with his own peak state and overwhelming aura, forcing Quinn to move to his rhythm and adjust with every shift in Ben’s momentum.
As long as Quinn was forced to follow his rhythm, Ben held the initiative, keeping Quinn on the defensive and scrambling to keep up. To avoid exposing a fatal flaw, Quinn had to constantly change his path and aura; the longer they walked, the more changes he’d have to make, until eventually he’d run out of tricks and Ben could strike—when there was nothing left to change, death would be inevitable.
Once they reached the outskirts, killing Quinn would be a matter of one or two moves.
"Old fox!"
Quinn’s expression grew serious. Ben was a terrifying opponent.
That was Ben Coates—no matter how strong his enemy, he’d seize any advantage, amplifying it as much as possible.
After ten thousand years of tempering, little could shake him. Every word and action followed the principles he’d etched into himself across millennia—like runes, like laws, all deeply engraved in his every move.
The Imperial Preceptor and Grandpa Blind had both spoken of unity of knowledge and action; Grandpa Mark had taught never to overstep one’s bounds. With ten thousand years behind him, Ben had mastered these truths.
Quinn had his own understanding of unity of knowledge and action.
To know but not act is to lack sincerity.
To act but not succeed is to lack ability.
Knowing and acting is true sincerity; acting and succeeding is thoroughness—by then, few things can shake you.