The clash of steel and the roar of unleashed qi echoed like thunder throughout the arena.
Bodies moved in a deadly dance—cultivators leaping, spinning, and striking with reckless abandon. Every heartbeat claimed another. Some crumpled unconscious; others crawled away with broken limbs and bloodied faces. The ground was stained red, the scent of scorched earth and unleashed spiritual energy thick and suffocating in the air.
And yet, at the eye of this storm—stood one man.
Makoto.
He moved like a phantom, untouched by the frenzy around him.
His steps were calm, almost lazy, but each motion carved through the chaos like a blade of inevitability. He did not dodge—he anticipated. He did not block—he erased.
A saber-wielding challenger lunged toward him, twin blades spinning with a whirlwind technique designed to tear through even advanced spiritual defenses. The crowd leaned forward, breaths caught.
Makoto raised a single hand.
Clang!
The first saber shattered on impact, metal splinters flying like sparks.
Before the second even reached him, Makoto's elbow struck upward with brutal precision.
Crack! Bone split. The attacker's eyes rolled back, and he dropped like a sack of rice—unconscious before he hit the ground.
Still no wasted movement.
Still no emotion.
Makoto walked on.
---
Elsewhere in the battlefield...
Yuna panted lightly, her dagger slick with fresh blood. A gash ran across her upper arm, crimson dripping, but her stance remained balanced—deadly. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the two disciples surrounding her.
They wore the red-and-gold emblems of the Blazing Falcon Sect. Arrogant. Ruthless.
"Drop the blade," one of them sneered. "You've lasted longer than expected, girl. But this is your limit."
Yuna tilted her head, blood trickling down her cheek. Then she smiled coldly.
"Then step forward," she said, "and prove it."
But they never got the chance.
A silver flash split the air—Kazu's sword.
It came from nowhere, slicing across one of the disciples' shoulders. The man screamed, his weapon dropping, knees buckling beneath him.
"Thought I'd let her fight you alone?" Kazu smirked, stepping beside Yuna. "You really don't know her."
Yuna didn't respond—she didn't need to. She gave him a brief nod and slipped back into the fray without hesitation.
Not far away, Hiro fought like a berserker, bruised and grinning wildly. A cut above his brow streamed blood down his cheek.
"Come on, come on!" he roared, leaping into a cluster of enemies. He caught one by the collar and slammed him into the ground hard enough to crack the stone.
They were fighting like demons.
But even amidst the carnage, they could feel it—that Makoto wasn't just ahead of them in strength.
He was becoming something else.
---
Above, in the VIP stands…
Noble robes shimmered under the lantern light. Dozens of sect leaders, envoys, and prodigies from powerful clans sat watching in tense silence.
At first, the chaos below had entertained them.
Now... it unnerved them.
An unnatural stillness had taken hold in one corner of the battlefield—where Makoto moved. Other cultivators had begun steering clear of him, unconsciously giving him a wide berth. As though his presence alone carved a realm of death into the ground.
The elite watched with narrowed eyes.
One prodigy—a woman in crimson robes, a phoenix sigil stitched into her chest—leaned forward, eyes locked on Makoto.
"That one… Makoto, is it?"
"Yes," replied the first prince of the Han Dynasty, lounging in his seat with veiled curiosity. "A new name. But not for long."
A second prodigy snorted, arms crossed. "Efficient, I'll give him that. But this is only the first round. Does he know what awaits beyond this?"
The prince's gaze lingered on the boy with the dead calm. "He fights like a man with nothing to lose…"
A pause.
"…Or everything to reclaim."
---
Back on the battlefield…
The number of participants had dropped drastically.
From nearly seventy, only thirty-two remained.
All around, fighters turned their attention away from Makoto's path. He wasn't just a competitor now—he was a deterrent. A phenomenon.
But one figure stepped forward to challenge that phenomenon.
A cloaked youth stood tall, blocking Makoto's path. His aura was sharp, condensed, coiled like a viper ready to strike.
"You," the youth said, voice steady.
Makoto stopped, his gaze slowly lifting.
"I've heard the rumors," the man continued. "They say you came from nowhere. That your cultivation surged overnight. Some think you're lucky. Others think... you're a fraud."
Makoto said nothing.
The youth pulled back his hood, revealing a cold, angular face. A crescent-shaped scar marked his cheek.
"I am Wei Shen," he said proudly. "Ranked third in the Mountain Serpent Trials. I crushed a Core Formation cultivator six months ago."
Makoto's gaze barely flickered. "And?"
Wei Shen smiled—a dangerous, arrogant smile. "Let's see if your reputation survives contact with me."
And then he struck.
A blur of fists and crimson energy—his martial body technique fused with bloodline qi enhancement. Each blow was heavy, calculated, meant to kill.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Makoto stood his ground, deflecting each strike with open palms—fluid, minimal movements. He didn't take a single step back.
Wei Shen twisted into a final spinning strike aimed at Makoto's throat.
Makoto's hand shot out.
Caught it.
Then he twisted.
Wei Shen's scream tore through the air as his arm bent at an impossible angle.
Before the pain fully registered, Makoto stepped in and drove his knee into the man's gut with bone-cracking force.
A pulse of qi detonated like a gong.
Wei Shen's body was lifted from the ground and hurled across the battlefield, crashing into the arena wall with a thunderous boom.
He did not rise.
Silence.
Gasps echoed through the arena.
"That was Wei Shen…"
"He's supposed to be invincible at this stage!"
Makoto didn't react.
He turned, walking away with that same detached calm, his aura a devouring silence.
---
Above, in the VIP section…
A broad-shouldered prodigy with a jade blade strapped to his back stood slowly, his jaw clenched.
"I'll fight him," he said, eyes locked on the battlefield.
The prince raised a brow. "He's not among the final ten yet."
The prodigy's voice was cold. "He will be. And when he is… I'll break him."
---
Back below…
The battle raged on.
But something had shifted.
The frenzy, the desperation, the blind ambition—all of it now orbited around a singular presence.
A storm had formed at the heart of the chaos.
And its name...
Was Makoto.