The pale light of dawn spilled through the drifting morning mist, painting the sect peaks in hues of gold and white.
From the plaza below, the distant clang of bells echoed through the mountain air — slow, heavy, and resonant.
The day of the final match had arrived.
Outside, the outer sect was already stirring with life. Disciples flooded the walkways and bridges that wound between the peaks, their robes swaying in the wind, voices rising in waves of chatter and speculation. Every conversation, every breath carried one name or another — Lao Xie or Zhang Weiren.
But within one quiet hut at the edge of the outer disciple quarters, the noise could not reach.
The door remained closed, the curtains drawn. Inside, the air was still — save for the faint shimmer of golden Qi that drifted through the space like mist in sunlight.
Lao Xie sat in silence, cross-legged at the center of the room. His eyes were closed, his breathing even, the faint trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His aura was calm, completely contained — so quiet that it was hard to believe the air around him was trembling with hidden pressure.
Three days of cultivation had refined his every breath, every thought. The Soul-Nurturing Lotus pulsed faintly within his Knowledge Sea, each rhythm of its glow aligning perfectly with his heartbeat. It had become an extension of him — silent, patient, always watching.
Outside, a strong gust of wind brushed against the hut, rattling the window frame. The sound was faint, but it was enough to draw his attention.
He slowly opened his eyes.
The golden gleam within them shimmered softly, like light reflected on still water. There was no trace of nervousness or excitement — only that composed calm that felt almost unnatural for someone about to enter the sect's final match.
He reached for his outer layer of hanfu, brushing off a thin layer of dust before rising to his feet. His movements were unhurried, precise — as though the world itself had slowed around him.
A faint chuckle slipped from his lips. "Three days have passed… so it's finally time for the final," he murmured softly. "Let's see what the mountain has prepared for me this time."
He slid the door open with a soft creak. The first breath of morning air swept in — cool, sharp, carrying with it the distant murmur of thousands gathered on the Martial Hall.
For a moment, he simply stood there — his gaze drifting across the mist-veiled peaks. The sunlight caught his eyes, reflecting that same faint gold that now lived deep within his soul.
And then, without another word, he stepped forward.
The door closed behind him with a quiet thud.
Far away, the entire Martial Hall thundered with excitement as the announcer's voice echoed across the field — calling for the two names that would decide this year's tournament.
"Zhang Weiren of Iron Ring Peak!"
"And Lao Xie — The Rogue!"
The crowd erupted.
One was known for strength that broke boulders barehanded.
The other — for a calm no one could understand, a darkness hidden behind quiet smiles.
Somewhere in the noise, disciples whispered his name again and again, their voices half in awe, half in disbelief.
No one had seen him for three days.
No one knew how much he had changed.
But as Lao Xie walked toward the Martial Hall, the faint tremor in the air seemed to follow his every step — quiet, invisible, yet heavy enough to make even the wind hesitate.
"Hah, do they really have to be this loud?" he murmured as he walked.
"Lao Xie The Rogue? Who the hell came up with such a nickname? Just because I'm not affiliated with any peak makes me a rogue, huh?"
As Lao Xie neared the Martial Hall, the distant hum of voices grew clearer — thousands of disciples gathered across the stands, their energy surging like waves against the cliffs. The entire plaza was alive, vibrant with excitement and nervous anticipation.
From above, the banners of each peak fluttered in the wind, streaks of crimson, azure, and gold painting the sky with motion. The air itself carried tension — the kind that only came once a year, when the outer disciples fought for the right to rise higher.
At the center of it all stood the Martial Arena — vast, circular, its stone floor still bearing faint scars from the battles before. Disciples filled every corner of the seats surrounding it, some even crowding the stairs, straining for a better view.
The officiating elders sat at the highest platform, overlooking the field from their raised seats. The place reserved for the sect's leadership gleamed faintly under the morning light — the carved jade and gold reflecting their status. Every elder of note was present today, their robes fluttering softly in the breeze as they murmured among themselves.
Yet, one thing stood out.
At the very center of the elder's platform, where the most ornate chair rested — the seat meant for the Sect Master — there was only emptiness.
No one dared to question it aloud. The murmurs never reached the stage, but the absence carried its own quiet weight, lingering like a shadow between the elders.
Just below that platform, the exclusive seating for inner disciples lined the side of the arena. Among them sat Ling Ruxin, her posture straight and composed as her guqin rested on her lap. Her hanfu of soft blue and white fluttered lightly with the mountain breeze, her expression calm but her eyes distant — fixed quietly on the arena below.
Beside her sat Elder Yao, her chin resting lightly on one hand, a cup of tea untouched before her. She looked at peace on the surface, but her gaze occasionally flicked toward the entry path where participants would emerge.
Her eyes softened — briefly — before she looked away again.
Their seats were meant for inner disciples and their accompanying elders, a privilege granted only to the promising few. Around them, every other seat was filled, packed with cultivators waiting eagerly for the match to begin.
Ling Ruxin shifted slightly in her seat, her fingers absently brushing the edge of her guqin. Her gaze flicked sideways — and when she noticed the familiar figure beside her, her lips twitched faintly.
"And… why are you here again, Elder Yao?" she asked at last, her tone caught somewhere between polite and exasperated.
Elder Yao turned her head, pretending to be surprised. "What? This is an exclusive seat where disciples are allowed to sit with their accompanying elders." She blinked innocently, feigning decorum as she lifted her teacup. "Can't I sit with you?"
Ling Ruxin sighed softly, lowering her gaze for a moment before looking back at her. "Well… it's not that you can't," she said, voice calm but her brow arching slightly, "but have you looked around? I don't see any other disciples sitting with their elders."
Elder Yao froze mid-sip, her teacup hovering just shy of her lips. For a heartbeat, she blinked — then a quiet laugh escaped her. "Ah… you're right, aren't you?" she said with a playful grin. "Well, then I suppose I'm setting a new trend."
Ling Ruxin exhaled through her nose, the corner of her mouth softening despite herself. "A trend, she says…" she muttered, shaking her head faintly.
Elder Yao leaned a little closer, lowering her voice with a teasing smile. "What? Would you rather I sit with those old foxes then?"
That earned her a small, reluctant laugh from Ling Ruxin — a rare one. "You're impossible," she said, but her tone carried warmth now, the faintest touch of fondness.
Elder Yao chuckled softly, her eyes drifting back to the stage. "Perhaps. But it's much more interesting sitting with you, Xin'er."
Ling Ruxin's hand paused over her guqin strings, her expression flickering just slightly before she turned back toward the arena. "You still call me that," she murmured.
"Mm. Habit." Elder Yao smiled quietly into her tea. "And besides, it still suits you."
A quiet stir rippled through the audience then, drawing their attention back toward the arena.
At the far end of the stage stood Zhang Weiren, arms crossed, his presence firm and immovable — one of the two stars of the day. The faint glint of spiritual metal traced the skin of his forearms — the mark of his Iron Body cultivation. His aura was steady, thick as iron, the kind of strength that didn't need to shout to be seen.
When he lifted his gaze and met Lao Xie's from across the stage, something flickered in his eyes — not arrogance, not disdain — but a quiet recognition. He could tell. Lao Xie wasn't the same man who'd walked away three days ago.
The air between them was silent for a breath — and then, like flint striking stone, pressure met pressure.
The soundless clash sent a faint ripple through the air. The nearest disciples stiffened instinctively, the hairs on their arms rising as a wave of spiritual energy rolled over the stands.
Someone whispered from the front row, voice barely above a breath.
"That calm… it's terrifying."
Lao Xie's steps echoed lightly as he entered the stage, his gentle hanfu brushing faintly against the stone floor. He didn't need to release his aura — it was already there, layered and heavy beneath his stillness. The faint golden hue in his eyes caught the sunlight, giving him an almost ethereal sharpness that made it hard to look away.
Elder Yao's hand paused midair, her cup just shy of her lips. Her eyes lingered for a heartbeat before she quietly exhaled and lowered her gaze again. "He seems… different," she murmured under her breath.
Ling Ruxin glanced sideways at her, then back toward the figure walking toward the stage. Her fingers brushed the edge of her guqin unconsciously.