The great doors of the Martial Hall groaned open as Haotian stepped out. The late afternoon sun spilled over the stone steps, casting his shadow long across the courtyard. Conversations among the waiting disciples faltered the moment they saw him.
Whispers stirred like leaves in a restless wind."Did you hear the noise from inside?""Four elders… no, five… and he walked out without a scratch.""Who is he really?"
Haotian didn't slow his pace. His expression remained calm, unreadable, yet the way his gaze briefly swept over the gathered disciples was enough to silence the braver tongues. The murmurs followed him all the way across the courtyard, trailing like a faint echo.
He rounded the corner toward the training grounds where Lianhua was still moving through a sequence of fluid strikes, her robes clinging to her with the sheen of effort. She noticed him immediately, slowing her motions before stepping toward him.
"You're back." Her tone was careful, but her eyes searched him for any sign of injury.
Haotian gave a small, reassuring smile. "Just a test. Nothing more."
He moved closer, lowering his voice. "We'll speak later. For now, keep training as we planned. The trials will come sooner than we think."
Lianhua nodded, though the flicker of curiosity and concern in her gaze lingered. Together, they resumed drills, their movements mirrored beneath the orange wash of sunset. The tension from the hall still hung in the air—an unspoken reminder that eyes were on them, and not all were friendly.
Within the Martial Hall's upper wing, the high elder's footsteps echoed against polished stone as he approached the high, lacquered doors of the Sect Master's chamber. The guards stationed outside stepped aside at his arrival. He entered alone.
The Sect Master was standing before a scroll-covered wall, hands clasped behind his back, when the high elder bowed deeply.
"Well?" the Sect Master asked without turning.
The high elder drew a steady breath. "Sect Master… Haotian fought evenly against four Soul Transformation experts today. At his current realm—Core Condensation."
The Sect Master froze mid-step, his head turning slowly. "What you mean… fought evenly? That is unheard of!"
"Yes," the high elder replied without hesitation, "I was one of them."
The weight of those words seemed to thicken the air itself. The Sect Master's eyes narrowed, studying the high elder's expression for even the slightest trace of exaggeration. There was none.
"What should we do now?" the Sect Master asked, his voice low.
The high elder shook his head. "He made it clear—he does not wish to reveal his true strength. He considers it a form of deception against potential enemies."
A silence followed, broken only by the faint rustle of the scrolls. Then the Sect Master gave a slow nod. "A wise move… and one I agree with. Very well—his strength will remain hidden. I wonder," he mused, a faint glint in his eyes, "how the other sects will react the day he reveals it."
The high elder allowed himself a small, knowing smile. "Sect Master, we have the Tournament of the Rising Dragons approaching."
The Sect Master's gaze sharpened. "Ah… yes. Let us see if Haotian chooses to enter that tournament."
Time passed, and the days bled into one another until the inner court test arrived.
Haotian stood at the assembly ground beside Lianhua and the six guards who had trained under him since the beginning. The morning air was crisp, carrying the low hum of anticipation from the crowd.
Two familiar figures approached—Yueying and Xiaoque—joining their group with measured nods.
"Looks like we're all here," Lianhua murmured, adjusting her stance.
Haotian's eyes swept over the gathered contestants, reading more than just their postures—calculating intent, measuring confidence, sensing rivalry. Somewhere in the distance, the great gong of the Martial Hall began to sound, marking the beginning of the trials.
The test had begun.
The gong's thunder rolled across the sect grounds, a deep, resonant call that rattled the banners above the inner court's high stone walls. Disciples and elders gathered in the terraces overlooking the trial grounds—a vast arena of tiered platforms, shifting terrain, and weapon racks at the periphery.
The trial overseer's voice cut through the murmur of the crowd. "First round—combat assessment! Step forward when your name is called!"
Haotian and Lianhua's group was among the first. The six guards fanned out, each moving to their assigned platform, while Haotian and Lianhua took separate arenas. The moment their feet touched the stone, the subtle shift in the air was palpable.
Haotian's opponent—a mid-stage Core Condensation disciple with a long-handled glaive—charged without hesitation. The clash was over in three moves. Haotian didn't so much as break stance; he slipped past the first strike, turned the glaive aside with a twist of his wrist, and tapped his opponent's chest with a controlled strike that sent him skidding back across the platform. The referee barely had time to call the match before Haotian stepped down, calm as if he'd merely taken a walk.
On another platform, Lianhua faced a spear-wielding opponent known for his speed. She matched him pace for pace, every exchange ringing with sharp clang and snap of steel meeting steel. Then, with a sudden feint, she stepped inside his guard and hooked his spear arm, twisting him to the ground in a single fluid motion. The crowd erupted in surprised murmurs.
Meanwhile, the six guards—each forged through Haotian's training—were dismantling their own challengers with clean precision. Not a single one resorted to brute force; every move was calculated, efficient, and left their opponents with no chance to recover.
From the terraces, disciples leaned over the railing, voices rising in disbelief.
"Did you see that? That Core Condensation disciple didn't even touch him!"
"Lianhua's footwork… I've never seen anything like it in the outer court!"
"And the guards—those are his people, aren't they?"
One senior disciple exhaled slowly. "If they're this strong now… the inner court is going to feel it."
Below, Haotian and Lianhua exchanged a brief glance as they returned to the waiting area. No words passed between them, but the spark of silent understanding was there.
The next gong strike boomed like a war drum, and the trial grounds shifted. The once-flat arenas groaned as the stone split apart, rearranging into jagged platforms, narrow bridges, and deep pits filled with spirit mist.
"Second round—terrain and endurance!" the overseer's voice rang. "Victory by knockout, ring-out, or submission!"
Haotian's new opponent stepped forward—a late-stage Core Condensation disciple wielding twin sabers, his aura bristling with killing intent. The narrow bridge between them swayed under the pressure of clashing qi.
The man lunged first, sabers flashing in a crisscross arc meant to drive Haotian back. Haotian didn't retreat—he advanced, stepping into the slash. The crowd gasped as steel met an open palm, the saber's edge halted an inch from his robe. A twist, a pivot, and the man's balance was gone. The next heartbeat, Haotian had him hanging upside down over the pit, held only by his collar before setting him down gently on the edge.
The referee's hand shot up. "Winner—Haotian!"
On the far side, Lianhua navigated a shifting platform arena against two opponents at once—a surprise twist from the overseers to test adaptability. She darted between them like a flash of white silk, her blade flicking in precise, surgical arcs. The first opponent went over the edge with a single sidestep and kick; the second dropped to his knees after she disarmed him with a wrist flick so fast the watching disciples swore they didn't see the strike.
The six guards fought with equal ferocity—two of them using coordinated marker detonations to collapse an opponent's footing, another smashing through a barrier wall to take down his foe head-on.
By the third round, the atmosphere had changed. This was no longer casual interest. On the highest pavilion, several elders leaned forward, their expressions no longer neutral. Two visiting envoys from allied sects whispered among themselves, their eyes tracking Haotian and Lianhua's every movement.
The third challenge was the "Formation Break"—a test of tactical acumen and coordination. Teams were pitted against conjured arrays of spirit beasts, their numbers scaling with the team's strength. Haotian's group faced a tier-three pack of storm wolves, their bodies flickering with lightning.
The moment the beasts leapt, Haotian called markers in a blur—placement so fast that by the time the first wolf landed, three runes detonated in a chain that drove the entire pack backward. Lianhua flowed into the gaps, cutting down stragglers, while the guards closed ranks to funnel the survivors into Haotian's kill zone.
It was over in less than half the allotted time.
From the high pavilion, one envoy's voice was low but weighted. "That boy… he's not fighting at his realm's limit. He's holding back."
An elder beside him nodded slowly. "The question is… why?"
Below, Haotian and Lianhua stood among the few uninjured teams left. The murmurs of the crowd were no longer casual gossip—they carried the undercurrent of speculation, wariness, and something else.
Recognition.
The morning bell tolled three times, each note rolling across the Burning Sun Sect's courtyards and echoing against the mountain walls. Disciples were already gathering at the trial grounds—a broad, circular arena ringed with tiered stone seating. This was the day many had been waiting for: the promotion trials to enter the Inner Court.
Haotian arrived with Lianhua at his side, followed closely by the six guards. Yueyin and Xiaoque were already there, waiting near the participants' area. The air was thick with anticipation and competitive spirit; the trial was as much about prestige as it was about skill.
The first challenge was simple in concept, brutal in execution—single combat, one round per match, victory by clear dominance or incapacitation.
Haotian stepped into the ring first. His opponent, a mid-stage Core Condensation disciple, wasted no time charging forward with a blazing fist strike. Haotian's answer was a clean sidestep and a palm to the man's shoulder, redirecting the force into the ground. The stone cracked under the redirected impact. Before the man could recover, Haotian swept his legs, sending him tumbling out of bounds.
The referee's voice carried over the crowd. "Winner—Haotian."
On the adjacent platform, Lianhua faced a spear-wielding challenger whose movements were sharp and precise. She flowed between thrusts like water between rocks, her blade catching the spear shaft just enough to twist it aside before a final flick disarmed her opponent. The crowd's cheer for her was as loud as it had been for Haotian.
The guards acquitted themselves well too—measured, disciplined, and efficient in their victories. Each win drew approving murmurs from other disciples, though it was clear Haotian and Lianhua's matches stood apart for their control and precision.
The second round came quickly. This time, the arena floor shifted—sections rising and falling to create uneven terrain. Agility and awareness became as important as strength. Haotian navigated it as if the ground itself moved to accommodate him, never losing his footing even under the heaviest exchanges. Lianhua danced over the jagged platforms like a white swallow in flight, never giving her opponent a stable moment to counter.
By the end of the day's first stages, they had drawn the attention of nearly every spectator—not as prodigies from another land, not as pawns in a greater political game, but as two of their own sect's rising blades, cutting a clear path toward the Inner Court.
The sun had climbed high above the sect's mountain peaks by the time the call for the final trial rang out. The air shimmered with heat, and a faint haze rose from the stone arena as elders gathered along the upper terrace to watch. This was the gauntlet—the last stage before the coveted Inner Court promotion.
The trial grounds had been transformed. Instead of a simple dueling ring, the space now resembled a miniature battlefield—tiered rock ledges, narrow bridges of stone, and pockets of elemental hazards conjured by the elders' formations. Rings of faint firelight flickered on one side, while icy mists curled along another.
The rules were straightforward: survive the gauntlet while seizing five glowing trial markers hidden across the field. Other participants could—and would—take them from you by any means short of lethal force.
The gong thundered, and chaos erupted.
Haotian moved first, a blur of controlled precision. He didn't waste time chasing markers blindly—instead, he intercepted challengers already holding them. With each opponent, his strikes were quick, clean, and just shy of overwhelming, forcing them to yield without serious harm. Within minutes, three markers hung at his waist.
Across the field, Lianhua flowed through a cluster of competitors like wind over grass, her blade never staying in one place long enough to be caught. She didn't overpower her opponents—instead, she disrupted their footing, unbalancing them before plucking their markers clean from their belts.
The guards fanned out, each taking their own path through the field. They worked with disciplined efficiency, covering one another when pressed and capitalizing on openings without hesitation.
By the trial's midpoint, the field had thinned considerably. The strongest remained, weaving between hazards and skirmishes. Haotian snatched his fifth marker from a would-be ambusher on a crumbling stone bridge, sending the man tumbling into a harmless but humiliating puff of conjured smoke.
When the gong sounded again, signaling the end, the competitors gathered at the center. Elders moved between them, counting markers and taking note of the condition in which each disciple had finished—bruises, exhaustion, control, and composure all factored into the rankings.
The results were announced in reverse order, each name carrying a ripple of cheers or sighs from the watching crowd.
When the final rankings were read, the outcome was clear: Haotian, Lianhua, and all six guards had placed within the top ten. The crowd's reaction was immediate—a chorus of astonished murmurs at the sheer dominance of their group.
"Top ten… every one of them," one disciple whispered in disbelief.
The elders nodded among themselves, and the promotion was made official. The eight of them—Haotian, Lianhua, and the six guards—were now Inner Court disciples of the Burning Sun Sect.
The announcement of the top ten still hung in the air when the Inner Court terrace erupted into motion.
Some disciples applauded out of genuine respect, the sharp clap of their hands echoing against the stone walls. Others simply stood still, eyes narrowed, measuring the newcomers with thinly veiled calculation. The murmurs spread like wildfire—word of eight promotions in a single sweep, all tied to the same faction, was already slipping past the trial grounds and into the wider sect.
By the time Haotian, Lianhua, and the six guards descended the stone steps toward the Inner Court quarters, they could feel the shift in the atmosphere. Disciples in red-and-gold Inner Court robes turned to watch them pass, their expressions ranging from polite acknowledgment to cool indifference. A few looked openly displeased, their eyes sharp as if already rehearsing the ways they might test the newcomers.
Lianhua walked at Haotian's side, her posture calm but her gaze alert. The guards kept a disciplined formation behind them, aware of the stares but showing no sign of being rattled.
As they approached the main Inner Court training plaza, a small knot of senior disciples broke from the gathered crowd. The one at the front—a tall man with a blade strapped across his back—let his eyes sweep over the group.
"So these are the new faces who shook the trial rankings," he said evenly, his tone polite but edged with challenge. "I imagine we'll be seeing each other in the sparring rings soon enough."
Haotian met his gaze without hostility, offering only the faintest nod before continuing on. The man's eyes narrowed, but he stepped aside, letting them pass.
Inside the quiet of the assigned quarters, the group finally exhaled. The guards exchanged glances—some amused, others thoughtful. Lianhua leaned against the doorframe, watching Haotian as he calmly removed the trial sash from his waist.
"They're already watching us," she said quietly.
"They were always going to," Haotian replied. "Now they just have a reason to be louder about it."
Beyond the walls, the Inner Court buzzed with speculation—about the newcomers' origins, their skill, and whether their sudden rise would upset the balance among the established factions. Whispers slipped toward the ears of elders, visiting envoys, and even the sect's upper council.
The political undercurrent was already shifting, and in the training halls, challenges were quietly being planned. The tournament of the Rising Dragons was still on the horizon, but the first tests of strength would come far sooner—on the Inner Court's own training grounds.
The very next morning, the Inner Court training plaza was alive with the sound of steel.
Blades clashed in sharp, ringing bursts. Boots slammed into packed earth. The scent of sweat and the dry tang of sun-warmed stone hung heavy in the air. Rows of veteran disciples were already moving in synchronized formations when Haotian, Lianhua, and the six guards stepped onto the field in their fresh Inner Court robes.
The overseer, a lean man with hawk-like eyes, turned as they approached. His gaze swept over them, pausing a fraction longer on Haotian before he gave a short, curt nod. "You're late," he said—not because they were, but because he wanted to set the tone.
Haotian didn't rise to it. "We'll catch up."
A ripple of muted snickers passed through the nearby veterans, but it died quickly when the overseer barked, "Pair them off. Let's see if they can keep pace."
The newcomers were slotted into sparring circles without ceremony. Haotian found himself facing the tall, blade-backed senior from yesterday's plaza encounter. The man's grin was thin and unfriendly.
"Try not to embarrass yourself," he said.
Haotian didn't answer. He simply shifted his stance, Starstep footwork barely perceptible beneath the measured calm in his shoulders.
The match began with an explosion of motion. The senior lunged with a fluid, practiced slash meant to overwhelm quickly. Haotian turned the edge aside with a fractional movement, his counterstrike stopping a hair from the man's throat. Gasps rippled around the circle, and the overseer's brows rose slightly.
Elsewhere, Lianhua was already drawing eyes. Her opponent—a stocky veteran with iron bracers—had come in aggressively, only to be spun and disarmed in three rapid exchanges. The guards, too, were holding their ground, their cohesion from years of mutual training allowing them to handle even more seasoned foes.
By the end of the first round, the plaza's mood had shifted. The snickers were gone. The challenges had turned into measured, probing exchanges as the veterans began to realize these weren't just lucky newcomers—they were dangerous additions to the Inner Court's ranks.
The overseer clapped his hands once, sharp and loud. "Form up! We'll move into joint drills. New blood, stay with your partners. Let's see how you handle being part of a larger blade."
As Haotian and Lianhua fell into the flowing rhythm of the formation work, the veterans began to watch them differently—not just with rivalry, but with calculation. They were already imagining how these two might tip the balance in the tournament and the faction struggles beyond.
And somewhere above, on a shaded balcony overlooking the plaza, an elder watched silently, fingers steepled.