The morning mist still clung to the martial platform when the first wave of pre-tournament sparring began. Disciples lined the edges, the low murmur of conversation swelling as pairs took to the arena.
Haotian had barely stepped into the ring when a tall, broad-shouldered veteran from the Azure Fang Alliance vaulted over the railing with a smirk. His presence alone quieted half the crowd. The man's reputation was well known—three years in the Inner Court, a steady climber through the Core Transformation Realm, and famous for publicly dismantling challengers in the name of "teaching them humility."
A perfect opening move for the Alliance.
The veteran didn't even bow. "I hear you've been making quite a name for yourself, newcomer. Let's see if that name can stand in front of a real opponent."
Haotian only adjusted his stance, his expression unreadable. There was no tension in his shoulders, no flicker of uncertainty.
The bout began with a rush of movement, the veteran's blade arcing in a fast, aggressive pattern meant to overwhelm. Haotian didn't even blink. To him, every step, every shift of weight was painfully obvious. He had sparred against his ancestors—Saint Realm experts whose slightest movements carried killing intent that could crush mountains.
This… was a slow dance in comparison.
He didn't even bother activating the Eyes of the Universe. There was no need. He could already see the gaps—micro-hesitations in the man's follow-through, a slight hitch in his left pivot, the way his center of gravity shifted a fraction too far forward on each thrust.
Haotian moved with surgical precision, his counterstrikes landing not to harm, but to unbalance. Every parry redirected the veteran's momentum against him. Every sidestep left him overextended.
The crowd began to murmur as the rhythm became obvious: attack, dismantle, stumble. Attack, dismantle, stumble.
Finally, after a particularly aggressive lunge, Haotian pivoted, tapped the man's weapon arm aside, and swept his leg in one smooth motion. The veteran hit the platform hard, his sword skittering away across the stone.
Gasps rippled through the onlookers.
Haotian didn't gloat. He simply straightened, clasped his hands behind his back, and stepped aside as if nothing remarkable had happened.
The veteran, face red with a mix of pain and humiliation, scrambled to his feet. The lesson was clear—he had been dissected, piece by piece, in full view of the Inner Court.
And from the edges of the platform, Haotian could already feel the stares shifting—not just from curiosity, but from something sharper. Calculation.
The first bout had barely ended when another figure stepped forward from the watching crowd. This one moved with deliberate ease, hands clasped in front of him, a faint smile playing across his lips. He was dressed in the pale-green robes of the Pill Cauldron Hall, not the Martial Hall—a subtle but dangerous statement.
The murmurs rose at once."Isn't that Senior Brother Lian Feng?""He's not even in the martial bracket this year…""Then why—"
Haotian knew the answer before the man even opened his mouth.
Lian Feng bowed just enough to remain polite. "Junior Brother Haotian, your display was… enlightening. But the Rising Dragons Tournament is not merely about strength—it is about adaptability, decorum, and representing the sect as a whole. Would you indulge me in a friendly exchange? For the sake of learning, of course."
The phrasing was perfect. If Haotian refused, it would be painted as arrogance. If he accepted and fought too hard, he'd be accused of bullying an 'academic' disciple. If he pulled his strikes, it would seem like pity—and in sect politics, pity was just another insult.
The crowd leaned in. This was no ordinary spar; it was a stage, and Lian Feng had built the trap in full view of everyone.
Haotian stepped onto the platform without hesitation. "Very well, Senior Brother. Let's learn together."
The opening exchange was slow—almost too slow. Lian Feng's movements were deceptively measured, his strikes carrying just enough force to appear earnest without risking real harm. All the while, his words floated between attacks, each sentence crafted to prick at Haotian's image.
"So quick against a martial veteran… but will you still be quick when you face someone with no intent to harm you?""Your speed is impressive, but perhaps you lack the patience to match it?""A fight is more than power—it is restraint. Can you show restraint, Junior Brother?"
The bait was sharp, the crowd eating up every line.
Haotian, however, never took it. His counters were fluid, his footwork loose, his strikes landing not with impact, but with gentle precision—brushing sleeves, tapping wrists, redirecting the lightest contact. Every touch was control without injury, dominance without malice.
By the fifth exchange, the crowd's murmurs had shifted.
Lian Feng's smile had thinned. His last gambit—a sudden burst of speed meant to catch Haotian off guard—ended with his wrist caught in midair, his weaponless hand locked harmlessly in Haotian's grip.
Haotian released him at once, bowed, and stepped back. "Thank you for the lesson, Senior Brother."
The applause was polite at first… then grew louder.
Lian Feng could only nod stiffly and step down, his trap unraveled before it had the chance to spring. But Haotian knew better—this wouldn't be the last of these political "exchanges." They were testing his composure as much as his skill, and the real games had only just begun.
That evening, the council chamber of the Inner Court glowed with lamplight, its tall cedar beams casting long shadows across the polished stone floor. Incense curled lazily upward from the central brazier, mingling with the low rumble of voices as elders from the Martial Hall, Pill Cauldron Hall, and various affiliated branches took their seats along the crescent table.
At the head, the Sect Master sat in quiet observation, fingers steepled, his gaze sweeping over each face in turn.
It was Elder Qingshan of the Martial Hall who spoke first, voice as sharp as his snow-white beard. "Today's events in the sparring ground—particularly the second bout—are already being discussed throughout the sect. The boy handled himself with commendable control. Even in the face of a… politically inclined challenge."
Across the table, Elder Yunhai from the Pill Cauldron Hall chuckled lightly, though his eyes carried a glint of calculation. "You mean to say our Senior Brother Lian Feng was trying to trip him up? I see only an exchange of skills between brothers of the sect. That the boy emerged untarnished speaks well enough of him."
"Tarnished or not," Elder Qingshan said, "it was a move meant to test his composure—and in doing so, it has marked him. You all felt the undercurrent in the crowd. Some will see his poise as proof of strength. Others…" His eyes slid toward the Pill Cauldron representatives. "…will see him as a threat to their own favored candidates."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
High Elder Yao—still recovering from the miraculous pill Haotian had refined days before—leaned forward, his voice steady but firm. "Whatever rivalries may exist, the boy has now drawn attention from every faction in the sect. That includes the Council itself. We cannot pretend his presence will remain neutral."
The Sect Master allowed a faint smile, almost imperceptible. "Neutrality is a luxury only the unseen possess. Haotian has stepped into the center of the arena—both in combat and politics. The Rising Dragons Tournament will be his crucible, and it will reveal whether he is an asset… or a disruption."
Elder Yunhai's fan snapped open with a soft snap. "Assets and disruptions are often the same thing, depending on who holds the ledger."
Silence lingered for a moment before the Sect Master spoke again, his tone deceptively casual. "Very well. Let them watch him. Let them weigh his worth for themselves. But ensure the matches are fair."
Several elders exchanged knowing looks—fairness was rarely absolute in tournament politics.
As the meeting wound down, whispers began to thread through the room: who would align with the Martial Hall to protect him, who would subtly oppose him, and who would simply watch, waiting for the right moment to pull him into their circle.
By the time the brazier's embers dimmed, Haotian's name had already moved from the training ground into the quiet ledger books of sect influence.
The next morning, dawn spilled pale gold across the sect's outer courts, painting the tiled roofs in streaks of amber. A crisp wind carried the scent of pine and faint incense as disciples from every hall gathered before the central announcement plaza. The Rising Dragons Tournament board—three spans high and framed in dark iron—loomed at the plaza's heart, its surface covered in fresh parchment sheets marked with names and match sequences.
Haotian arrived without hurry, his hands clasped behind his back, robe sleeves fluttering faintly in the breeze. He noted the clusters of disciples gathered in tight knots, their voices low but sharp with speculation. A few heads turned at his approach—some with open curiosity, others with that new, assessing gaze he had already begun to recognize from the elders' chamber.
The crowd parted slightly as he stepped closer. The parchment sheets gleamed faintly under the morning light, each bracket written in crisp black strokes. His eyes traced down the first list—past strangers, acquaintances, and known talents—until he saw his own name.
Haotian – First Round Opponent: Liu Renhai.
He knew the name. A senior disciple of the Pill Cauldron Hall's martial branch, technically not a combat specialist, but well-connected—especially to Elder Yunhai.
His gaze shifted to the right-hand sheet, where the progression routes were displayed. The path laid out for him was… interesting. If he advanced, he would face consecutive opponents from rival halls, each one linked—either by friendship or loyalty—to factions that had been circling him since yesterday.
It was no accident.
A quiet voice reached him from behind. "They're lining the road with tests."
He turned to see a fellow Martial Hall disciple—one of the few who had offered him a genuine nod in the training yard—watching the board with a faint smirk. "Either they want to see you rise under pressure… or they're hoping you trip."
Haotian gave a slight smile, unreadable, and returned his gaze to the board. "Then I'll give them something worth watching."
From the edges of the plaza, he caught the briefest glimpse of two elders observing from the shade of the colonnade. One was Qingshan, the other Yunhai—both stone-faced, but their presence alone spoke volumes.
The bell tower tolled three times, signaling the end of the announcement period. Disciples began to disperse, some with eager energy, others with whispered predictions. Haotian lingered a moment longer, committing the names and sequence to memory, then turned and walked away, robes stirring faintly in the breeze.
The game had begun—on the field and off it. And in both arenas, he would have to fight.
The Rising Dragons Tournament opened beneath a sky of flawless blue, the morning sun glinting off the sweeping jade-and-gold arches of the sect's Grand Martial Arena. From every direction, streams of disciples, elders, and honored guests poured in, their chatter a low tide that swelled and broke with each new arrival. Banners in the sect's colors—deep azure and silver—fluttered high along the terraces, their silk catching the wind like the wings of great birds.
Haotian stepped onto the arena floor with the rest of the Martial Hall's representatives, his pace measured, his expression calm. The sand beneath his boots was fine and pale, a perfectly leveled battlefield surrounded by tiered stone stands that rose like a coliseum to the sky. Above it all, the Sect Master's dais dominated the northern end, a carved dragon's head looming over the platform where the high council sat in full view.
Even before the ceremony began, the currents beneath the surface were unmistakable. Disciples from certain halls stood with deliberate space between them and the Martial Hall contingent, their eyes flitting toward Haotian with a mix of wariness and calculation. Whispers passed like paper slips in the wind, too low to catch, but the glances spoke enough—he was not just a participant, but a piece on someone's board.
The sect's drums boomed in unison, three deep notes that echoed across the arena. A hush fell instantly.
The Sect Master rose, his robe trailing like a slow-moving current of night across the platform. His gaze swept over the assembled competitors, pausing—just briefly—on Haotian. "Disciples," his voice rang clear, bolstered by a subtle resonance that carried it to every ear, "today begins the tournament that will test your strength, your resolve, and your loyalty to this sect. The path ahead will not be won by strength alone… but by the will to rise above the grasping hands of doubt and ambition."
The choice of words was no accident. Even those with the dullest senses felt the weight beneath them.
As the Sect Master spoke of honor, rivalry, and the legacy of past champions, Haotian allowed his gaze to wander. He noted Elder Yunhai seated two rows behind the high council, eyes half-lidded but watching him like a hawk. Elder Qingshan sat to the Sect Master's right, his posture relaxed but his fingers tapping a silent rhythm on the armrest. In the stands, he spotted Liu Renhai—his first opponent—smirking faintly at something whispered by a fellow disciple.
The final drumroll thundered, signaling the end of the opening address. The banners snapped in the wind, and the crowd erupted into cheers as the Sect Master declared: "Let the Rising Dragons Tournament… begin!"
Haotian exhaled slowly, the roar of the crowd washing over him. Somewhere in that noise were those who wished him victory, and others who would see him fall. But either way, all eyes were now on him.
The midday sun slanted across the Burning Sun Sect's grand arena, catching the gold-etched banners of each hall where they fluttered high above the stone terraces. From the central dais, the elders sat in ascending tiers—robes layered in hall colors like a living spectrum of power.
Haotian stepped into the ring without flourish, each step steady, measured. He could feel it—the weight of gazes from the Formation Hall seats, a quiet satisfaction that their hand had shaped this first trial. Liu Renhai was already waiting at the center, a lean man with sharp eyes and an expression like polished jade—cool, calculating. His black-and-gold robes bore the triangular sigil of the Formation Hall, and under his boots, fine lines of silver sand traced geometric shapes across the platform.
The air tasted of powdered quartz and faint iron—formation residue.
Renhai inclined his head, polite but faintly amused. "Core Transformation prodigy, isn't it? Let's see if your steps still hold when the ground itself says otherwise."
From the elder's platform, Elder Yuan of the Formation Hall leaned toward his peers. "First bout will show us whether his vaunted calm holds under constraint." No one missed the small smirk he aimed toward the Martial Hall seats.
A gong rang—deep and resonant.
Renhai's hands flickered through seals. The silver lines on the ground flared bright, reweaving themselves into interlocking hexagons beneath Haotian's feet.
He's starting with ground binds. Haotian's golden eyes narrowed just enough to note the rhythm of the pulse. Three cycles per breath.
He moved—not away, but forward, each step landing at the exact moment a segment's energy fell to its weakest ebb. The crowd didn't see it at first; they just saw him glide between glowing lines as if they weren't there.
Renhai's brow twitched. "Advance all you want—"
The second layer bloomed. Above the arena, spectral blades unfolded from invisible hinges, dropping in staggered sweeps toward Haotian's head.
From the Martial Hall gallery, a few junior disciples leaned forward. Elder Min kept her face neutral, but Haotian could feel her presence like a warm shield at his back.
Haotian didn't even draw a weapon. Instead, his right hand brushed one descending blade, and in that instant, a pinpoint pulse of his Eyes of the Universe registered the seam between its condensed energy layers. His palm snapped sideways—crack—and the blade shattered into harmless mist.
That single motion carried into the next, his body turning like a hinge to let another blade whistle past his ear. By the time the third descended, his left foot stamped, breaking a nexus point beneath him. The entire first array dimmed.
A murmur rippled through the elders' platform. Formation Hall's smirk faded. Martial Hall's elder allowed herself the smallest of smiles.
Renhai's teeth clenched. He flung both hands forward. "Triple lattice—lock!"
The ground lit in a dense weave, walls rising from pure force. For an instant, Haotian was sealed in a glowing cube. The audience leaned in—some expecting a desperate counter, others already whispering about the Formation Hall's clever opening.
Haotian simply breathed in once, feeling the cube's hum resonate against his ribs. Then his right hand rose, fingers straightened, and a thread of his qi extended—just thin enough to slip between lattice seams.
A pop like glass under pressure. Then another. And another.
The cube collapsed in on itself with a sigh of scattered light. Haotian stepped out of the fading glow, eyes locked on Renhai, who stumbled back two paces.
"You… unraveled it?"
"Not unraveled," Haotian said calmly, stepping within arm's reach. "I stepped through."
The last thing Renhai saw was Haotian's open palm pressing lightly against his chest. No strike, no visible blow—just a burst of force that sent him sliding three full body-lengths back, barely keeping his feet at the ring's edge.
The gong struck again.
Martial Hall's section erupted in restrained applause. Formation Hall's elder sat stone-faced, already whispering to a scribe—likely reshaping the later brackets.
Haotian turned without flourish and stepped from the platform.
Haotian's boots had barely touched the flagstones outside the ring before the next names were called.
"Second match—Martial Hall's Lianhua… versus Beast Hall's Xu Minfeng!"
The crowd stirred immediately. Beast Hall disciples leaned forward, whispering in tight clusters. After Haotian's clean dismantling of the Formation Hall's opener, the Beast Hall saw an opportunity to claw back prestige. Xu Minfeng was one of their sharper talons—lean, with a hawk's profile and shoulders corded from years of beast-taming drills. His azure-scaled bracers glinted under the sun, the sheen hinting at spirit-beast reinforcement.
From the Martial Hall gallery, Elder Min's gaze followed Lianhua down the steps. "She's not here to defend his victory," she murmured to no one in particular. "She's here to make her own."
The air between the two combatants hummed as they stepped into the ring. Xu Minfeng's eyes flicked toward the elders' tier—landing briefly on Elder Yao of the Alchemy Hall, who gave a subtle nod. Even the alchemists wanted to see if the Martial Hall's second showing could be cracked.
Gong.
Xu Minfeng moved first, dropping low and sweeping his arms in an arc. From the bracers, two spectral hawks burst forth—wings trailing ribbons of lightning. They shrieked as they dove for Lianhua.
She didn't flinch. Her right foot traced a half-step back, weight settling into her hips, hands rising into the Martial Hall's Intercepting Wave guard. When the first hawk slashed at her shoulder, she pivoted—not away, but inward. Her palm met its beak, redirected the momentum, and sent it careening into the stone floor with a burst of sparks.
The second hawk wheeled midair, angling for her back. Elder Min's lips tightened—but Lianhua's left leg snapped upward in a vertical arc. Her heel caught the hawk under the chin. The construct burst into a scatter of blue feathers that winked out before they touched the ground.
Xu Minfeng's smirk faltered. "Not bad."
"Not finished."
She closed the gap in two strides, her palm snapping toward his forearm. He tried to twist away—but her grip found the seam between bracer and wrist. A sharp pulse of qi rattled through his guard, locking the arm just long enough for her knee to crash into his ribs.
The crowd reacted in two layers—Martial Hall roaring approval, Beast Hall muttering in low, clipped tones. On the elder's tier, the Beast Hall master's jaw tensed, eyes narrowing at the way the bracket might now lean.
Xu Minfeng staggered but planted his feet, pulling his arm free and slashing downward. A ripple of energy tore along the arena floor, coalescing into a spectral tiger's head that lunged from the ground.
Lianhua didn't backpedal—she vaulted. Her knee brushed the tiger's crown, using it as a stepping stone to flip clean over Minfeng's head. As she passed, her palm brushed the back of his neck.
A crack of internal force. His body locked for half a breath—long enough for her other palm to push lightly between his shoulder blades.
He stumbled forward, caught himself—but the gong had already sounded.
Martial Hall's section exploded in applause. Beast Hall's master looked down at the floor, lips tight.
Lianhua gave only the faintest bow before stepping down, passing Haotian in the walkway. For a moment, their eyes met. No words, but the corner of her mouth tilted—Two for two.
From the elders' dais, subtle exchanges of glances said what no one voiced aloud: the Martial Hall was gaining momentum, and the other halls were already adjusting their next plays.
The cheers from Lianhua's victory hadn't fully faded when the next names rang out over the arena.
"Third match—Outer Guard's Chen Rui versus Armament Hall's Han Qiguang!"
Haotian's gaze shifted toward the lower seating tier where the sect's guards sat in disciplined rows. Chen Rui stood immediately, helm tucked under one arm, expression unreadable. His armor was plain compared to the disciples' custom-fitted sparring gear, but the way he moved—unhurried, balanced—made the Armament Hall's apprentices lean forward in interest.
From the elders' tier, Elder Han of the Armament Hall leaned back, arms folded, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. A calculated pick—Qiguang was a heavy striker who excelled at breaking guards, both physical and political.
Gong.
Qiguang surged forward, twin iron cudgels blurring in a storm of overhead arcs. The sound was like hammers on anvils, each strike calculated to batter Chen Rui's defenses apart.
But Rui didn't meet force with force. He slid, pivoted, let the cudgels bite into empty air, his shield snapping up only when angles demanded it. Twice he let Qiguang's strikes clang against the rim—metal ringing sharp enough to make spectators flinch—then rotated his hips to bleed off the impact.
A murmur ran through the Martial Hall's section—recognition of a fighter who knew exactly when not to fight back.
Qiguang grew frustrated. His arcs widened. That was the opening.
Rui stepped inside a swing, ramming his shield's boss into Qiguang's sternum. The breath left the Armament Hall disciple in a harsh grunt. In the same motion, Rui's short sword flicked upward, the edge catching Qiguang's chin just enough to tilt his head back and unbalance his stance.
One shove, and Qiguang staggered out of bounds. Gong.
A ripple of approval ran through the Outer Guard's section—small compared to the disciples' roars, but notable. On the elders' tier, a brief flicker crossed Elder Han's face before it vanished into neutrality.
Before the dust settled, the next match was announced.
"Fourth match—Outer Guard's Feng Wei versus Formation Hall's Yao Jinhai!"
This time, murmurs turned speculative. Formation Hall's Jinhai was a precision fighter—less brute force, more bait-and-bind. And the way Elder Yao's eyes had narrowed during Haotian's first match made it clear: this was about sending a message.
Gong.
Jinhai wasted no time. His hands wove three rapid sigils in the air, threads of golden light knitting together to form a narrow hexagonal barrier that sprang up between him and Feng Wei.
Wei circled, looking for a gap—but each time he stepped left or right, the barrier twisted to meet him.
From the stands, a Formation Hall apprentice whispered to his neighbor, "He'll try to tire him out. Wait for the slip."
They didn't expect the slip to come from Jinhai.
Wei feinted toward the right, then dropped to one knee, slamming his palm into the stone. A small disk of his own qi flared underfoot—rudimentary, but enough to pop him upward in a short, explosive hop. His boot cleared the barrier's edge; his spear-point followed, stabbing down into Jinhai's shoulder seam before the formation could realign.
The barrier shattered with a sharp crack. Jinhai staggered, blood blooming dark against his robe. Wei didn't press for damage—he simply leveled the spear and stepped forward until Jinhai's heel touched the ring's edge.
Gong.
The crowd's reaction was split—Formation Hall murmuring in discontent, Guard ranks exchanging satisfied nods.
Up in the elders' tier, the subtler reactions mattered more. Elder Yao's jaw tightened. Elder Min of the Martial Hall leaned toward Haotian's own elder sponsors, her voice pitched low. "Two guards, two wins. The bracket's balance just shifted."
The echo of the gong from Feng Wei's win still hummed through the stone when the next announcement rang out—louder, sharper, as if the announcer wanted the crowd's attention riveted.
"Fifth match—Inner Disciple Xiang Rou of the Alchemy Hall versus Inner Disciple Wen Xilong of the Martial Hall!"
A low buzz of conversation swept the stands. Xiang Rou's name was not unfamiliar—famed for her red silk whip and for being one of the Alchemy Hall's political darlings. But the murmurs weren't just about her skill. They were about the fact that this match had been moved forward in the schedule.
From the elders' tier, Elder Zhan of the Alchemy Hall sat straighter, his fingers tapping once on the armrest—a signal, subtle but deliberate. Elder Min of the Martial Hall's eyes narrowed in response.
The shift in order wasn't just a convenience. It was a message: We still hold sway.
The two fighters stepped onto the ring. Xiang Rou's red silk coiled loosely in her right hand, the embroidered threads glinting faintly under the sun. Wen Xilong planted his feet with the stability of a mountain, long saber at his hip, the picture of Martial Hall discipline.
Gong.
Rou moved first, the whip uncoiling with a hiss that cut the air. The silk wasn't ordinary—each flick sang faintly, the sound of embedded qi threads vibrating. She kept the strikes low at first, curling for Xilong's ankles, forcing him into short hops and pivots.
On the third pass, she snapped high—aiming for his wrist.
Xilong caught the whip on his saber's flat, twisting to break its pull. But Rou didn't resist; she flowed with the motion, letting the whip's end spiral around his arm before he realized the trap. With one sharp pull, she bound his forearm to his own weapon, forcing him to fight against his own strength.
The crowd roared—Alchemy Hall's section rising to their feet.
Xilong tried to bull forward, driving his weight into her. Rou stepped back once, twice—then spun, the whip unwinding in a blur before cracking against his exposed flank. The sound was like a firecracker going off in the still air.
He staggered. She didn't let him recover. Three more strikes landed in quick succession—one to the ribs, one to the thigh, one curling up to tap the base of his neck.
Gong.
Xiang Rou bowed with poised grace, returning the silk to her side as she stepped from the ring. Elder Zhan's smile was almost imperceptible—but the gleam in his eyes was not.
In the Martial Hall's section, a young disciple muttered to his seatmate, "They didn't just win that match—they planted a flag."
Haotian caught it too. This wasn't about rankings anymore. The bracket was being sculpted—wins and losses leveraged like stones on a go board, maneuvering him toward certain opponents and away from others.
And if the way the next bracket slate was being passed along the elders' tier was any sign, the next few matches would decide far more than who advanced.
The arena floor was still being swept clear of Xiang Rou's faint red threads when the bracket runner hurried up the elder's tier steps. He carried a lacquered slate tucked against his chest as though it were some sacred decree.
At the top row, the Sect Master took it without ceremony, his expression unreadable. He scanned it once, twice—then passed it to the herald.
The great bronze bell tolled once.
"By elder deliberation," the herald's voice rang across the tiers, "the next second-round pairing has been decided. Inner Disciple Haotian of the Martial Hall… will face Inner Disciple Qiu Zhenshi of the Alchemy Hall!"
A ripple went through the crowd. Even those unfamiliar with the names understood the weight behind that match-up.
Qiu Zhenshi wasn't just any Alchemy Hall disciple—he was the personal nephew of Elder Zhan himself, a core transformation stage cultivator with a reputation for dragging fights into long, punishing exchanges. The sort of opponent who might not win cleanly, but would leave his foe's energy and focus frayed before the next round.
On the Martial Hall's side, a few of Haotian's fellow disciples stiffened. One muttered under his breath, "They're trying to bleed him before the finals."
The elders' tier told the rest of the story. Elder Zhan's gaze slid toward Elder Min like a blade hidden in silk, a look that said: Your boy may win, but not without paying for it. Elder Min's jaw tightened, but he said nothing—his fingers tapping once against the railing in what Haotian had learned was the man's way of telling him: I trust you. Prove them wrong.
Haotian stood at the edge of the Martial Hall's competitor row, expression calm. But his eyes—golden in the afternoon light—took in the shifting body language across the sect. This was no accident. His victory over Liu Renhai had rattled one faction enough to start moving pieces. Xiang Rou's win had been their opening strike. Qiu Zhenshi was the follow-up blow.
A match drawn not on merit, but on a political board.
Lianhua leaned slightly toward him, her voice low but sharp. "They want you distracted before you're halfway to the finals. Don't give them that satisfaction."
He gave the faintest nod. "They're already playing the next three matches in their heads."
"And you?" she asked.
"I'll play them in the ring," he said simply.
The gong sounded for the next unrelated bout, but the energy in the stands had already shifted. The sect had just been given a taste of the tournament's real contest—the one fought in whispers and bracket changes, not just fists and blades.
And Haotian, whether they liked it or not, was already in the center of it.
The roar of the crowd swelled as the gong rang for the start of the second round.
Haotian stepped onto the arena floor with the same unhurried stride he had used against Liu Renhai. His hair caught the sunlight like a dark river edged in gold, his expression neither cold nor warm—only centered. Across from him, Qiu Zhenshi was already there, shoulders squared, lips curved in a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes.
From the elders' tier, Elder Zhan leaned forward just enough for the gesture to be seen by the audience, as though to claim ownership of what was about to unfold. Elder Min didn't move, his gaze fixed on Haotian with the stillness of a drawn bowstring.
"Begin!"
Qiu Zhenshi moved first—predictable for someone whose style depended on setting a rhythm. His blade flashed in a shallow arc, not a killing blow but a baiting strike, designed to probe for openings and force Haotian to defend on Zhenshi's terms.
Haotian didn't take the bait. Instead of clashing directly, he angled his stance and let the strike glide past, his palm brushing Zhenshi's wrist just long enough to disrupt the man's footing. The crowd murmured. No flashy counter, no brute force—just control.
Zhenshi recovered quickly, twisting into a sweeping slash. This time, the metal rang—clang!—as Haotian's sword met it. But rather than driving forward, he slid the contact away, redirecting the force into empty air. The exchange left Zhenshi half a step closer to the arena's boundary.
From the stands, whispers began. "He's not pressing… he's dismantling him."
Elder Zhan's eyes narrowed. Zhenshi shifted tactics, drawing on his alchemy-trained precision. Thin wisps of caustic vapor began to curl from his blade—the product of a quick capsule burst from a hidden wrist vial. It was a subtle violation of tournament etiquette, but subtle enough to be defended later as "an alchemist's natural style."
Haotian caught the scent—sharp, bitter, meant to sting eyes and lungs. He didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped in through the haze, his movements exact, as though the vapors were no more hindrance than morning mist. His blade tapped Zhenshi's shoulder—not cutting, but marking the first clear point.
The crowd erupted.
Zhenshi's smirk faltered. He came in harder now, driving a flurry of jabs meant to trap Haotian against the arena's edge. Haotian flowed with them, never in the same place for more than a heartbeat. A parry here, a half-step there—until he saw the opening.
A faint overextension of Zhenshi's leading arm. The alchemist had committed fully to a thrust.
Haotian's eyes sharpened. One pivot, one rising cut, and Zhenshi's weapon was lifted cleanly off-line. His own blade slid to Zhenshi's throat—not pressing, not drawing blood, but unmistakable.
The referee's call rang out over the sudden hush. "Point and match—Haotian of the Martial Hall!"
The arena exploded into cheers, but the elders' tier was a different story. Elder Zhan's jaw was tight, his planned attrition match ending far too quickly to have its intended political effect. Elder Min allowed himself the faintest exhale, the barest lift at the corner of his mouth.
Haotian stepped back, saluted his opponent with courteous precision, and walked off the stage without looking at either elder.
He'd won more than a bout. He'd just sent a message—one the entire sect had heard.