The cheers from Haotian's victory hadn't even faded before the announcer's voice cut through the arena.
"Next match—Jiang Huai of the Sword Hall versus Min Yuren of the Alchemy Hall!"
A ripple passed through the elders' tier. The order of matches had been re-sorted at the last minute—too last-minute to be coincidence. Elder Zhan's fingers drummed once on the armrest, a signal for his aides to watch carefully. Elder Min sat unmoving, but his sharp gaze flicked to the bracket board now displayed in shimmering script above the ring.
The changes were subtle to the casual eye: certain names moved up, others shifted down, just enough to alter the path toward the semifinals. But to those versed in sect politics, the intent was clear—compress Martial Hall's chances, force them into early confrontations with opponents carrying factional weight.
Jiang Huai's match began under this shadow. His style was crisp and disciplined, cutting down Min Yuren's cautious advances with clean parries and measured counters. The Sword Hall elders applauded loudly—louder than necessary—making sure the crowd saw them as the stabilizing pillar of the sect in contrast to the "reckless" rise of Martial Hall's newcomer.
The Alchemy Hall took the floor next with Song Lianhua—not Haotian's Lianhua, but the senior disciple who'd been groomed to represent their hall's prestige. Her opponent, Wei Zhiren of the Pill Pavilion's offshoot, fought with aggressive bursts, hoping to wear her down quickly. But the match was clearly staged to make Lianhua's win look decisive, restoring prestige to her hall after Qiu Zhenshi's loss.
Elder Zhan leaned forward during every point scored, nodding to the crowd as if the victory somehow repaid the earlier humiliation.
The bracket continued. Matches involving disciples from the Weapon Hall were paired against weaker opponents—easy wins to preserve their seeds. Guard Hall fighters were conspicuously placed opposite Martial Hall affiliates, likely to drain their stamina before they reached the later rounds.
And then came the announcement that made Elder Min's jaw tighten.
"In the third round—Haotian of Martial Hall will face… Wei Sunchang of the Sword Hall."
A low murmur swept the crowd. Wei Sunchang wasn't just a strong duelist; he was a known political loyalist to Sword Hall's senior elder, a man who treated victories as factional trophies.
From the stands, Haotian stood with arms loosely folded, his gaze locked on the new bracket. His expression didn't change, but the air around him seemed to tighten, like a bowstring drawn to its limit.
Elder Zhan allowed himself the faintest, satisfied smile. This was the trap they'd been aiming for all along—bleed Haotian through carefully chosen opponents, force him to burn through strength and reputation in one stroke.
But Haotian's eyes held no sign of strain. Only calculation.
The crowd might have seen a young contender bracketed into a political corner. But those who had fought him before… recognized that look.
It was the look of someone deciding not if he would win—but how loudly.
The roar of the crowd swelled as Wei Sunchang strode into the arena, Sword Hall robes gleaming in the late-morning sun. His polished blade rested casually against his shoulder, his posture dripping with confidence.
"Martial Hall's newest champion," he said loud enough for the front rows to hear, "let's see if you can stand without the elders propping you up."
From the Sword Hall seating, a wave of laughter rolled outward, feeding the story they'd been spreading—that Haotian's rise was nothing more than sect favoritism.
Haotian walked forward in silence, hands empty, his steps steady. Not a flicker of uncertainty showed on his face. The faint gleam in his eyes—Eyes of the Universe—said he had already read Wei's stance, grip, and opening tempo before the first strike.
The referee's hand dropped.
Wei exploded forward, blade flashing in a textbook opening cut meant to both threaten and intimidate.
CLANG!
Metal rang—not from steel meeting steel, but from Wei's sword shuddering against the iron grip that had caught it mid-arc. Haotian's left hand clamped the blade's flat, his right hand snapping into Wei's guard with a piston-fast palm strike that rattled the swordsman's balance.
Wei wrenched back, trying to reset. Haotian stayed in his shadow, steps smooth, cutting off the retreat before it could form.
A short feint from Wei—followed by a thrust toward Haotian's midsection. The point never made it. Haotian's elbow crashed into the flat of the blade, shoving it aside, while his other hand hooked behind Wei's wrist and twisted.
CRACK!
The crowd flinched at the sound. Wei stumbled, his grip faltering, and Haotian used the moment to drive a shoulder into his chest. The swordsman went skidding backward, boots scraping the arena floor.
From the elders' tier, Elder Zhan's jaw tightened. The plan had been to grind Haotian down in the public eye, but the boy wasn't even winded.
Wei circled wide, adjusting his grip, blade tip twitching as he tested for any crack in Haotian's composure. Then he lunged again—Sword Hall's piercing thrust, a move built to slip past guards.
Haotian didn't step away. He stepped through. His palm slammed the flat just behind the point, redirecting it past his ribs while his knee shot upward into Wei's forearm. Pain jolted the swordsman's hand open.
The weapon clattered to the floor.
Wei barely had time to blink before Haotian's right palm struck his sternum with bone-deep force. The impact drove the air from his lungs and his knees into the ground in one motion.
The referee's voice cut through the crowd's roar. "Winner—Haotian!"
Martial Hall's section erupted, the applause sharp and deliberate—a counterpunch to Sword Hall's weeks of quiet scheming.
Haotian didn't so much as glance toward the elder's box. The message was written in the dust at Wei's knees:
They could arm their pieces with steel. He would break them with his hands.
The dust from Wei Sunchang's defeat hadn't even settled when the next names were called. The air in the arena carried a different kind of charge now—less about spectacle, more about damage control.
In the elders' box, Elder Zhan leaned toward Elder Xu of the Spear Hall, his voice a low growl. "If we let him keep building momentum, the Martial Hall will ride this wave straight into the finals."
Elder Xu's eyes narrowed. "Then we cut the wave early."
Below, two disciples stepped into the ring—both from minor halls that rarely shared the spotlight. But anyone paying attention could see the hidden strings. Sword Hall and Spear Hall had quietly shifted their bets to these matches, whispering instructions that had nothing to do with martial honor.
The fight began. It was vicious, fast, and suspiciously efficient—ending in under a minute when one combatant collapsed from a blow that looked far too well-timed to be coincidence. The victor, a Spear Hall prodigy named Jian Lufeng, glanced toward the Sword Hall's section before even acknowledging the referee.
The next match was even more telling. Two mid-bracket fighters from the Alchemy and Spear Halls faced off, but instead of the usual cautious probing, they fought like men chasing a bounty. The winner—an Alchemy Hall brawler named Fang Ruo—was already positioned in the bracket to face whoever emerged from Haotian's next match.
From the Martial Hall's benches, murmurs spread. Even Lianhua, seated in her training robe with her next bout only minutes away, frowned at the unfolding pattern.
"This isn't random," she said under her breath.
"No," one of the senior guards replied, arms crossed. "They're building a gauntlet for him. One rigged fight at a time."
The crowd roared as another Spear Hall fighter took the field, his expression sharp with the knowledge that he was part of something bigger than just winning a match. By the time his victory was called, the path was set: if Haotian wanted to advance, he'd have to cut through a chain of hall-favored fighters, each primed to wear him down before the finals.
From his seat, Haotian watched the board shift match by match. The political tug-of-war wasn't subtle anymore—it was a naked attempt to bleed his strength in the open. His jaw tightened, but his breathing stayed even.
They were moving their pieces. He would simply break the board.
The announcer's voice rang out over the arena, calling the next names. The cheers rose again, but beneath it all, the rival halls' maneuvering left the air heavy. Every win from here would be a challenge not just of skill—but of endurance against a game stacked to make him stumble.
The arena floor still carried the echoes of the last victory chant when the referee's voice cut through the din.
"Next bout—Haotian versus Alchemy Hall's Fang Ruo!"
The omission was deliberate. Everyone in the stands heard it. Everyone in the elders' pavilion noted it. A subtle jab in the ongoing tug-of-war—erasing the clan name from the announcement, as if this fight were about the halls' rivalry alone.
Haotian stepped into the ring without a weapon, the sunlight catching on his plain training robes. To the untrained eye, he looked like any other martial disciple—until you saw the way the air seemed to steady around him, like the wind itself recognized his center.
Across from him, Fang Ruo cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, eyes glittering with the confidence of a man who knew the elders had placed a very specific wager on him. He fought barehanded too, but with the weight of a brawler—thick wrists, knotted forearms, and the heavy stance of someone ready to absorb punishment before delivering it back.
From the elders' pavilion, Elder Xu's voice was low but audible to his neighbors. "Break his guard. Force him to commit to a power exchange."
Elder Zhan didn't even look at him. "He won't overcommit. He'll wait for the angle."
The referee dropped his hand. "Begin!"
Fang Ruo came in hard, aiming to smother Haotian's space before he could establish rhythm. A heavy right hook, followed by a low knee. Haotian pivoted—thup!—letting the strike brush past his ribs while his left hand caught Fang Ruo's wrist, twisting just enough to unbalance him. The counter came in a heartbeat: a palm strike to the sternum, sharp and precise.
The crowd roared.
But Fang Ruo grinned through the impact, grabbing at Haotian's sleeve with his free hand. The tug was subtle—pulling him just enough off-line for a sweeping leg to follow.
Haotian shifted with the drag, foot sliding like water over stone, letting the sweep pass harmlessly beneath him. The moment his foot landed, his weight dropped—bam!—a driving elbow into Fang Ruo's guard that rattled the man's balance.
Up in the stands, whispers spread. "He's reading him too fast."
Elder Xu's jaw tightened.
Fang Ruo tried to push harder, abandoning caution for a string of close-range strikes—body shots, hooks, even a headbutt attempt—but each was answered by Haotian's barehand counters. A deflected blow became a wrist lock. A guard break became a short rib strike. By the third exchange, the rhythm was clear: Fang Ruo was playing checkers, and Haotian was playing go.
The final moment came when Fang Ruo lunged in with a feinting overhand meant to bait a block. Haotian didn't block. He stepped into the arc, closed the space in a single breath, and drove a rising palm into the underside of Fang Ruo's chin—crack!—snapping the man's head back and sending him stumbling.
Before Fang Ruo could recover, Haotian's other hand clamped his shoulder, dragging him forward into a sweeping hip throw that thudded him against the ring floor.
The referee's hand shot up. "Victory—Haotian!"
The Martial Hall side erupted, but the elders' pavilion was a quieter storm. The rival hall elders spoke in low, clipped tones—already adjusting the bracket for what came next. This wasn't a clean win in their eyes; it was a siege breach. And breaches had to be sealed.
Haotian left the ring without a word, but his eyes had already moved to the next column on the bracket. They were throwing walls in front of him. He would keep walking until there were none left.
The sun dipped low beyond the arena walls, turning the sky into a wash of gold and violet. The final cheers of the day had long faded, replaced by the shuffle of attendants sweeping the ring and the muted hum of spectators drifting back to their quarters.
Inside the private meeting chamber reserved for the elders, incense curled lazily into the rafters. The mood was neither celebratory nor entirely dour—it was the kind of quiet that follows a day where nothing went according to plan.
One elder tapped a finger against the table. "He's more dangerous than expected. And he's still not using weapons."
Another sniffed. "Dangerous, yes—but predictable. If we keep pairing him against fighters who can smother him early—"
"You mean like Fang Ruo?" a third interrupted, the sarcasm sharp enough to draw a few sidelong glances. "That worked out beautifully."
The talk looped in circles—adjusting brackets, predicting his stamina, arguing over whether to escalate or draw him into a war of attrition. Every voice was a calculation, and every calculation circled back to the same frustration: the boy was slipping through their plans like water through clenched fists.
But in the sect master's quarters, the conversation was sharper, quieter, and far more dangerous.
Sect Master Ronghua stood before the open balcony, hands clasped behind his back as the last light of day played across the mountain ridges. Beside him sat High Elder Jian of the Martial Hall, a man whose gaze was as still and heavy as a drawn bow.
"They're not just testing his strength," Jian said, voice low. "They're probing for a weakness they can exploit—on the field or off it. They're moving like this is already a political match."
Ronghua didn't answer at first. His eyes followed a hawk's shadow sweeping across the lower courtyards before he finally spoke. "Do they know?"
Jian's brows drew together. "His true identity? No. At least… not most of them. Only a handful of elders know, and they're not talking."
"That handful had better keep it that way," Ronghua said, his tone hardening. "If the wrong ears hear it—if the wrong halls hear it—we won't be talking about clever bracket games anymore. We'll be talking about war."
Silence stretched between them for a beat.
Finally, the sect master turned from the balcony, his robes whispering across the floor. "Enough of this. I'll put a leash on it before they push him too far."
By the time the brazier had been stoked for the evening, a sealed notice had already been drafted and sent to every hall elder within the Burning Sun Sect.
The message was simple, but it carried the weight of steel:
Cease targeted matches and undue political pressure against the disciple known as Haotian. Continued provocation will result in backlash from the Four Saint Dragons of the Eastern Province. If that comes to pass, the Burning Sun Sect will not escape unscathed.
Those who read it understood. Those who doubted only had to recall the tales of the Saint Dragons—names spoken rarely, in tones that still carried the shadow of ancient flame. To weather one was to court disaster. To face four was to invite ruin.
That night, the sect's halls were quieter than usual. Plans were redrawn in private. Some elders gritted their teeth and resolved to wait for another day. Others began to wonder, for the first time, just who this Haotian truly was.
Dawn broke over the Burning Sun Sect in muted gold, the mountains casting long, cool shadows over the tournament grounds. The banners that lined the arena stirred in the early wind, their silken edges whispering against one another like old conspirators exchanging secrets.
From the outer courtyards to the inner ring, the air felt… different.
It wasn't the usual expectant buzz of the tournament's second day. Whispers still moved like ripples across the crowd, but they carried none of the casual speculation from before. Every word seemed tighter, every glance heavier—as though the very air had been weighed down overnight.
And at the center of it all was one name.
Haotian.
When he entered through the east gate, the crowd's reaction wasn't the usual roar of approval or the sneer of rival supporters. Instead, the hum of voices stilled just enough for the sound of his steps—calm, unhurried—to carry across the stone.
His expression was as steady as ever, but there was no mistaking the shift in the way people looked at him. Yesterday, they had measured him like a prize fighter, a piece on the game board of sect politics. Today, their eyes held the wariness reserved for things they weren't certain they should prod at all.
In the shaded pavilions, elders from the rival halls leaned toward one another, their conversations barely more than moving lips. They had received the sect master's warning in the dead of night, and now that knowledge sat in their stomachs like cold iron. The Four Saint Dragons. Even in whispered rumor, the weight of that threat could crush a man's appetite for risk.
Up in the high seats, Sect Master Ronghua watched the crowd's unease with a faint, unreadable curve to his lips. Beside him, High Elder Jian kept his gaze on Haotian, his thoughts unvoiced.
Haotian's steps never faltered. He moved across the arena floor as though the murmurs didn't exist, his bare hands loose at his sides, his posture unyielding. If he noticed the shift in the air—the way the crowd seemed to hold its breath as he passed—he gave no sign.
Somewhere deep in the audience, a voice finally broke the quiet. "It's him."
The words were simple, but the ripple they sent through the stands was anything but.
Because this morning, it wasn't about who Haotian could beat.It was about who might come for the sect if anyone pushed him too far.
And that made the match ahead feel less like sport… and more like stepping onto a battlefield with a storm crouched at its edge.
The announcer's voice rang out across the stone arena, a ceremonial tone masking the faint tremor that only the most attentive ears could catch.
"Next match—Outer Court disciple Haotian… versus Inner Court disciple Fang Yuren of the Martial Hall!"
A stir moved through the stands at the name. Fang Yuren was no minor challenger—he was the Martial Hall's favored blade, a prodigy in disciplined forms and calculated strikes. Before last night, his name had been spoken as one of the sure bets to rise into the tournament's late stages. Today, his role had taken on a sharper edge.
Fang Yuren stepped onto the arena floor with a composure so measured it was almost brittle. His eyes locked on Haotian—not with disdain, but with a calculated, almost surgical intent. He bowed as etiquette demanded, but the stiffness in the gesture betrayed the tension running beneath his skin.
The crowd leaned forward, caught between two conflicting currents: the fear of the Four Saint Dragons' shadow and the stubborn pride of the sect's own champion-to-be.
The signal to begin fell like a hammer.
Fang Yuren didn't charge recklessly. He circled, footwork crisp, each movement weighted with the caution of a man who knew the stakes extended far beyond himself. His strikes came like testing needles—short, fast bursts meant to probe for reaction, never quite committing fully.
Haotian didn't yield ground. Bare hands relaxed, he met each strike with effortless redirects, subtle deflections that sent Yuren's momentum slipping into empty space. The crowd saw no wasted motion—only the quiet confidence of someone who didn't need to prove he could dominate, because the outcome was never in doubt.
The air between them crackled with an unspoken truth: this wasn't a duel between equals.
And Yuren knew it.
That knowledge only drove him harder. His breath came sharper, his steps faster, his blade flashing in controlled arcs meant to break Haotian's guard. Yet every time he thought he'd found the opening, Haotian's palm or forearm was simply there, redirecting steel with the barest twist of muscle.
Then Haotian stepped in.
It was only one pace, but it collapsed the distance like a closing door. His hand shot forward, not in a strike but a controlled push—redirecting Yuren's sword line past his body while his other palm pressed against Yuren's chest.
A sharp, resonant THOOM echoed as the force carried Yuren backward, sliding across the arena floor until he caught himself at the edge.
The crowd exhaled as one.
Fear had shifted again—no longer the fear of dragons, but the fear of realizing that even without a weapon, Haotian's control was absolute.
In the high pavilion, the sect master's gaze never wavered. High Elder Jian's eyes narrowed slightly, reading the message written between every exchange: This is why you do not push him.
The roar of the crowd had barely faded before the murmurs began. In the tiered stands, elders leaned toward one another, voices low but edged with urgency.
"That control… he didn't even break a sweat."
"It's not brute strength—he's reading the flow before it forms."
"If the Martial Hall's prodigy can't push him, we may need to… adjust our stance."
"Or align with him before someone else does."
Strategies shifted in mid-breath. What yesterday had been a hunt for leverage was now the careful drafting of escape routes and alliance proposals. The shadow of the Sect Master's warning loomed over them, and yet—old habits in these halls died hard.
Then—
BOOOOM—CRRRRAAACK!
A thunderous roar tore through the sky, rolling down like a mountain splitting in half. Heads snapped upward. High above the sect's arena, four streaks of light tore across the firmament—each wrapped in a storm of elemental resonance. Even held in check, the weight of their presence pressed on the chest like a hand of iron.
The streaks curved downward, angling toward the arena.
WHUUM—THUD!THUD!THUD!THUD!
Four figures landed on the battle platform without so much as a tremor in their expressions. Their auras were muted, restrained to the level of a whisper—and yet the undeniable truth of their existence bled through every movement.
No one spoke. The air was thick with held breath.
The Sect Master stood from his dais, cupping his hands in formal greeting, voice measured but lined with curiosity. "Honored guests, may I ask who—"
He never finished.
From the edge of the competitor's area, Haotian was already moving, Lianhua right at his side. Their pace wasn't rushed—but it wasn't hesitant either. The way they closed the distance told everyone watching that this was no random arrival.
When Haotian stopped before the four, his voice carried just enough for the stands to hear.
"Ancestors."
Yangshen's gaze softened, his proud frame casting a long shadow over the platform. Beside him, Yuying's eyes glimmered with a matriarch's warmth. Jinhai's stoic nod carried the weight of quiet approval, while Meiyun's smile curved into a shape only those she cared for ever saw.
They looked at Haotian—and they all smiled.
Lianhua stepped forward next, bowing low in respect. Meiyun's smile deepened. In one graceful step she closed the space, drawing Lianhua into a gentle embrace and patting her head with the fondness of a grandmother with her favored grandchild.
"It has been too long," Meiyun murmured, though the words were for Lianhua alone.
To the side, Yuying's gaze flicked between them, an almost imperceptible look of approval in her eyes. The elders watching from afar could not hear the words, but they could see the ease, the familiarity. They could see what it meant.
On the dais, the Sect Master had gone pale. His hands, hidden within his sleeves, trembled.
Yesterday, he had sent the warning—do not push Haotian any further, or the Four Saint Dragons of the Eastern Province may come.
And now… here they were.
In full view of the entire sect.
For a moment, the arena was carved out of pure silence. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, as if afraid to brush against the platform.
Then—like cracks spreading through ice—the whispers began.
"They're here… the actual Four Saint Dragons…"
"Not just rumor. Look at their faces—look at the way Haotian greets them."
"This changes everything… absolutely everything."
The tension shifted so fast it was dizzying. What had been measured calculation and cautious opportunism dissolved into a scramble of survival instincts. Hall representatives leaned toward each other in frantic huddles. Those who had plotted to leverage Haotian now weighed whether an apology could be sent before sunset. Others, slower to adapt, were already falling behind the current, eyes darting like cornered prey.
"They said the Eastern Province never leaves its borders…"
"Not unless the cause is blood. Or kin."
"Kin… You mean—?"
"Who else would the Zhenlong Ancestors personally descend for?"
The Sect Master's warning from yesterday suddenly seemed less like a protective gesture and more like divine prophecy. A few of the bolder elders glanced toward him, gauging his expression, but quickly looked away—he had not moved from his position, hands still hidden in his sleeves, face composed but with the faint pallor of a man who had just realized every unspoken calculation in the sect had been overturned in the space of a heartbeat.
The political board had been swept clean. Every strategy that involved cornering Haotian was now a gamble with stakes far higher than reputation.
And no one wanted to see what would happen if they lost.