Haotian stepped forward before the murmurs could fully settle, his voice quiet but cutting clean through the stillness."Ancestors… why are you here?"
Yangshen's eyes softened, the weight of his presence momentarily eased. "We were passing by," he said, as though the arrival of the Four Saint Dragons could be so casual. "Our path takes us west, to visit an old friend. But we heard of this tournament… and of you. We thought it right to stop and see you—and Lianhua—before we continued."
Lianhua's eyes brightened, a faint flush rising to her cheeks.
Then Yangshen turned, his gaze settling on the Sect Master. The air thickened, not with killing intent, but with the unspoken reminder of exactly who stood before them."Sect Master of the Burning Sun Sect," Yangshen said, his tone courteous yet carrying a weight that pressed on every ear in the arena, "with your permission, we will watch the remainder of this tournament. When it concludes, we will take our leave."
The Sect Master rose so quickly his chair legs screeched against the platform, bowing low with hands cupped. "It would be… an honor. The sect welcomes you, revered ones. Please—allow me to prepare seats for your comfort."
He didn't wait for a second nod before signaling attendants. A flurry of motion followed—chairs with fresh silk cushions brought to the viewing dais, steaming tea poured into carved jade cups, trays of preserved fruits and delicate pastries arranged in careful rows. The servants moved with the hushed urgency of people who understood one wrong step could turn into a death wish.
As the ancestors took their seats, the crowd's energy shifted again—curiosity now tinged with reverence, fear braided with awe. It wasn't just a tournament anymore. This had become a stage where every move would be judged under the eyes of the most untouchable beings in the Eastern Province.
The next match began, the clang of the starting gong echoing across the arena. Haotian stepped toward the edge of the waiting platform, but before he could fully focus on the ring, a voice—low and resonant—slid into his ear.
"Haotian," Yangshen murmured, his words meant for him alone.
Haotian turned slightly. Yangshen was seated with the other ancestors, but his gaze was fixed entirely on him, golden eyes holding a knowing sharpness beneath their calm surface.
"I've seen the way they look at you," Yangshen continued. "Fear. Curiosity. Envy. This is the weight of your bloodline—and it will only grow heavier from here." His tone wasn't scolding, but neither was it soft; it was the tempered steel of someone who had lived centuries under that same weight. "Every opponent who steps in that ring with you will either try to bow you… or break you. If you falter, they will say you are only strong because of us. If you win, they will fear you all the more."
Haotian's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing just slightly. "Then I'll make sure there's no doubt," he said quietly.
A faint smile curved Yangshen's lips—not quite approval, not quite challenge, but something in between. "Good. We came here to watch you, not to shield you. Let's see if the world is ready for what you've become."
Across the arena, the referee's voice rose above the crowd, calling Haotian's name. The eyes of the entire sect, the rival halls, and now the Four Saint Dragons all bore down on him at once. The pressure was no longer just political—it was personal, familial, and impossible to escape.
Haotian stepped forward.
The clang of the gong was still echoing when Haotian stepped to the center of the ring, Yangshen's words like molten iron cooling in his chest. Bow you… or break you. There would be no bowing, and no breaking—not today.
He stood tall, his eyes locked on his opponent. The other disciple shifted into a guarded stance, weight balanced, cautious but coiled to strike. The crowd's chatter swelled, thick with the tension of political games and whispered wagers.
Then Haotian let go.
A sudden BOOM rattled the air as his aura erupted outward, a torrent of force that punched against the arena wards. The shockwave rolled through the stands, setting robes fluttering and sending several lesser cultivators stumbling back. His cultivation base blazed into view—Core Transformation Realm.
The crowd didn't gasp. They smirked. Many elders leaned forward, their eyes narrowing with calculating satisfaction. So this is the limit, they thought. At last, something they could measure. Something they could box in.
But before their satisfaction could settle—
A crack split the silence. Golden lightning burst from Haotian's skin in branching arcs, flooding the ring in blinding radiance. Each spark hissed with the sound of tearing air, the pressure twisting the space around him.
The smirks vanished.
Haotian didn't wait. His body vanished in a streak of gold, the ring floor spiderwebbing from the force of his step.
CRASH—!
The sound came a breath after the strike had already landed. His opponent crumpled to the ground, their weapon still half-raised, eyes wide with disbelief. The protective wards around the platform groaned under the backlash.
For the vast majority of the audience, it was over before they understood it had begun. Even seasoned elders blinked in disorientation, trying to piece together what had just happened.
Only the sect master, the high elder of the Martial Hall, and a select few in the highest seats had followed his movement clearly.
Above them all, the Four Saint Dragons sat unmoving—save for the faintly amused smiles tugging at their lips. Yangshen leaned back, folding his arms. "Still holding back," he murmured.
Yuying chuckled, a low, rich sound. "They think they've seen him fight."
Jinhai's smirk was sharper. "If he let loose, even their Soul Transformation champions wouldn't walk away intact."
The sect master's fingers curled against his armrest. He knew—better than the rest—that Haotian's true reach wasn't just above this stage. It was above the very ceiling of this hall. The boy could go toe-to-toe with four Soul Transformation experts at once. These matches were nothing more than a warm-up.
And somewhere deep in the crowd, the political calculus shifted yet again.
The arena was still buzzing when Haotian stepped down from the platform, golden lightning fading to a faint hum beneath his skin. The corridors and upper galleries of the sect's grand hall rippled with hushed voices.
"He… he didn't even draw his weapon."
"Did you see that speed? No, of course you didn't, none of us could."
"That wasn't Core Transformation strength—what kind of cultivation is he hiding?"
Even among the high platforms where elders and hall masters sat, the atmosphere had turned brittle. Political schemes, carefully stacked like lacquered tiles, now threatened to collapse under the weight of one youth's presence.
The matches continued, though the crowd's attention was fractured—half on the ring, half on the elevated seats where the Four Saint Dragons sat in silent, imposing judgment. The next pairing was announced.
Haotian stepped forward. His opponent, a senior disciple with years of tournament experience, walked up the platform steps… and stopped.
The disciple bowed low to the referee. "I forfeit."
The words rang louder than any gong.
A stunned hush fell over the arena, broken a moment later by an eruption of indignant whispers from the elder rows.
"What nonsense is this?"
"He was supposed to test him—"
"Does he have no loyalty to his own hall?"
Plans—months in the making—crumbled in an instant.
Up in the honored seats, Yangshen chuckled under his breath. "The boy made the right choice."
Yuying inclined her head slightly. "Why offer yourself up just to be humiliated?"
The gathered elders glanced upward at the remark, but their tongues froze. No one dared to openly counter the words of a Saint Dragon.
Meanwhile, in the sect master's seat, a very different calculation was brewing. There is no way to continue like this, he thought grimly. His fingers curled around the carved handle of his chair. If the other competitors were too frightened—or too wise—to face Haotian, then there was only one logical outcome. I should just declare him champion here and now.
He began to rise—
"Don't even try."
The voice slithered into his mind like a cold draft. The sect master froze mid-motion, eyes darting sideways to the ancestors' dais. Yangshen's gaze was fixed forward, but there was no mistaking the mental transmission.
Before he could respond, another voice echoed through his thoughts—this one rich and teasing. "You ox, why stop him? He's about to crown the boy champion." Yuying's mental tone carried a smirk.
Then came Jinhai, calm and knowing: "He just wants Haotian to push himself. To see him serious."
A softer voice followed, smooth as drifting mist—Meiyun. "But to make him serious, one of us would need to step forward."
The sect master's mind jolted. One of them? Spar with… him? His breath caught. That means… Haotian's combat level… is the same as the Saints?
A bead of sweat traced down his temple.
Yangshen's voice returned, casual yet edged with anticipation. "How about I spar with him?"
A sudden mental bark—Yuying, sharp and reprimanding: "You? The last time you two sparred, you blew away an entire mountain."
Meiyun's quiet laugh slipped in. "Then should I? I can keep the damage contained."
Jinhai's mental tone was firm. "Agreed."
Yuying's voice softened, amused. "Yes, she's the best choice. At least the sect won't collapse in the process."
Inside, the sect master was already weeping without tears. Please… please don't destroy my sect.
Meiyun's stillness broke like a silk curtain catching the wind. She rose from her seat on the ancestor's dais with unhurried grace, her long sleeves whispering as they shifted. A faint, mischievous smile curved her lips, the kind that promised trouble before the first move was even made.
Down below, Haotian—who had been glancing elsewhere—felt it. Not a sound, not a sight, but an icy ripple lanced down his spine. His muscles tensed. He turned sharply, instincts roaring.
There she was.
Ancestor Meiyun stood—not in her seat, not in the corridor—but at the center of the battle platform.
When?
A ripple of disbelief swept the hall. Not even the other Saints had caught her movement. The air itself seemed unsure if she had ever crossed the distance or simply appeared.
From the viewing stand, Lianhua shot to her feet. Her face blanched, pupils narrowing to slits. She knew. That pressure. That suffocating stillness before the sky split open. She'd felt it countless times—always before the world turned upside down.
"They're going to spar," she breathed, but her voice was already sharp with urgency. She spun toward the six guards and Yueying. "Run. Now."
No one questioned her.
In one swift motion, she scooped Xiaoque into her arms and bolted for the exit, skirts snapping like banners in a storm. The commotion she caused drew every eye in the gallery toward her…
…and that's when it happened.
BOOM!
A shockwave tore through the platform, rattling the high beams and shaking dust from the rafters. The spectators flinched—eyes darting back to the ring—just in time to see Haotian already airborne, his body a dark blur against the sunlit expanse.
What—?!
Meiyun… had not moved. She stood exactly where she'd been a breath ago, hands still clasped within her sleeves, the faintest trace of that smile lingering.
Haotian twisted midair, forcing his body upright. His boots scraped against empty sky before he dropped down, landing hard enough to crack the tiles beneath him. Blood splattered from the corner of his mouth, stark against the white of his collar.
Slowly, he lifted his head. The golden glare in his eyes met her gaze without wavering. His lips curved into something between defiance and exhilaration.
"Challenge…" He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. "…accepted."
Haotian's heels scraped once against the tile, his center lowering into a perfect combat stance. His gaze locked on Meiyun's—steady, unreadable.
She never stopped smiling.
"Show us," she said at last, her voice carrying like silk over steel, "just how much you've improved… since leaving."
The air thickened.
Haotian's aura surged outward—Core Transformation Realm—and the platform groaned under the sudden gravity of it. Golden lightning erupted from his frame in jagged arcs, snapping and cracking through the air like chained thunder. His right hand ignited with blazing gold fire, the flames rolling in spirals that shimmered with heat mirage. His left hand swirled with coiling tides, water spinning into a spiraling helix that hissed with compressed force.
A soft yellow sheen spread across his skin, the Earth element wrapping him in an armored glow. His boots blasted with wind, lifting him just enough to hover above the cracked platform. The gash along his ribs closed instantly, blood vanishing in a flare of wood element as green light stitched him whole.
The elders murmured—he was wielding five elements at once.
Meiyun's smile sharpened.
"Come."
The word was barely spoken before Haotian vanished.
CRACK!
The air tore as shockwaves detonated around Meiyun's still form. She stood with her hands in her sleeves, gaze fixed forward, her eyes tracking… nothing. Yet the arena buckled around her.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Shockwaves erupted like thunderclaps, tile and stone shattering under invisible collisions. Haotian's form couldn't be seen—only the aftershocks, each one slamming into the atmosphere with enough force to warp the air.
The platform fractured down the middle. The sect walls groaned under the battering pressure; hairline cracks splintered upward like lightning frozen in stone.
Elders in the front rows were shoved backward. Some lost their footing entirely, robes snapping as they tumbled into the air before catching themselves with desperate bursts of qi.
The Sect Master gritted his teeth, gripping the arms of his chair—until the entire seat tore free and was hurled into the crowd like driftwood in a flood. He dropped into a horse stance, knees bent, trying to anchor himself. But each shockwave pushed him back, boots grinding lines into the stone. One arm shielded his face from flying debris, the other braced at his side.
And still… they kept coming.
Between the quakes of force, his eyes darted to the dais—and froze.
The other three Saints were watching the fight… with bright, almost joyous expressions. Not one of them had budged an inch. The shockwaves seemed to slide around them entirely, as though the battlefield itself bent to avoid them.
On the far end, Yuying's gaze had been fixed on the exchange, but her brow creased—Lianhua and her group were still scrambling for the exit, fighting the turbulent wind. With a flick of her fingers, reality folded.
Snap.
In an instant, they were behind her, safely within the tranquil circle of the Saints' presence.
"Sit," she instructed simply, gesturing to the seat beside her.
Lianhua obeyed at once, Xiaoque clutched tight in her arms, eyes wide at the chaos raging just meters away. The difference was staggering—the Saints' barrier was calm, serene… the safest place in the arena.
Beyond it, Haotian and Meiyun's high-speed battle raged, the platform groaning like it might split apart at any moment.
Lianhua leaned closer, eyes flicking between the chaotic bursts on the stage and Yuying's serene smile."How's the battle going?" she asked, voice tight.
Yuying tilted her head, mischief in her eyes. "You can't tell?"
Lianhua gawked at the booming shockwaves rattling the stands. "How am I supposed to tell?!" she nearly shouted, sounding like a child on the verge of tears.
Yuying chuckled softly, then her tone settled into quiet explanation. "Haotian is fighting desperately. Every strike you feel is him trying to break Meiyun's guard. Right now… they're playing a game of chess. And Meiyun hasn't lost a single piece."
Yangshen's deep voice rumbled from the side. "His fire and wind elements have advanced. Did he switch cultivation?"
Jinhai folded his arms, eyes narrowing on the flashes of gold and crimson streaking across the platform. "Seems like it. Minor success."
The next instant—
BOOOOM.
A shockwave unlike the others detonated across the sect, blowing tiles from roofs and hurling debris into the air. The Sect Master's chair ripped free from the floor, sending him skidding a full meter back before he slammed a foot down, cracking the stone beneath to anchor himself. His eyes snapped to the stage—
Haotian stood there at last, visible. Crouched low, lightning and fire coiling into a spear in his right hand. A thin, high-speed ring of water spun around his left, razor-sharp and hissing with lethal promise. Wind still burst from his legs, lifting dust and shards from the cracked platform. His golden Eyes of the Universe blazed, dissecting every breath Meiyun took.
Blood streaked down his arms and legs, dripping to the stone. Yet a faint green glow pulsed across his skin, knitting wounds shut in defiance of the damage.
The air itself seemed ready to split—
"That is enough."
Yangshen's voice boomed like a temple bell, shaking the very marrow of every onlooker. Haotian blinked—and the golden light in his eyes flickered out.
Meiyun's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. "Not bad," she murmured, then snapped her fingers.
The world shattered.
The stage, the cracked walls, the screaming wind—gone. In the next blink, everything was as it had been before the first step of their duel. The Sect Master sat in his chair as if he had never moved. Elders found themselves standing exactly where they began.
An illusion.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even those who had seen Saints at work before felt their hearts race. The battle had felt real—every strike, every breath, every blow against the skin—yet none of it had touched the world.
Yangshen chuckled deep in his chest, but there was no warmth in his eyes. "Fire and wind—both improved. But… only to a minor success." His tone carried open disappointment. "For all the time you've spent here, I had expected more."
He turned his gaze toward the Sect Master and elders, voice cutting the air like a blade.
"If this is all the progress he can make under your roof, I may as well take him back home now."
The Sect Master's face tightened, elders shifting uncomfortably under the weight of the words. The air in the hall grew heavier, every heartbeat drawn taut.
Yangshen's words fell like thunder.
"If this is all the progress he can make under your roof, I may as well take him back home now."
The Sect Master froze. His cultivation might be at the peak of Soul Transformation, but before a Saint like Yangshen, he was less than an ant. If Yangshen wished, he could pinch him to dust without lifting a finger.
Face paling, the Sect Master immediately rose, cupping his hands and bowing low. "This is… my fault. The sect has been negligent in guiding Haotian's growth. Please… forgive this oversight."
Before Yangshen could reply, Haotian straightened his back and cut in. "I don't want to go back yet."
Yangshen's golden eyes narrowed. "It is not a matter of what you want—"
"It is exactly about what I want!" Haotian shot back, his voice sharp. "I can still learn here. I'm not leaving."
Yangshen's brow twitched. "You dare talk back to me?"
"You're the one trying to drag me away!" Haotian retorted, stepping forward. "I said I'm not going."
The elders looked on in stunned horror. To openly defy a Saint… this was madness. They exchanged glances, some holding their breath, expecting Yangshen to crush him with a gesture.
Instead, Haotian dropped right onto the floor with a thump, sitting cross-legged in lotus style, arms crossed over his chest. He turned his head away from Yangshen with a deliberate pout, as if to say, I'm not moving.
Yangshen's jaw tightened, his aura crackling faintly.
From the side, Lianhua's shoulders trembled—then she burst into giggles. Beside her, Yuying covered her mouth, laughter spilling past her fingers, and even Meiyun's lips curled in amusement.
Yuying leaned over toward Lianhua with a teasing smirk. "Are you sure you want to choose such a child?"
Lianhua's laughter stopped short. Her cheeks flared, and even the tips of her ears turned crimson. "Ancestor! Don't tease me!" she protested, voice pitching higher than she intended.
Yangshen exhaled slowly, muttering something under his breath about "children in grown bodies," while the rest of the hall tried—and failed—to keep their composure.