The great tournament arena thrummed with anticipation, a living beast of stone and wood that breathed with the collective excitement of thousands. Cultivators filled the stands like scattered jewels—outer disciples clutching worn robes, inner disciples with their pristine silks, and elders seated with the gravity of mountains watching clouds drift by. The air itself seemed to shimmer with expectation, heavy as incense and twice as intoxicating.
The first round erupted with the fury of summer storms.
Yan Zheng moved across his platform like poetry written in steel and flesh. His opponent—a respectable cultivator from the outer sect—found himself disarmed and defeated before he could properly draw breath. Not a single drop of sweat marred Yan Zheng's brow, though his eyes held the focused calm of deep waters.
Chi Ruyan's match unfolded with the elegant lethality of a swan breaking a serpent's neck. Her violet spiritual leashes danced through the air like silk ribbons caught in celestial wind, beautiful and deadly in equal measure. Her opponent surrendered before tasting defeat's bitter kiss, wisdom outweighing pride.
On another platform, Lu Rourou somehow managed victory through what could only be described as miraculous incompetence. She stumbled from the stage clutching her wrist, wailing with the melodrama of a tragic opera heroine.
"This wasn't in my life plan!" she declared to the heavens. "I trained to marry well and eat expensive delicacies, not... not this barbarism!"
Lan Xueyao passed her trial with the flowing grace of wind through bamboo, her swordwork drawing appreciative murmurs from the crowd like scattered petals of praise.
Even Shen Yao advanced, though not without a smugly satisfied little dance that made several spectators question his dignity.
But the moment that truly stole the arena's breath was Chen Xinyu's victory.
The infamous slacker of Verdant Cloud Sect—the boy who treated training like an optional social gathering—had won his first round.
"Impossible," someone whispered.
"Did he cheat?" another demanded.
"Perhaps he's been hiding his true cultivation all along!"
Murmurs rippled through the stands like wind through wheat fields. But Xinyu remained blissfully oblivious to the speculation, stepping down from his platform with the casual air of someone who'd just completed a routine chore.
As for Prince Hua Ling—his opponent took one look at those winter-dark eyes and surrendered without drawing steel. The prince stood motionless as carved jade beneath the sun, a phantom in crimson robes that no mortal dared test.
---
Rounds blurred together like brushstrokes on silk. The crowd's roar crescendoed with each clash, each victory, each dramatic fall. Blood and sweat painted the arena floors while spiritual energy crackled overhead like caged lightning.
To everyone's continued amazement, Lu Rourou clawed her way to the quarterfinals through sheer luck and her opponents' inexplicable misfortunes. Unfortunately, fate had paired her against Yan Zheng.
The match began with Rourou tiptoeing onto the platform like a mouse approaching a sleeping dragon. She immediately raised both hands in surrender.
"Yan-ge," she whispered with desperate urgency, "I yield. Please don't destroy my face—I'm still unmarried!"
Yan Zheng blinked in bewilderment. "What are you—"
"Pretend I fought valiantly!" she hissed. "My hair is still damp from crying!"
With a long-suffering sigh worthy of ancient sages, Yan Zheng facepalmed. "Just... get off the stage."
Rourou flounced away in theatrical tears, leaving the arena master to announce Yan Zheng's victory to a crowd torn between laughter and secondhand embarrassment.
---
Then came the match that set every nerve ablaze: Chen Xinyu versus Chi Ruyan.
Chi Ruyan glided onto the platform with predatory grace, her smile sweet as poisoned honey. Violet eyes glinted with anticipation sharper than any blade.
Finally,she thought, savoring the moment like fine wine. Time to erase this thorn from His Highness's world.
At the sidelines, Hua Ling stood with arms crossed, having just claimed victory in his own effortless match. But his dark gaze never left the arena below, fixed on the two figures preparing to clash. His hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles went white as bone.
Xinyu struck first, his movements swift as diving hawks. But Chi Ruyan flowed around his attack like water around stones, utterly unfazed by his assault.
"Is that truly all?" she mocked, voice dripping disdain.
Her violet leashes snapped through the air like striking serpents, one catching Xinyu across the arm. Blood bloomed bright as poppies against his white robes.
He fell.
From the stands, Master Zhou gasped audibly. "Xinyu!"
Hua Ling's breath caught in his throat. Something cold and terrible spread through his chest like winter's first frost.
But Xinyu rose. Wounded, trembling, but with eyes that burned like stars refusing to die.
What happened next stole the breath from every watching throat.
Xinyu began to move differently—his sword flowing like captured moonlight, his form ethereal as morning mist. The technique Lingque had taught him transformed his clumsy strikes into something approaching divine artistry. His hair fell loose around his shoulders, blood painting his lips crimson, and yet he moved with beauty that made hearts skip beats.
Chi Ruyan faltered, confusion cracking her perfect composure. *This... this can't be right. How is he suddenly so powerful?*
"He's only Foundation Stage!" someone shouted from the stands. "How can he move like that?"
"I've never even seen him practice seriously!"
A female disciple whispered dreamily, "I didn't know Chen Xinyu could be so... captivating."
Hua Ling's expression turned to stone, colder than winter mountains.
Fury blazing in her violet eyes, Chi Ruyan unleashed her full power. Her spiritual leashes wrapped around Xinyu like binding chains, lifting and hurling him across the platform. He struck the stone with bone-jarring force, coughing blood that scattered like scattered rubies.
But then—
With a whisper soft as falling snow, "Fluffycock, I'm keeping my promise," Xinyu rose one final time.
His blade lifted toward heaven.
His technique blazed with inner light.
The arena fell silent as death itself as he moved, every strike catching sunlight and transforming it into liquid gold—beautiful, focused, untouchable as the moon reflected in still water.
The final blow descended like divine judgment.
Light exploded across the platform. When it faded, Chi Ruyan lay motionless on the cracked stone.
"Chen Xinyu wins!" the arena master's voice thundered.
Xinyu blinked once, smiled with innocent satisfaction, then collapsed unconscious.
Hua Ling stepped forward instinctively—but froze mid-motion, fingers trembling at his sides. His chest constricted as if iron bands were tightening around his ribs.
*Why does watching him suffer feel like my own heart being carved out?*
Master Zhou rushed onto the platform, gathering Xinyu against his chest with tender care. "Take him to the infirmary immediately!" he commanded, voice cracking with emotion.
He brushed gentle fingers through Xinyu's sweat-dampened hair, tears glimmering in his eyes like morning dew.
"My little boy... you've grown so strong."
From the sidelines, Shen Yao and Yan Zheng watched in stunned silence.
"Did... did he actually defeat that terrifying woman?" Shen muttered.
Yan nodded slowly. "He did. But he looks half-dead."
Zhou approached them with worry etched deep in his weathered features. "Focus on your next match, Zheng-er. I'll watch over Xinyu."
---
The semifinal between Lan Xueyao and Yan Zheng unfolded like a dance between wind and mountain. Xueyao's blade work flowed like silk streams while Yan Zheng met each strike with unshakeable resolve. They painted the platform with sparks and spiritual energy, drawing gasps of admiration from the mesmerized crowd.
But eventually, Xueyao's footing failed her, and Yan Zheng's final strike sent her sword spinning through the air.
"Winner: Yan Zheng!"
The arena erupted in thunderous applause.
---
Finally came the moment every soul had been waiting for: the ultimate clash between Prince Hua Ling and Yan Zheng.
The platform fell silent as the two powerhouses faced each other—one the untouchable demon prince, cold as winter's heart; the other the sect's proudest son, steady as ancient mountains.
Yan Zheng drew his blade with respectful ceremony. "I won't dishonor this match by holding back."
Hua Ling's eyes narrowed to winter stars. "Good. Neither will I."
In the stands, disciples held their breath like a congregation witnessing divine revelation.
"This will be a massacre," Shen Yao whispered.
Lu Rourou clutched her robes. "My poor Yan-ge, don't let him kill you..."
Lan Xueyao folded her arms grimly. "Don't underestimate Yan Zheng. He's not easily defeated."
Nearby, Chen Xinyu sat propped on a stretcher, pale as winter moonlight with bandages wrapped around his arms. His vision blurred and his lips were dry as autumn leaves, but wild horses couldn't drag him away from this spectacle.
"Final match—begin!"
Yan Zheng vanished like morning mist.
The next heartbeat found his sword at Hua Ling's throat, only to clash against a shimmering crimson barrier that materialized from nothing.
"Impressive," Hua Ling observed with detached calm. "But insufficient."
He gestured once, and the air exploded outward in waves of scarlet energy that cracked the platform stones.
Yan Zheng leaped backward, barely escaping annihilation. He launched himself forward again, and their blades met in a symphony of ringing steel—once, twice, then a blur of sparks as strikes flowed faster than mortal eyes could follow.
They moved like gods at war, each impact sending shockwaves through stone and bone. The arena floor cracked beneath their feet while dust clouds billowed skyward.
"Since when was Yan Zheng this powerful?!"
"And the prince isn't even using his real weapon yet..."
As if responding to the whispers, Hua Ling raised his palm. Dark energy coalesced into a blade that hummed with demonic power, its edge weeping shadows like tears of the damned.
The pressure he emanated intensified, pressing down on Yan Zheng like the weight of mountains.
Xinyu's heart hammered against his ribs as he watched. They're both monsters...
But Yan Zheng refused to yield. Golden light erupted around his blade as he activated the sect's most devastating technique. With a roar that shook the heavens, he charged through the crushing aura.
Their weapons met with the sound of worlds colliding.
The ground beneath them shattered completely.
Dust swallowed the sky.
Silence reigned for one eternal heartbeat.
Then Yan Zheng's form flew backward, skidding to the platform's very edge. His sword embedded itself in stone with a final, mournful ring.
When the dust settled, Hua Ling stood alone in the center—untouched, unmoved, magnificent in his terrible power.
The arena exploded in deafening cheers.
"Prince Hua Ling wins!"
Yan Zheng coughed once and sat up, ruefully rubbing his neck. "Well. That was educational."
Lu Rourou rushed over with tearful dramatics, waving her handkerchief like a flag of surrender. "You fought so beautifully, my brave warrior!"
Lan Xueyao snorted. "Idiot."
Hua Ling surveyed his fallen opponent, then turned away with the disinterest of winter regarding autumn's death.
But not before his gaze found Chen Xinyu across the arena.
For one impossible moment, their eyes met—dark winter stars and warm summer earth.
Then Hua Ling was gone, crimson robes trailing behind him like spilled wine against marble.
The tournament concluded with the finality of fate itself:
First Place: Prince Hua Ling
Second Place: Yan Zheng
Third Place: Chen Xinyu
The arena buzzed with gossip, admiration, and wild theories about Xinyu's miraculous transformation. But deep within his shadowed pavilion, Prince Hua Ling sat in silence, eyes closed, replaying every moment of Xinyu's final battle.
His hands remained clenched at his sides, and the tight, inexplicable ache in his chest refused to fade.