The midday sun spilled golden light over the arena, turning the crimson banners of the Academy of Crowns into ribbons of fire that fluttered in the wind. The roar of the crowd surged and fell in waves, each match stirring them into a frenzy. Edran sat in the shaded section of the stands, arms folded loosely, his dark gaze sweeping the central platform with the cool precision of a hawk tracking prey.
For once, he wasn't the one standing on that stage. Today, his role was to watch — to learn.
A gong rang, and the announcer's voice boomed.
"Next match — Reylen Stormborn of the House Stormborn, versus Lyric Aran of the Fire Lotus Sect!"
His elder sister, Reylen, stepped onto the stage, her long braid swaying with each measured stride. Foundation Establishment – Mid Stage. She didn't need the announcer to declare it; her aura was sharp and disciplined, the kind born of endless training under their father's stern eye.
Her opponent bowed politely before drawing a pair of crimson daggers, spiritual fire licking their edges.
Edran leaned back, expression unreadable. Lyric's footwork is quick, but her strikes… predictable.
The match began in a storm of steel and fire. Reylen's weapon, a crescent-bladed glaive, swept through the air like a scythe harvesting crops. Lyric darted in and out, her daggers flashing — but Reylen met every strike, using a mid-stage Foundation cultivator's superior stability to slowly corner her.
A final flourish — the glaive's blade traced a gleaming arc, knocking the daggers from Lyric's hands before the haft swept into her chest, sending her sprawling.
The crowd erupted.
In the family box above, their father nodded once, a flicker of approval breaking through his usual stone-faced demeanor. Their mother, ever more openly emotional, clapped sharply, pride shining in her eyes.
Edran noted the victory, but didn't cheer. He was already thinking ahead. Her form is solid… but she wastes spiritual essence in wide sweeps. Against a higher realm, that could kill her.
The next matches rolled on — flashy bouts of elemental bursts, flying swords, and summoned beasts. Edran watched them all, filing away strengths and weaknesses like pages in a ledger.
Then came the match he dreaded — and anticipated.
His younger brother, Kaelen, strode onto the platform, his jaw set. Qi Condensation – Peak Stage. His opponent, a burly disciple from the Iron Scale Sect, bore the same cultivation level but carried the kind of brutal confidence that came from winning by raw force.
Kaelen fought with twin spears — agile, relentless. At first, it worked. The Iron Scale disciple was driven back by quick, darting thrusts that struck at weak points in his armor. The crowd roared each time Kaelen landed a hit.
But the tide turned quickly. A heavy swing shattered one of Kaelen's spears, and from then on it was a slow collapse.
The final blow sent him skidding across the stone, chest heaving. He rose to his knees, but the announcer called the match.
In the family box, their mother's hands clenched white around the railing. Their father's jaw tightened, though he said nothing. Reylen looked away, her lips pressed into a thin line.
Edran exhaled slowly. He was reckless. Too eager to finish it quickly…
His gaze drifted back to the arena. Other notable fighters entered — prodigies whose names carried weight in the kingdom.
Seris Vale, Foundation Establishment – Peak Stage, whose frost whip could freeze stone mid-swing.
Orren Blacksteel, Core Formation – Early Stage, wielding a war hammer that cracked the platform itself with each strike.
Kaelith Dorne, Edran's upcoming opponent, Qi Condensation – Peak Stage, famous for his Storm Serpent Blade Technique, a style of unpredictable feints followed by devastating finishing blows.
Edran's eyes narrowed. So that's the rhythm of his movements… slow build, sudden strike.
The crowd's cheers swelled again, but Edran's attention shifted — not to the fighters, but to a section high above the arena.
A group of robed figures sat among the nobility, their garments too plain for true aristocrats, yet too fine for commoners. Their faces were calm… too calm for a tournament of this intensity.
One of them, a lean man with a narrow jaw, spoke quietly to another, and for an instant, Edran felt it — the faintest prickling at the base of his neck.
A gaze.
Cold, calculating, measuring.
His eyes flicked toward the feeling, but the robed man's head was turned, seemingly watching the match below. Still, the sensation lingered, crawling along Edran's spine before fading like mist.
They're not here for the fights, he thought. They're here for something else.
The gong rang again, announcing the next round of matches. But Edran barely heard it. His focus had sharpened, not on the arena, but on the shadows above it.
Somewhere deep within, the dormant Dragon Vein stirred — not fully awake, but restless, as if sensing a threat that the mind could not yet name.