The first rays of dawn tore through the lingering mist of the eastern plains, setting the Century Tournament grounds ablaze with pale gold light. Dust swirled in the wind, carrying the faint hum of suppressed qi and the anxious murmurs of spectators who had spent the night whispering about the Mountain Phantom. Tiān Lán stood atop a jagged stone spire at the arena's edge, the Guardian hovering silently beside him, eyes scanning every detail as if he could read the air itself.
The day ahead would not test mere strength—it would test cunning, endurance, and the very limits of perception. Only the strongest remained, and whispers of forbidden techniques, secret formations, and hidden allies rippled through the crowd like an unseen current.
Beside him, Yue Qingling's calm presence radiated quiet energy. "He watches," she murmured, voice almost swallowed by the wind. "The cloaked figure from yesterday… he has returned. Not here to see, but to test—or perhaps to strike."
Tiān Lán's lips curved faintly. Storm-blue eyes gleaming with light like a thundercloud. "Let him watch. Let him underestimate me. That is his first mistake."
From the opened gates, today's opponents stepped forward into the arena:
Shi Lang, a veteran of the Spirit Severing Realm, dark qi slicing the air in jagged waves, eyes filled with decades of calculated violence.
Mu Yan, a swordswoman whose strikes were whispers of falling stars—quick, precise, lethal, yet with elegance beyond measure.
The Crimson Fangs, three siblings whose familial bond allowed them to fight as one, their qi weaving into a living net of attacks that had crushed opponents without mercy.
The gong struck. The arena trembled.
---
The veteran charged, energy lashing outward like jagged lightning arcs. Rocks cracked, dust spiraled into the sky, and the wind itself seemed shredded by his power.
Tiān Lán did not move hastily. Guardian threads hummed, invisible but alive, rippling around Shi Lang to subtly redirect the raw force aimed at him. The wolf spirit prowled silently, positioning to cut off any escape. The fox darted in, flames muted, arcs of energy grazing Shi Lang's awareness to unsettle him. Even the dragon stirred above, wings slicing the morning haze, stirring currents that twisted and redirected Shi Lang's momentum.
Every strike Tiān Lán made was calculated, a single thread of inevitability connecting thought, movement, and energy. Shi Lang struck with a decade of experience, relentless, devastating, yet Tiān Lán let him expend it. Each lunge, each blow, became predictable to the Mountain Phantom, absorbed into his calculation.
With a subtle flick of Guardian threads, Shi Lang's energy turned upon him, sending the veteran stumbling. Tiān Lán moved like water, precise as a scalpel, landing a touch that disarmed without harm. Shi Lang fell to one knee, breathless, forced to acknowledge the impossible—he had been outmaneuvered without understanding how.
The crowd gasped. Whispers echoed: "The Mountain Phantom… unstoppable…"
---
Mu Yan approached next, her blade flashing like falling stars. The strikes were unpredictable, angles shifting mid-swing as if the wind itself guided her hand.
Tiān Lán's mind raced. Guardian threads, fox and wolf spirits, and subtle manipulations of the arena's qi allowed him to weave through her storm. The dragon's wings carved shifting shadows, giving him momentary concealment, while the fox disrupted her perception with ghost-like energy arcs.
Every step, every movement, became a conversation—a dance of death. Sparks of qi scattered, wind swirled, and the very plains seemed to pulse with the clash of wills.
Mu Yan's eyes gleamed with challenge. "You are strong… but can you endure the night?" Her technique sought to sap his stamina, even as a Sprint Realm cultivator.
Tiān Lán adjusted, internalizing her rhythm, harmonizing with the flow of the arena, his Guardian threads creating subtle countercurrents, guiding both energy and movement. The final strike came silent but decisive, disarming Mu Yan with a gesture that left her unharmed but humbled.
Respect shone in her gaze as she fell back, whispering, "You… are not human."
---
The last of today's opponents moved as one. Three shadows, synchronized perfectly, qi interwoven, forming a living storm of attacks. Fire, wind, and earth collided, creating a vortex of lethal energy.
Tiān Lán's eyes narrowed, reading the rhythm. One small misstep, one misjudged thread, and death would follow. He let the Guardian thread flow freely, creating openings that forced the siblings to clash against the spirit beasts. Every moment counted, every movement precise.
He observed subtle micro-movements in their synchronization—imperceptible to the untrained eye—and with the faintest pulse of energy, split their rhythm. One by one, the siblings were neutralized, forced to retreat under a torrent of invisible strikes.
The crowd erupted in awe, witnessing a storm that left no trace but inevitability. The Mountain Phantom stood alone, victorious.
---
A sudden chill swept the arena. From the stands descended the cloaked observer, aura suppressed but undeniably powerful. Even the spirit beasts stiffened.
"You are stronger than expected," the figure said, voice smooth, dark, echoing in the minds of nearby cultivators. "But the Mountain Phantom will face enemies beyond comprehension. Do you understand the cost of revenge?"
Tiān Lán's storm-blue eyes met the shadow's, burning with resolve. "I understand. Every betrayal, every loss, every death… will be repaid a hundredfold."
The figure inclined their head, disappearing into the crowd like smoke. The first warning had come. The tournament was no longer a game—it was a battlefield of inevitability and observation.
---
Nightfall
As the moon rose over the plains, Tiān Lán retreated to the cliffs overlooking the tournament. Spirit beasts circled silently, Guardian threads glowing faintly in the moonlight.
He gazed toward distant cities, settlements, and hidden sects, eyes like storm clouds gathering over the continent. Every shadow might conceal an enemy; every alliance could be a trap. Yet beneath it all, a single fire burned brighter than ever—revenge.
"Let them come," he whispered. "I have faced gods and risen. Now, let the world tremble at Tiān Lán—the Mountain Phantom, whose name will make Heaven itself weep."
The wind carried his words across the plains, faint but unmistakable, and somewhere in the dark, the cloaked figure watched, waiting for the next move.