The sun rose cold and pale over the eastern plains, painting the Century Tournament arena in muted gold and gray. Dust swirled in the wind, carrying the faint hum of suppressed qi. The previous day had left spectators awed, cultivators fearful, and rivals wary. Tiān Lán, atop the high terrace overlooking the arena, remained calm. The Guardian floated beside him, threads of qi stretching invisibly into the ground, weaving the environment into a subtle extension of his perception. Spirit beasts crouched nearby—the wolf's gaze sharp, the fox's tail flicking with anticipation, and the dragon coiled high, invisible yet omnipresent.
The cloaked observer had returned, stationed somewhere in the stands, aura suppressed but undeniably potent. He did not watch for amusement. He watched for assessment—and perhaps for the right moment to strike.
Beside Tiān Lán, Yue Qingling's calm presence belied her unease.
"They're testing you, Tiān Lán," she murmured, voice low. "This round… it's designed to push you past limits you didn't know existed. And someone is shaping the field from the shadows."
Tiān Lán's lips curved faintly, eyes storm-blue and sharp as thunder. "Let them test. Every trap, every manipulation… it will teach me more about my enemies. I fear nothing, but I will ensure that none of them are prepared for me."
Yue Qingling inclined her head, silently acknowledging his resolve.
---
The arena's gates slammed open, revealing today's challengers:
Luo Feng, master of shadow qi and illusion, capable of bending perception and turning allies against one another.
Bai Xuan, silent and precise, whose strikes could sever not only flesh but the very flow of spirit energy.
The Silent Serpents, a psychic-linked duo whose coordination made their attacks nearly impossible to read.
The crowd fell silent, the air thick with tension. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, carrying a faint chill over the plains.
Tiān Lán's Guardian threads rippled subtly, weaving into the arena itself. Rocks, dust, even the gusts of wind became potential allies—or potential traps. Spirit beasts shifted, coiling and darting like living extensions of his consciousness.
---
Shadows erupted as Luo Feng struck, his qi twisting into black phantoms that cut the air like knives. The arena's terrain warped with illusions, creating false floors, walls of smoke, and phantom allies.
Tiān Lán's wolf sprang first, lunging into the phantoms with teeth bared. Its presence disrupted the patterns, forcing micro-gaps in the illusions. The fox darted behind Luo Feng, nudging his attention just enough to leave a subtle opening. The dragon spiraled high, redirecting gusts of wind that twisted shadows into harmless shapes.
With a quiet pulse of Guardian threads, the illusions shattered. Luo Feng staggered—his first trace of fear evident. Tiān Lán's voice cut across the arena, calm and deliberate:
"Fear is a tool. You wield it poorly."
The crowd gasped as the shadows dissipated, revealing Luo Feng exposed, humiliated, yet unharmed.
---
Bai Xuan moved like the wind itself, silent and precise. Each strike seemed impossible, aiming to sever Tiān Lán's qi with surgical precision. Rocks cracked under the force, dust whipped like blades, and the arena trembled with the pressure of unseen energy.
Tiān Lán flowed with her strikes, weaving Guardian threads and spirit beast movements into a seamless counter. Every step became a rhythm; every breath, a calculation. His fox darted forward, distracting her with micro-arcs of energy, while the wolf shifted to block the sudden assaults. The dragon coiled above, creating a vortex that subtly disrupted the airflow, turning Bai Xuan's strikes into harmless arcs.
Finally, a single, invisible surge of Guardian threads redirected her momentum, forcing Bai Xuan to yield. The audience erupted, whispers of "Mountain Phantom" echoing through the arena, fear and awe blending into a tangible current.
---
The twin serpents moved as one, psychic resonance binding their attacks into a seamless, preordained flow. Every strike felt inevitable, every dodge meticulously planned.
Tiān Lán's mind raced, analyzing micro-cues: a slight flick of a wrist, a shift in weight, a twitch of qi. He let the Guardian threads flow freely, allowing the first serpent's attack to clash against his spirit beasts, testing rhythm and timing. The fox darted between strikes, the wolf intercepted with precision, and the dragon's immense wings stirred currents that subtly disrupted psychic feedback.
Step by step, microsecond by microsecond, Tiān Lán unraveled their synchronization. A misstep here, a feint there—and suddenly the twin's harmony was broken. Exhaustion and panic replaced confidence, forcing the Silent Serpents into a strategic retreat.
The arena fell silent, the crowd frozen. Even seasoned cultivators whispered: "The Mountain Phantom… no one has moved like him."
---
From the stands, the cloaked figure descended slowly, aura chilling the air. Spirit beasts stiffened, sensing the threat.
"You… are stronger than expected," the figure said, voice echoing with subtle authority, almost as if speaking directly into the minds of those present. "But the Mountain Phantom will face enemies he cannot yet comprehend. Do you understand the price of revenge?"
Tiān Lán's storm-blue eyes gleamed, unwavering. "I understand the cost. And I will bear it gladly. Every betrayal, every death, every shadow that stands against me… will pay. I am Tiān Lán. And I will not kneel."
The observer inclined, then disappeared into the night, leaving a lingering chill. The first warning had been delivered: the tournament was no longer a simple test of skill. It was a crucible, shaping Tiān Lán for something far larger and far darker.
---
Nightfall
Night draped over the plains, wind cold and bitter. Tiān Lán returned to the cliffs outside the city. The Guardian pulsed faintly, the spirit beasts circling in silent vigilance.
Below, the world slept, unaware of the plots twisting in shadows. Tiān Lán clenched his fists, recalling every betrayal, every theft, every moment he had been cast aside.
"I have been stolen from, left to rot, discarded as a pawn," he whispered, eyes storm-blue and blazing. "But I am no longer a survivor. I am vengeance incarnate. Every city, every sect, every blade raised against me… will break. And Heaven itself… will weep for its arrogance."
The wind howled, carrying the words across the tournament grounds, faint yet unmistakable. The night was still, but inside Tiān Lán, a storm raged—silent, unstoppable, and merciless.