The clash of steel and qi still echoed in Li Wei's veins as he stepped back into the waiting area, the murmurs of the crowd following him like a tide. His fight had ended in decisive victory, but not without revelation—his true cultivation had been hidden, cloaked beneath the layers of his discipline and careful concealment. The truth, now undeniable, lay bare for all to see: Late-stage Qi Refining.
The attendants had noted it, and so had every competitor who still remained. His peers wore varying expressions—shock, envy, grudging respect. Among them, only Liang Fei's eyes remained calm, as if measuring him not with surprise but with a sharpened interest.
The elder of the Heavenly Dragon Sect raised his hand, the motion cutting through the murmurs like a blade. Silence fell immediately, reverent and tense. "The tournament continues," he announced, his voice carrying across the courtyard, steady and unwavering.
The next name rang out. "Jian Tao."
A stir passed through the courtyard. The prince of Xianglong Kingdom moved forward, his robes of deep crimson edged with gold thread. His every step carried the weight of authority, and though he had yet to unleash his qi, his presence alone pressed against those who watched. Unlike the academy disciples who fought with hunger in their eyes, Jian Tao exuded the calm assurance of one born into privilege, his confidence built upon resources others could never touch.
His opponent, a wiry youth from a provincial academy, raised his weapon with trembling hands. The fight ended swiftly. A single strike, imbued with sharp metallic qi, shattered the youth's defense and sent him sprawling across the arena. Jian Tao did not even glance back as the attendants carried the boy away.
Murmurs rippled through the audience."As expected of the crown prince.""He's not even using his full strength…"
Li Wei watched quietly, his chest tightening. Here it was—the contrast he had always known existed. While he had struggled for every scrap of progress, Jian Tao had walked a path paved with resources, tutors, and lineage. And yet, in this moment, Li Wei felt no despair—only determination.
The battles rolled on.
Liang Fei was called next. He stepped forward, his posture relaxed yet alert, confronting a disciple from the southern provinces. The opponent was a burly youth wielding a heavy axe, his movements powerful but slow, every swing designed to crush. The clash erupted with the thunder of brute force meeting refined skill. Sparks flew, qi techniques collided with raw strength, and the crowd's collective breath seemed to pause with each impact. For a few tense moments, the battle seemed evenly matched. Then Liang Fei shifted.
A sudden burst of speed, sharper and more precise than before, transformed the encounter. His fists became a blur, each strike precise, calculating, and devastatingly effective. Every punch landed with pinpoint accuracy, each motion perfectly timed to exploit the gaps in his opponent's defense. Within a handful of breaths, the axe fell from the youth's grasp, clattering across the ground. Liang Fei's fists hovered near his opponent's chest, calm and unyielding, the fight decisively over.
The victory was clean, almost clinical, but it left observers unsettled. Liang Fei had revealed just enough to dominate, yet withheld far more than he showed. His eyes, steady and unflinching, never left Li Wei as he returned to the waiting area, a silent message of acknowledgment and perhaps subtle challenge.
The elder's voice called again. "Wang Zhao."
At last, the Ironwind Academy's foremost student stepped forward, his expression full of barely concealed pride. His opponent: Shen Mu, a lean youth in simple robes, unfamiliar to most in the crowd.
The fight began with explosive force. Wang Zhao's spear swept in arcs, each thrust reinforced by the techniques that had earned him his reputation. But Shen Mu moved with quiet precision, each step placed with unshakable calm.
Again and again, Wang Zhao's strikes were turned aside. His frustration mounted, qi flaring wildly. Then, in a single opening, his opponent countered with a fluid palm strike that sent Wang Zhao sprawling to the edge of the stage.
The courtyard fell silent.
Wang Zhao staggered to his feet, disbelief etched across his face. "Impossible… I am—"
But the elder's voice cut through coldly. "Defeat is defeat."
Wang Zhao lowered his head, fists trembling, the invisible weight of expectation crushing him. The faith of his academy, the pride of his peers, the hours of painstaking training—all of it had shattered in a single instant. Nearby, Yao Lin's face paled. She had long imagined herself rising alongside Wang Zhao, their combined talents lifting them both to greatness. Now, watching him fall, the ground beneath her seemed to shift, unsteady and treacherous.
The gap between those with true potential and the resources to nurture it, and the ordinary geniuses striving alone, had been laid bare.
The tournament pressed onward, unyielding.
One after another, matches were fought, victories earned, and dreams crushed. Mei's name was not called, though her expression betrayed no fear. She sat quietly, her hand resting against her sleeve as though feeling the flow of water beneath her skin. Her moment would come.
Li Wei's gaze swept across the courtyard. He could feel the shift in atmosphere—no longer the casual tests of earlier trials, but the true clash of futures. The top sixteen had been whittled down, and every fight that remained would carve the final path toward the sect.
Across from him, Jian Tao stood aloof, his confidence undisturbed. Liang Fei's sword gleamed at his side, its edge reflecting the light. The nameless prodigy who had toppled Wang Zhao closed his eyes in meditation, conserving his strength.
And Li Wei—whose humble beginnings had always marked him as an outsider—now stood among them, his hidden cultivation exposed, his determination unshaken.
The elder's gaze swept across the remaining contenders, unreadable as ever. With a flick of his sleeve, he signaled for the next match.
The tournament was far from over.