The next morning, Li Wei returned.
The square was quieter at dawn than at midday, the sunlight slanting across the stone in soft, golden streaks. But it was far from empty. Dozens of disciples lingered around the Stele of Names, drawn not only by the promise of challenges but by curiosity and anticipation.
Once a name carved itself into the Stele, every step that followed drew attention. Some disciples waited to challenge him directly, hoping to snuff out his momentum before it grew unstoppable. Others simply watched from the edges, studying his stance, his movements, calculating whether he was prey or predator. Li Wei ignored them all.
He placed his token against the base. The black surface rippled, and glowing characters rose.
Opponent: Rank 866 – Liu Feng.
A dual-blade user stepped forward, steel gleaming in both hands. Liu Feng was lean, sharp-eyed, his aura steady with the confidence of countless duels. His speed was his pride—two blades like fangs snapping from left and right.
The fight began in a storm of steel.
Liu Feng pressed the attack relentlessly, blades flashing in tight, precise arcs. Strike followed strike with blinding tempo, sparks flying and qi hissing against qi. To any ordinary newcomer, the onslaught would have been impossible to endure.
But Li Wei flowed through the gaps like mist.
Flowing Cloud Steps carried him a fraction beyond reach each time, his single sword intercepting one strike, redirecting the other, always one step ahead. His counters were sharp, precise, and measured—each cut shaving at Liu Feng's rhythm, forcing the dual-blade fighter backward step by step.
Twenty breaths later, both of Liu Feng's blades had been knocked aside. The young man stood at the circle's edge, chest heaving, sweat glinting on his brow. Li Wei's sword hovered steady before his throat, the edge gleaming faintly with gathered qi.
The Stele flared.
873 → 866.
A ripple ran through the watching crowd.
On the third day, Li Wei faced a whip user. The young man's weapon cracked like thunder, qi snapping in every lash. The whip howled as it sliced across the platform, stone chipping with every strike, the pressure forcing Li Wei to give ground.
Gasps rose when one strike coiled around Li Wei's wrist, sparks spitting as qi constricted tight.
The whip user grinned, certain of victory.
But Li Wei's sword flashed once.
Tempest Fang Slash burst forth in layered afterimages, qi roaring like claws of wind. The whip split apart mid-coil, shredded into fragments. Before the wielder could draw breath, a shallow line of blood traced across his shoulder, halting the duel.
The Stele flared again.
866 → 841.
And still he climbed.
Five fights in a week. Five victories.
Each opponent stronger than the last: cultivators who had held their ranks for months, even years, each honed in their specialty. Some fought with sabers, others with spears, and others with intricate footwork that belied their size. Each technique was the product of countless repetitions, countless small victories and defeats.
But every battle ended the same—Li Wei standing calm, his breath steady, his sword gleaming faintly with gathered qi.
He made no wasted movements. No unnecessary words. His strikes were clean, efficient, final.
By the end of the week, his name had risen above two hundred others, glowing in the mid-600s.
The square no longer laughed when he stepped forward.
The crowds thickened with each dawn.
"Another one… he's already at six-forty."
"I saw him fight. He doesn't waste a single movement."
"Impossible. No newcomer climbs that fast without backing."
"Then where are his patrons? I see no elders watching."
Rumors spread like fire. Some muttered about secret manuals. Others whispered that he had stumbled on a hidden treasure during his caravan mission. But the older disciples frowned, their silence heavier than gossip. They knew the Stele well.
A week was too short for chance. This was strength.
And strength this sharp rarely appeared without shaking the sect.
Yet for Li Wei, it was not enough.
Each victory had come swiftly, yes, but without true weight. None of his opponents had forced him to reveal more than the surface of his techniques. His sword was sharp, but it had not yet met a shield it could not cut.
He raised his gaze to the names carved higher above.
Rank 600. Rank 500.
And beyond them, the glowing numbers of the top 200—disciples known across the sect, names spoken with respect or dread. Each one had withstood storms of challenges, cutting down dozens to defend their place.
It was there his eyes lingered.
Chen Long – Rank 412.
The name etched in cold, precise strokes carried weight even in silence. Whispers drifted among the crowd: defenses like iron walls, qi layered so dense that every strike seemed to shatter against it. Where others fell within breaths, he endured for hundreds. Where swords sought his heart, they broke against his shield.
Some said dueling him was like challenging a fortress.
Li Wei's hand brushed the hilt at his side.
Storms were born only when wind met mountains.
And the higher he climbed, the steeper the slopes became.
As Li Wei turned from the Stele, steps steady, the square buzzed with murmurs, but none of them reached him.
Far in the back of the crowd, a tall figure leaned against the railing, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Chen Long.
His eyes lingered on Li Wei for a moment, then turned away, as though dismissing him entirely.
Li Wei did not notice—but soon, their paths would cross.
This climb was only beginning.