The outer sect arena had been carved into the mountainside itself, a vast amphitheater that seemed to grow out of living stone. Rows upon rows of tiered seating rose in sweeping arcs, each carved step crowded with disciples who had poured in from every corner of Heavenly Dragon Sect. The low murmur of voices rumbled like thunder, punctuated now and then by shouts of excitement or bursts of laughter. Above it all, the banners of the sect snapped in the autumn wind, golden dragons stitched into deep blue cloth that caught the sunlight and shimmered as though alive.
Protective formations wove across the arena. They glowed faintly against the stone, suppressing qi surges and ensuring the duels within would not spill out to harm the audience. The inscriptions hummed with power, a reminder of the sect's weight: the disciples fought here with freedom, but within boundaries set by the elders.
By dawn, the stands were full. Steam rose from baskets of buns carried by sect servants, their voices mingling with the chatter of juniors who compared predictions and argued favorite contenders. The atmosphere was festival-like, yet under the noise lay a taut undercurrent of pressure. For every disciple who sat in the terraces, there was the same dream: one day, to stand on that stage. For one hundred among them, today was that chance.
Li Wei entered with calm steps, his sword sheathed at his side. Mei Yun, Liang Fei, Jian Tao, Xu Feng, and Shen Mu were already waiting in the crowd. They had come together to watch—not as competitors, but as witnesses. Their cultivation had not yet reached Foundation Establishment. The top one hundred was not a place for Qi Refinement cultivators, no matter how talented. Only Li Wei, through relentless discipline and a flawless breakthrough, had stepped across that chasm. His presence in the bracket was itself an anomaly.
Whispers rippled through the gathered disciples as he passed toward the competitors' area.
"That's him, Li Wei. The one who broke into the hundred right after his breakthrough."
"Ninety-seventh place. Barely qualified. He won't last past the first round."
"Still, Foundation Establishment in months? That's monstrous."
Li Wei ignored them. Their words, their envy, their doubt—it was wind against stone. What mattered was the arena itself, the stage where he would measure how far his storm had grown.
The elders presided from a high pavilion at the far end of the arena. Their seats were carved from jade and set beneath an open roof, allowing the mountain wind to sweep through. They sat in silence, a row of figures draped in robes of authority. Some eyes were sharp and critical, others heavy-lidded, but all carried weight. It was not the cheers of disciples that decided fates here, but the gazes of those elders who searched for talent worth investment.
A bell tolled once. Its deep note rolled across the arena and silenced the crowd.
An elder in crimson robes stepped forward. His presence was commanding but not flamboyant; his voice carried cleanly, amplified by the formation lines etched into the stone itself.
"Disciples of Heavenly Dragon Sect," he began, "today marks the beginning of the Outer Sect Tournament. Once every three years, the top one hundred of the Stele of Names gather here. It is here that you prove your progress, here that your paths diverge. Listen well, for the rules are simple."
He raised a sleeve, and golden script flared in the air above the arena, each word sharp enough to read from the highest terrace.
"Eligibility: only the hundred ranked upon the Stele may compete. Victory is decided by concession or incapacitation. Killing is forbidden. Injury, however, is expected. The protective arrays will intervene should a fatal strike be delivered."
Murmurs rolled through the stands but quickly quieted as the elder continued.
"The format is elimination. In the first rounds, lots will be drawn to determine opponents. Each victory advances you; each loss removes you. The process continues until ten remain. From there, rankings will be contested directly, until the first, second, and third seats are decided."
The script shifted, listing rewards in neat, gleaming lines.
"Rewards: the top ten will be granted entry to the inner sect. The first through third will each be permitted an audience with one of the sect's elders and may be accepted as a personal disciple. This is the highest honor Heavenly Dragon Sect can grant at your stage. Fourth through tenth will each be rewarded with Earth-rank manuals, spirit stones, and extended time in cultivation chambers. Eleventh through thirtieth will receive generous contribution rewards and priority for high-paying missions. Those ranked thirty-first through one hundred will earn recognition and token rewards. Do not underestimate recognition—in Heavenly Dragon Sect, a name remembered opens doors."
The crowd responded in waves. Some disciples gasped at the mention of becoming a personal disciple. Others muttered jealously at the Earth-rank manuals promised to the top ten. For those in the audience, even the contribution points for the top thirty were prizes worth envying.
The elder's gaze swept the hundred below. "This is your moment. Fight with all you have. Hold nothing back. Prove that you deserve your place upon the path of immortality."
The golden script faded. The bell tolled again, louder this time. The Tournament had begun.
The competitors gathered at the base of the arena where a great formation circle pulsed faintly. One by one, each disciple placed their jade token into the circle. Names shimmered in glowing lines above, suspended in the air for all to see.
Li Wei stood among them, quiet, watching. Around him, Foundation Establishment cultivators from across the sect waited, each with their own reputations. Zhao Tian, once his rival at Qi Refinement, now stood at Rank 78—his Frost Serpent Steps sharpened and his cultivation freshly stabilized at Foundation. Other names rippled through the crowd: veterans who had guarded their place for years, each holding onto early Foundation with grit and persistence. Near the very top, whispers spoke of a handful who had reached peak early Foundation, bearing trump cards strong enough to dominate the outer sect for now. But they were rare, and each was viewed as a looming wall.
In the terraces, Mei Yun leaned forward, hands clasped tight. Liang Fei's smirk had faded to a hard edge as he watched. Jian Tao muttered to Xu Feng, but his eyes did not leave the stage. Shen Mu stood silent, as always, his presence heavy despite his quiet.
They watched not as rivals today, but as witnesses to the distance Li Wei had already placed between them.
The elder struck the formation circle. Names spun rapidly across the glowing list before pairing into brackets. Disciples craned their necks, voices rising in anticipation.
"The first round is drawn."
The pairs blazed bright, one after another. Shouts rose as rivals were matched, groans as favorites met too soon. The noise grew louder with each pairing.
Li Wei's gaze lifted until he found his own name.
Li Wei — Rank 97 — versus Zhang Fang — Rank 72.
A stir ran through the crowd. Zhang Fang was no stranger to the Stele. He was an early Foundation cultivator whose Iron Wall Fist had earned him a reputation for endurance and unyielding pressure. He lacked the brilliance of prodigies, but years of attrition battles had carved him into a difficult obstacle. Against him now stood a newcomer whose name had only just entered the hundred.
Speculation rippled.
"Zhang Fang will crush him. Foundation or not, Li Wei has no experience against veterans."
"Foundation is the difference. His qi is denser than Zhang Fang's fists can handle."
"It depends on whether his breakthrough is stable. If it isn't, Zhang Fang's endurance will carry the fight."
Li Wei closed his eyes briefly, letting the noise wash over him. He had no need for their predictions. His storm was not for them. It was for his vow, for the chains yet to be broken, for the root of his parents' deaths. This stage was only one step along that path.
The first duels began. Two disciples mounted the platform, saluted, and clashed. Qi roared. A storm of flame met a river of water, exploding against the protective array in bursts of steam that drew gasps from the crowd. The victor bowed as the loser was carried away, and the next pair stepped forward.
Match after match played out. A spear wielder cut down a swordsman with relentless thrusts. A girl with vines of wood qi entangled her opponent until he conceded. Each fight fueled the anticipation further, the roar of the crowd growing with every clash.
Li Wei stood in silence, hand resting lightly on his sword hilt. He watched carefully, noting how the protective formations triggered, how the elders reacted when certain techniques were used, how the crowd's voices rose and fell with drama. Information was another weapon, and he gathered it quietly.
When his name was called, he would step forward. He would not flaunt everything he had gained in three weeks of seclusion, but neither would he show weakness. Zhang Fang would see the difference between years of persistence and the clarity of true foundation.
The bell tolled for the next match.