The stadium vibrated with noise and heat—thousands of faces, the distant ring of armor, the crack of Qi. Lian stood among the rest of the participants next to the bracket board, heart rate unbroken but slow. He had little time to rest; the first four Round-of-16 matches were about to be held, and all of them seniors or upperclassmen—formidable tests before the first-years' turns.
Gao Ming's match was first. The third-year marched as tectonic force with a form: glacial in their decision-making, unstopable. Qin Yue, his second-year opponent, tried to be clever—a lithe, quick second-year who dodged and feigned strike, but Gao's earth-shake Qi was familiar with the battlefield as if he had read a map. The bell rang. Qin low-darted, trying to get the ground, but Gao stamped in deep and the earth bucked up between them, a single ripple rolling Qin's footing over. Qin went down, stood up, charged—but Gao struck stone near Qin's knee with his palm and the second-year howled as his balance left him. Gao finished it in a single, bone-struck blow that slammed Qin onto the mat. The judges raised Gao's hand; the audience applauded for the display of raw control.
Next was Huo Tian facing Wu Jian. Fire and smoke danced around the air as Huo Tian took the stage: a third-year whose Qi appeared as a living furnace. Wu Jian, a seasoned third-year with strategic blades and prickly, unorthodox moves, tried to overwhelm the fire-user with swift pokes and a fluttering formation. Huo Tian did not have to be showy—he toasted the stone until it melted at the edges and whipped, standing Wu Jian in a hallway. Thermal breath from Huo Tian sent Wu Jian flying back in the opposite direction, and his sword rang as he struck a pillar of superheated air. His defense crumpled; Huo Tian advanced and killed him quickly. Raucous applause. Huo Tian's grin was strained and superior—he enjoyed the flush of challenge, then the silence of victory.
Bai Xuan's bout followed—her telekinetic pressure fields always less force and more dictate. Her opponent, Zhao Mingyu, tried to punch his way through with a barrage of projectiles, but Bai simply warped his attacks at an angle and nibbled the space until he could not catch his breath. One fingertip launched a pebble fly like a trained dart; Mingyu stumbled as each avenue he believed he'd opened slammed shut. When the judges declared the bout, Bai looked nearly uninterested—she'd anticipated more beauty in the fight and was rewarded with only desperate flailing.
Lin Shu moved with the surgical quiet of a bladesmith apprentice turned war art. His opponent, Du Kang, relied upon grappling and momentum. Lin Shu's edge cut openings not with power but with economy—small cuts, tiny windows. In a blur of precise slashes he dismantled Du's stance and ended the match in a few economical movements. The crowd appreciated the artistry; the instructors noted the precision.
Four games, four seniors' names advanced. The bracket was greeted with cheers and gasps; the upper levels of the tournament had proven that seniors were not to be underestimated. Lian watched all the games with the same half-detached focus he always had to hand—learning by watching, counting patterns instead of clapping victories. The seniors were lethal, but their footsteps imbued rhythm and timing if you listened closely enough.
Between matches the hall moved like a body—competitors arching, coaches issuing final warnings, spectators leaning forward to see. Lian felt Chen's hand drop onto his shoulder like a weight.
"You saw Lin Shu's feints open Du Kang's knee," Chen said quietly, voice taut with the adrenaline of watching. "If Shen tries that… don't get involved in his rhythm. He'll have you running wild and then kill you before your reflexes can catch up."
Lian's head nodded slowly. He'd seen Du Kang broken apart by blade technique and by guile—Lin Shu enticed, Du Kang nipped, and the contest was taken. He understood it in theory. But Chen wasn't done.
"Listen, there's one other thing," Chen continued, glancing at the crowd as if peril might burst out like a vagrant shadow. "Shen Qiu is not just fast. He's a mirror kite—he deflects your own power.". He runs in to make you react, then he cuts your momentum back on you. In the jungle he was constantly getting behind his own men—did you notice that? He used men as live bait and then swooped in on a sweep. Chen's voice had dropped to a half whisper. "He's not dumb. He's smart. He'll let you think that you have the rhythm. He'll steal it away from you."
Lian's fingers tightened around the strap of his training bag. Shen Qiu had smiled like a playful kid the day he qualified; out here, smiles often hid teeth. Lian replayed the jungle flashes—Shen's blur weaving through Luo Yan's chains in a way that snapped them, Shen's final dive into the base that had caught even Rui's attention. The speed alone was one thing; the art of using others' energy was another.
"How do you stop a man who runs that way?" Lian asked, honesty in his tone.
"Don't chase after him," Chen said, candid as always. "If he wants to lure you out, take a pull on your anchor. Use the web to anchor an arm, a leg—something that limits him from spinning. Seize the room, not the man. If he can't spin, he can't redirect. Don't try to out-sped him.". Make him batter your walls instead. Chen's smile tried to be frivolous but failed; he was aware of how skeletal the battle would be. "And if he shows you the 'bait,' don't take it. Let him take the circle. Let him think he won. Then snap the net.".
Lian learned it all. Pragmatic observations. No heroics, no trying to equal speed with speed. Plot the pattern, lay the trap. The same lesson he had learned since the jungle: a clever web beats a heavier blade if well-set.
Chen slapped a hand over Lian's shoulder, squeezing it once. "Also—if this doesn't work out, kick him in the ankle. It's not pleasant, but it works. And if you need a partner, I'll be the loud-mouthed idiot running in to spend your milliseconds."
Lian smiled, the kind that didn't quite make it past his eyes. "Thanks, Chen. I will."
"Damn straight you will." Chen's voice was softer. "Bring it home, kid."
They left the hush of the passageway and returned into the hall in which the next matches were set out—the bracket frame of light burning with neon, a half field on guard and lethal. Lian glanced over the floor to Shen Qiu; the boy was yawning, jaw strained, eyes flicking toward the bracket as he mapped out exits and ways out in his head. That soft sneering smile again. The type that might go either way—brutal and fun.
"Remember," Chen told them as they parted, voice husky, "your web is your truth. It's not just for movement. Make it a net, make it a weapon. Don't give him space to breathe."
Lian inhaled and tasted the metallic sting of the arena air. He could feel the tension humming in his bones break down into something tougher—determination, tempered and ready. The first four fights had proved the limits of danger. The next would be a matter of revenge.
He squared his shoulders and stepped toward the ring, Chen falling into step behind him a step back. Shen Qiu's bout would start any minute, and during the interval between bouts, every second would count—warm-up, regulation of breathing, map in the head. Lian now had a strategy: contain space, not individual. Set his feet in the web. Not chase specters.
As the bell sounded and Shen Qiu took position across the ring from him, Lian's danger sense vibrated like a tuning fork. The world narrowed. The individuals surrounding him blurred into a haze. He and Shen, then the winner would be one step closer to Rui. Round by round the pressure would mount, and there could be no mistakes.