While they honed their unique synergy, the sect buzzed with tension. The official announcement of the tournament team had been made, solidifying their status and inflaming their opponents.
Liang Jin, stripped of his former status and boiling with resentment, found a willing ear in Zhang Wei. The two of them, one motivated by bitter hatred and the other by wounded pride, began to meet in secret.
"They humiliated us both," Liang Jin hissed in a secluded tea house. "That waste... he doesn't fight with honor. It's some kind of trickery. And the Grand Elder rewards him!"
Zhang Wei's face was a cold mask. "His method is... unorthodox. But the Grand Elder sees value in it. A value that makes our years of disciplined training seem obsolete." He swirled his tea. "The tournament will have many eyes. Many powerful elders from other sects. If Wang Chen were to... fail spectacularly, to be exposed as a fraud or a danger, it would reflect poorly on the Grand Elder's judgment."
A cruel smile spread across Liang Jin's face. "What do you propose?"
"Information," Zhang Wei said softly. "We may not be able to defeat him in the courtyard, but the tournament is a different beast. The Soaring Sword Sect specializes in overwhelming, pinpoint attacks. The Iron Body Sect laughs at trickery. If their champions were to know exactly what to expect from our 'Adaptable Core'... and perhaps possess a few... countermeasures..."
An unspoken pact was formed in the shadows. Treachery was being woven, its threads aimed at breaking the unorthodox blade being forged in the secluded courtyard.
Wang Chen, immersed in the flow of coordination with his team, felt a faint, cold prickle at the edge of his Spirit Sense—a hint of malice he couldn't quite pinpoint. The storm was gathering, and it would bring more than just honorable competition.
(To be continued...)