The morning sun struck the great arena like a blade of gold, spilling across the ancient stone floor in radiant lines that shimmered against the engraved sigils of ages past. The crowd's murmurs rippled like restless waves, filling the air with expectation, confusion, and the heavy scent of excitement.
At the center of it all stood a man — unmoving, calm, yet radiating a quiet storm that seemed to make the very world hold its breath. His robe, woven in deep obsidian and lined with faint traces of silver thread, carried the emblem of the Xuan Clan, proud and unmistakable. His presence was not loud, yet it dominated everything. The way he stood, the way his eyes regarded the empty space before him — it all whispered of an authority earned, not given.
This was no ordinary warrior. This was a martial master of the middle stage of Profound Concept, a realm where Ki no longer simply obeyed; it conversed. Around him, faint ripples of invisible force distorted the air, like heat above desert sands. Each exhale carried the weight of someone who had crushed arrogance before it could form.
The young contestants, gathered on the far side of the arena, stared in disbelief. Their previous assumptions — of duels, rivalries, and glory through combat — seemed to crumble in an instant. The entire structure of the Tournament of the Ten Dragons and Phoenixes, so famed for its one-on-one duels, was suddenly rewritten before their eyes.
Then, from the far end of the coliseum, the announcer rose. Dressed in official crimson robes, his voice amplified by Ki, it rolled through the arena like thunder across mountains.
"The next round shall test not your attack,"
he began, each word clear and deliberate,
"but your ability to endure."
A stillness swept through the crowd. Murmurs ceased. Dust seemed to hang motionless in the sunlight.
"The rules," the announcer continued, "are simple. You will step forward, one after another, and face this martial master of the Xuan Clan. He will launch but a single strike. If you block it, you pass. That is all."
That is all.
The words echoed in the minds of everyone present. That is all — so simple, so final, yet so terrifying.
No one spoke at first. Even the wind hesitated, as though unsure whether to carry laughter or dread. Then, like the breaking of a spell, the crowd erupted in disbelief.
"What kind of rule is that?" one voice shouted.
"Block a martial master's strike? At that level?" another questioned.
"That's madness! They're just youths!"
The arena became a storm of voices, rising and falling in waves of panic and awe. Some spectators leaned forward, eyes wide in fascination, others turned to one another in anxious speculation. None could recall a test like this in the tournament's long and storied history.
On the contestants' platform, faces turned pale. Even the most talented among them — those confident enough to boast in secret — now felt a hollow chill spreading through their chests. To block the attack of a martial master at the Profound Concept stage was no small feat. It wasn't a battle; it was survival.
And yet, in the center of that vast stage, the Xuan Clan master merely folded his hands behind his back and waited, his gaze distant, detached — as though none of this concerned him. His calmness was not arrogance but certainty. He had been chosen for this role precisely because of it.
The silence that followed carried a strange weight. It was the silence before an avalanche, before the heavens cracked open.
In that moment, everyone in the arena — contestant, spectator, and elder alike — understood something unspoken. This round was not about competition anymore. It was about revelation.
Something had changed. The air of tradition was gone, replaced by an invisible shift in the rules of the world itself.
Above the roaring arena, beyond the dust and sunlight, seven thrones overlooked the sea of faces below. They were arranged in a half-circle of authority — not as equals, but as wary allies bound by necessity and pride.
Each seat bore an emblem — dragon, sword, flame, moon, mountain, cloud, and serpent — the marks of the seven great powers that shaped the mortal realm.
For a moment, all was silence among them, the collective gaze of ancient monsters fixed on the stage where a simple rule had rewritten tradition.
Then, soft laughter broke the stillness — the sound clear, melodic, and impossibly calm.
Han Suyin, the Star Weaver of the Heavenly Astral Palace, reclined gracefully in her crystalline seat, a smile curling her lips as her eyes glittered with both amusement and calculation.
"This is new," she said, her voice light as a breeze yet carrying far, the kind of tone that could disarm and provoke in the same breath.
Her words rippled across the dais like a spark across oil. The others stirred.
Bai Zhen, ever-disciplined, folded his arms and exhaled through his nose — the sound almost a sigh, but weighted with measured control. "New," he murmured, "is one word for it. Reckless would be another. This is not how the Tournament of the Ten Dragons and Phoenixes has ever been conducted."
His tone was even, but the muscles in his jaw spoke otherwise.
Zhuo Ran leaned forward, his scarlet robes shifting like liquid flame. A grin stretched across his face — the kind that promised chaos and welcomed it.
"Hah. About time someone shook things up. Watching children slap each other with wooden blades was growing dull."
The others didn't respond, though the corner of Jian Shixin's mouth twitched into a faint smile. He sat with his sword laid horizontally across his knees, fingers tracing the hilt absently, as though playing an invisible melody. His gaze remained fixed on the master below, admiration flickering in his calm eyes.
"There's beauty in the simplicity," Jian Shixin said softly. "One strike — no deception, no endless contest of stamina. Just truth against truth."
Shan Guo, dressed in the humble gray of the Shan Clan, let out a quiet chuckle. His expression was genial, his tone almost harmless.
"Ah, truth," he said smoothly. "Such a dangerous word. The weak call it cruelty, the strong call it fairness. Which is it today, I wonder?"
Han Suyin glanced at him but said nothing. She knew better than to spar with snakes for sport.
From the edge of the row, Mo Jiao spoke at last, his voice low and measured, the kind that made people lean closer without realizing why.
"Whichever it is, this change is not random. Someone among the Xuan must be making a point."
The others looked to him, mildly intrigued. Mo Jiao rarely spoke, and when he did, his words usually carried layers. His sharp eyes, narrow as blades, flicked toward the central throne — the one occupied by Xuan Feng.
The Patriarch of the Xuan Clan sat unmoving, his posture serene, his eyes half-lidded as though meditating amidst the noise. But his stillness carried power — not the brash, roaring kind that sought to prove itself, but the silent sort that already knew.
He had listened to their chatter without reaction, the way the ocean listens to raindrops. Only when the conversation began to loop in circles did he lift a single finger and tap the armrest of his chair — once, lightly.
The sound cut through the air like a gavel.
Even Zhuo Ran went still.
When Xuan Feng finally spoke, his voice was calm, but beneath it was a gravity that drew the soul downward.
"Change," he said, "is not born from chaos, but from the quiet exhaustion of repetition. When the world begins to repeat itself too often… the heavens send a hand to turn the wheel."
His words lingered like incense smoke, curling upward, fading slow.
Han Suyin's smile thinned. Her eyes narrowed just slightly, her mind piecing the hidden meaning.
He wasn't speaking about the tournament.
He was speaking about the world itself.
Zhuo Ran tilted his head, intrigued. "You speak like an oracle, Xuan Feng. Are you saying the heavens are… restless?"
Xuan Feng didn't answer at first. His gaze remained on the master below, whose power made the very air vibrate. Then, with a faint sigh, he replied — not to Zhuo Ran, but to something higher than all of them.
"When even the laws grow weary," he said softly, "it is because a new law waits to be born."
A hush fell.
For a brief second, the calm mask of the Xuan Patriarch flickered. Beneath his serenity, Han Suyin caught it — the smallest trace of concern. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, like a ripple erased by the tide.
But she had seen it.
And she understood.
Her gaze lingered on him, her mind racing behind her composed expression. He knows something, she realized. Something none of the others do.
The others resumed their subtle debate, their words brushing past one another like veiled daggers — but Han Suyin no longer heard them. Her thoughts were fixed on Xuan Feng, on his tone, and the strange weight behind his riddles.
For the first time in many years, the ever-smiling beauty of the Heavenly Astral Palace felt a spark of unease.