Morning arrived without ceremony.
The Great Tower's arena awakened as the first rays of light filtered through the upper openings, illuminating the circular battleground carved deep into the Tower's core. Stone platforms rose around the arena, already crowded with spectators—cultivators, guards, and opportunists eager to witness bloodless violence.
No killing was allowed.
But pain was not forbidden.
The first match of the day was announced with a resounding echo.
Pin Sujin versus Zhao Lin.
Pin Sujin stepped into the arena first.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, his arms thick like sculpted stone. His breathing was slow, heavy, each exhale steady as a mountain wind. His palms were bare, fingers slightly curled, skin rough and calloused.
The Rock Palm.
Zhao Lin followed, expression sharp, posture disciplined. His blade never left its sheath, but the qi around him vibrated faintly—thin, precise, cutting like a needle.
The Zhao Sect's path was infamous.
Cold.
Sharp.
Their techniques did not rely on overwhelming force but on disruption—targeting joints, tendons, meridians. A single clean strike could end a fight before it truly began.
That precision was the source of their reputation.
The guard raised his hand.
"Begin."
Zhao Lin moved first.
He vanished in a burst of speed, appearing before Pin Sujin with a thrust aimed at the shoulder joint—fast, surgical, flawless in execution. The blade never fully emerged, its edge guided by qi rather than steel.
It struck.
And stopped.
A dull thud echoed across the arena.
Pin Sujin did not move.
Zhao Lin's eyes widened.
The strike had landed perfectly—yet it felt like stabbing reinforced stone. The qi dispersed uselessly across Pin Sujin's skin, unable to penetrate, unable to disrupt.
Pin Sujin looked down at the point of contact.
Then he raised his palm.
The ground cracked.
A single step forward sent a tremor through the arena floor. Pin Sujin's qi surged outward, not sharp, not refined—but immense.
Zhao Lin retreated instantly, unleashing a flurry of precise strikes—dozens in a breath, each aimed at a vital point, each capable of crippling an ordinary cultivator.
They landed.
They failed.
Each strike was swallowed by an unyielding wall of condensed power.
To the spectators, it was like watching insects hammering at a cliff.
Pin Sujin exhaled.
His palm descended.
The air itself compressed, a heavy pressure crashing into Zhao Lin's chest before the palm even reached him. Zhao Lin was flung backward, skidding across the stone, coughing blood as the impact knocked the wind from his lungs.
He tried to stand.
His legs buckled.
Pin Sujin advanced, slow, inevitable.
Another palm strike—this one restrained.
Zhao Lin's body hit the arena wall with a dull crack, sliding down lifelessly.
Unconscious.
The guard checked briefly, then raised his voice.
"Winner—Pin Sujin."
The match had lasted less than a minute.
Around the arena, reactions varied.
Some Zhao disciples clenched their fists, frustration etched into their faces. Others looked uneasy. Precision meant nothing when it could not breach the opponent's defense.
Lin Xue watched silently from the stands.
So that's the Rock Palm, she thought. No technique wasted. No excess movement.
Just weight.
Just inevitability.
Her embers stirred faintly beneath her skin.
One match down.
The Tower had spoken its first truth of the day.
Against a boulder, sharpness alone was not enough.