The second match of the morning did not begin with violence.
It began with surrender.
Zhao Jun stepped into the arena, bowed stiffly to the judges, then turned toward Zhao Yuan. He held the bow for several seconds—deep, respectful—and then raised his hand.
"I forfeit."
A ripple of murmurs swept through the stands. Some spectators scoffed, others sighed, but none looked surprised. Zhao Jun was no fool. Facing Zhao Yuan in a real clash would have been suicide, even with the Tower's rules.
Zhao Yuan merely offered a thin, amused smile before walking off the platform as if the result had been predetermined since birth.
The guards wasted no time.
They announced the next match.
Lin Xue vs. Zhao Chan.
Silence fell.
Lin Xue walked into the arena with unhurried steps, her gaze sharp, her posture unwavering. Embers crackled faintly under her skin—barely visible, yet unmistakably alive. Even at rest, her qi shimmered like heat above a flame.
Zhao Chan entered from the opposite side.
He was disciplined, composed, with a solid stance and a foundation built on years of training. He was one of the Zhao Sect's more reliable young disciples—accurate, mentally tough, and trained to perfection.
Many believed this fight would be close.
It wasn't.
The guard raised his hand.
"Begin."
Zhao Chan moved immediately, closing the distance with a sharp, fast jab aimed at Lin Xue's throat—clean, controlled, deadly if not for the Tower's rules. His form was textbook perfect.
Lin Xue didn't dodge.
Her arm rose lazily, blocking the strike with the back of her wrist. A harmless ember escaped her shoulder—just a hint of strength bleeding through her control.
Zhao Chan's expression tightened.
He attacked again.
A flurry of precise blows, each meant to exploit structural weaknesses, each sharpened through Zhao Sect discipline. His footwork angled around her guard, controlling distance and momentum expertly.
Lin Xue watched him.
Studied him.
Her embers deepened, glowing brighter.
Then she struck.
It was not fast.
It was simply overwhelming.
A single palm, straight to Zhao Chan's chest.
The impact sounded like stone shattering.
Zhao Chan was launched backward, sliding across the floor and nearly colliding with the arena wall. He coughed, breath knocked out of him, eyes wide with disbelief.
Lin Xue didn't advance.
She waited.
Zhao Chan forced himself up, desperation sharpening his movements. He darted in again, pulling every ounce of precision he had, aiming for her joints, ribs, throat—anywhere that could disrupt her.
Lin Xue exhaled softly.
Fire Heart of the Divine Realm.
The embers surged.
Not explosively, not wildly—but densely, coiling around her limbs as if responding to her will alone. Her aura expanded, heavy with intention.
She stepped forward.
Her strike came down like a hammer.
Zhao Chan crossed his arms in a desperate defense—
—and was sent flying a second time.
The stands erupted in gasps.
Zhao Chan lay on the ground, arms trembling, unable to rise. His eyes were unfocused, fear creeping in through the cracks of his pride.
He had not even touched her.
And worse—
Lin Xue was clearly holding back.
She hadn't used her full embers.
She hadn't pushed her technique.
She hadn't even broken a sweat.
The guard checked Zhao Chan, then raised his hand.
"Winner—Lin Xue."
A hush fell over the arena.
Pin Sujin, watching from the side, narrowed his eyes. His normally impassive expression held a spark of curiosity—as if he had just noticed a flame too bright to ignore.
Zhao Yuan's reaction was sharper.
His gaze fixed on Lin Xue with a mix of irritation and interest. He watched the embers fading beneath her skin, studying the subtleties of her movement, the cold confidence of her posture.
She descended the arena steps calmly.
But the Tower had already taken note.
Pin Sujin had taken note.
And Zhao Yuan—
in that moment—
understood that Lin Xue was not simply a participant.
She was a threat.
And she was only getting started.