But the shattered wind blades were only the beginning.
As if the signal had been given, the battlefield erupted. Fiery spears rained down from above, scorching trails across the dome. The tiger prince roared, surging forward in a flash of gold and white, his massive tiger spirit charging alongside him. Illusions danced and spiraled, trying to disorient Michael's senses. From behind, the Sacred Swan soared, beams of holy light descending like judgment. And all the while, vines of Blue Silver Grass slithered across the ground — precise, silent, deadly.
Eight against one.
Each attack could bring down a peak spirit master.
But Michael—
He moved with unnatural grace. Too fast to follow, yet never rushed. He didn't dodge — he flowed, each movement timed to the heartbeat of battle itself. A tilt of the head avoided a flaming spear. A single step broke the illusions. His coat billowed as he blurred sideways, bypassing the flanking strike entirely, and then—
Boom!
With a sweeping backhand, he struck the mirror wielder in the chest — not with power, but with forceful precision. Bones cracked. The youth was launched back across the stone, his doubles vanishing mid-air.
A blink.
The air howled — the Evil-Eyed White Tiger lunged, fangs bared, claws gleaming.
Michael's foot shifted.
His hand rose.
Crack!
He struck the beast's head with a palm strike — not to kill, but to collapse. The tiger spirit whimpered, dissipating instantly under the pressure of his aura alone.
The Crown Prince gasped, staggering. Before he could recover, Michael was upon him — a single blow to the abdomen, and the proud prince crumpled, armor dented inward, breath stolen.
The audience exploded into chaos.
From the stands, sect elders, clan lords, and academy deans stared in stunned disbelief. The heads of the Blazing Sky Sect, Thunderfire Pavilion, and even the Azure Feather Clan froze mid-conversation, their expressions flickering with alarm.
"Impossible…" one whispered, hands trembling. "That was the Evil-Eyed White Tiger… his bloodline is imperial!"
"He hasn't even summoned his martial spirit…" another muttered, eyes narrowed. "What is he?!"
"Those were coordinated strikes. They trained for months together. And he just… dismantled them."
"Even among Spirit Hall's Holy Children, this… this is something else."
Meanwhile, on the field—
Tang San's gaze sharpened. His grass snaked forward, trying to bind Michael's legs. The Sacred Swan Prince conjured a protective dome of light, trying to give cover. A coordinated strike formed again — not blind aggression, but genuine, high-level battlefield synergy.
It didn't matter.
Michael surged forward, this time without mercy.
He twisted his body low, dragging a wave of force along the stone, breaking the vine roots mid-crawl. He blurred into the air — high, above the dome of light — and crashed down with a precision strike, cracking the shield open like glass. The Sacred Swan Prince was caught in the recoil, thrown into a pillar.
Then came Tang San.
For a brief moment, their eyes met.
Cold against colder.
Blue Silver Grass whipped forward — sharp as blades, dozens of strands moving like a net.
Michael moved through it. Not evading. Breaking.
With each step, his aura intensified. He raised a hand, and a massive pressure erupted outward — a wave of black and gold energy spiraling into a vortex that shredded the encroaching grass.
Tang San's eyes widened — and then Michael was upon him.
A clean strike to the shoulder — disabling.
A twist of his body — disarming.
And finally, a final push that sent the genius of Shrek hurtling backward, skidding across the stage, unconscious before he hit the far wall.
The remaining captains hesitated.
They faltered.
Their spirit rings still gleamed — but the fight had left their eyes.
Michael stood at the center of it all — untouched.
Unmoved.
Unmatched.
Not a single ring had flared behind him. Not a shred of his martial spirit had been revealed. He hadn't needed it.
Dust drifted across the stage like falling snow. The barrier dome shimmered softly, glowing with the aftershocks of the battle.
Then —
Silence.
Dead silence.
Even the Spirit Hall elders had stopped whispering.
The only sound was Michael's boots as he walked forward — slow, composed, each step echoing across the hushed coliseum.
And then he spoke.
Low. Calm. Unshakable.
"Was this supposed to be your best?"
A cold shiver ran through the crowd.
Among the ranks of the Azure Dragon Sect, an elder lowered his fan slowly. "If this is what Spirit Hall calls a Holy Son… he may rise beyond even Bibi Dong."
In the pavilion of the Blazing Sky Sect, their chief clenched his jaw. "He's too dangerous."
"Too visible," muttered another. "Too… alone."
A third leaned forward. "Perhaps not for long. Assassins fail. But poison? An accident? A lost mission?"
And still, Michael stood there — alone — in a ring of fallen prodigies and scorched stone.
A living warning.
A storm in human skin.
Even the high platform above — where Bibi Dong watched — remained motionless.
She didn't smile.
She didn't applaud.
But her eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
From the center of the ruined arena, surrounded by groaning captains and stunned silence, Michael turned slowly. His voice rang out, calm yet undeniable:
"Now that you've all lost…"
He paused.
"…the Royal Rumbles it is."
With that, he turned and walked away — boots tapping against scorched stone — returning to his position beside Bibi Dong on the golden platform above. As he ascended the final step, the Supreme Pontiff inclined her head slightly.
Just a nod.
Just a smile.
The only approval needed.
Moments later, the referee, calm and composed, stepped forward once again. His voice trembled, but he forced strength into it.
"You were all given a chance…" he said, looking at the now-healing captains being tended to by Spirit Hall's white-robed medics. "And you all failed."
He straightened, addressing the full arena now, voice rising:
"Rest for today. Recover. But do not forget — the Royal Rumbles begin tomorrow. Each of yours team… will now have one less representative."
A storm of whispers rippled through the stands.
No one expected this.
Not the format.
Not the outcome.
Not him.
The day ended more dramatically than anyone could have imagined.
Far above, in the private imperial pavilion draped in the colors of Heaven Dou, the Emperor himself sat in stunned silence. His fists were clenched, knuckles white.
*******
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