They called it a "friendly exhibition."
Which, as it turned out, was just code for brutal public humiliation disguised as noble tradition.
The Tournament of Eternal Delay was held once every cycle in the city of Shamtropolis, hosted by the ruling House of Abstinence, a bunch of robe-wearing pretentious twigs who made celibacy look like a fashion statement.
They wore polished chastity rings like engagement bands and spoke in euphemisms so thick I needed a shovel to understand them.
"A sacred gathering of restraint and shameful excellence." Translation: come show off your edging skills while a crowd of strangers watches you try not to explode.
The tournament grounds were massive—an open-air arena carved from stone and shame.
Dozens of columns lined the perimeter, each engraved with historical "disciplinary champions." Their faces were stern. Empty. Definitely virgins.
Banners of the Seven Orders flapped in the dry wind, each representing a different Gooner house. The smell of incense mixed with sweat and old, dry socks.
God. It's like Comic-Con, but for people who get off on self-denial.
I stood near the entrance, draped in the bland gray robes Master Flaccidus had forced on me.
No symbols. No flair. No visible aura.
Just me, looking like a guy who barely knew which end of the joystick was up.
And that was exactly the point.
Step one of my grand deception: Look like a Level 0 edgelet. Step two: Say absolutely nothing that makes me sound competent. Step three: Let the egos bury themselves.
Around me, participants stretched and meditated in the open sun, striking erotic poses that would make a yoga instructor blush. Most of them radiated pride—glowing shame cores practically pulsing with years of edge mastery.
And then there was me.
Holding a lukewarm water bottle and pretending to fumble with my shoelaces.
"Ugh. Who let that guy in?"
The voice came from behind.
I turned, slowly, and saw a group of three robe-wearing porcelain dolls dressed in matching white sashes. Their leader, a tall, sharp-chinned man with perfectly waxed eyebrows, looked at me like I was a stain on his keyboard.
"I'm sorry," he said, smirking. "Did you take a wrong turn? The beginner's class is across the plaza."
I blinked.
"Oh no," I said brightly. "I'm here for the, uh… tournament thing. I was told there'd be snacks?"
Play dumb. Play innocent. Channel every small-town protagonist who stumbled into greatness by accident.
Another of the trio snorted.
"His Core is practically inert. Can't even smell shame resonance on him. What's he going to do, cry and hope for victory?"
They laughed.
I smiled, nodding thoughtfully.
"Yeah, that's pretty much my plan."
Their leader finally offered a name. Of course he did.
"I am Virgil Edgewell III, heir to the House of Glancing Purity," he declared, placing one hand over his chest like he was about to swear fealty to himself. "Silver Class Gooner, top percentile graduate of the White Palm Academy."
He waited.
Expecting something.
"Oh," I said after a pause. "I'm Ben. I once edged through a hurricane."
Heh. That one's technically true. Grandpa made me sit under a waterfall with thigh weights.
His nostrils flared.
"Another faker with delusions of shame," he muttered. "Disgraceful. The tournament should be for real cultivators."
Cool. Definitely gonna humiliate you first.
Inside the arena, the crowd had gathered.
Thousands of spectators—mostly elites, nobles, and abstinence cultists—sat in elevated stands. Every single one had the same bored, judgmental expression.
Some held shame-measuring lenses, others clutched ceremonial scrolls filled with rules and rankings.
An announcer, his voice magically amplified, stood on a floating platform above the field.
"Welcome… to the 47th Tournament of Eternal Delay!" he cried. "Where shame is strength! Where restraint is power! Where fluidity is failure!"
I feel like I just joined a BDSM chess club with a public speaking fetish.
"Today's contestants will face off in Delay Duels," the announcer continued. "Three rounds of escalating intensity! The one who lasts longest without succumbing to Lust Collapse… wins!"
…So basically, blue balls chicken. Perfect.
My first match was against a guy named Fenton Squirm.
He had tiny eyes, a puffy face, and wore robes embroidered with what looked like… anime hands?
"Level 2 Hand-Art practitioner," he declared with pride. "You won't last five seconds against my Spiral Thumb Spiral."
I bowed politely.
"Looking forward to it," I said, then tripped slightly on my own robe.
Flawless performance. He thinks I've never even touched a sock.
The duel began.
Fenton raised both hands, performing complex grip sequences in the air. His shame aura flared. The crowd murmured approvingly.
I stood there.
Completely still.
Just breathing.
Letting Infinite Edging quietly engage beneath the surface.
Slow… smooth… don't even clench. Let the buildup roll through like a lazy wave. Pretend you're thinking about algebra.
Five minutes passed.
Fenton's hands started trembling.
Ten minutes.
He grunted, sweat pouring from his forehead.
Twelve minutes in, his body convulsed—then crumpled.
Lust Collapse.
He twitched on the ground.
Poor guy. Should've picked a technique with cooldowns.
"Victory: Ben Dover," the announcer called, visibly confused.
I gave an awkward thumbs up and shuffled back to the waiting area.
Virgil Edgewell III scowled at me from across the field.
His allies whispered furiously.
They're trying to figure out how I won without visibly doing anything. Joke's on them—I didn't even break a mental sweat.
My next opponent was a woman.
Seraphina Calmweaver, daughter of the Abstinence Council.
Graceful. Precise. Unreadable.
She entered the arena without a word, sat in the center, and activated Silent Longing Mode—a technique that projected projected aura illusions of temptation while draining her opponent's focus.
The crowd loved her.
She was poised. Elegant. Completely humorless.
Basically a nun with psychic boob projections.
I matched her posture and activated Passive Edge Loop, the lowest visible form of my technique.
We sat in total silence.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
Her aura illusions danced across the space—phantoms of desire, whispers of indecency.
I ignored them completely.
Please. I've seen worse in my Chrome Incognito history.
Eight minutes in, her brow furrowed.
Ten minutes.
Her lip quivered.
At twelve minutes, she made a single noise—a gasp. Barely audible.
Then collapsed sideways.
Lust Down.
My grandpa once told me: "If you can edge while watching grass grow, you've already won." Thanks, old man. Your boomer wisdom lives on.
Now it was down to the final four.
The crowd buzzed with excitement.
Even the Abstinence Elders leaned forward.
Virgil Edgewell III stepped into the arena, his robes now glowing faintly from an overcharged shame Core.
"Finally," he said, sneering. "You face a real contender."
I nodded.
"Cool. Can't wait to lose horribly."
Gotta sell the illusion. Gotta make him believe he's already won.
The duel began.
Virgil raised both arms and chanted.
His signature move: The Velvet Mirror Mirage.
A technique that created thousands of holographic reflections of him edging, each at a different angle and speed, meant to overwhelm the target's focus.
Jesus. This dude turned his kink into a kaleidoscope.
I closed my eyes.
Let my mind drift.
Focused on a single word: Restraint.
Then let Infinite Edging push just enough energy to nullify his projection field.
The crowd gasped.
Virgil's images shimmered, wobbled, then blinked out.
He staggered.
"You—what are you—?!"
"Just breathing," I said.
He lunged.
I sidestepped.
Then flicked his forehead.
That was enough.
He collapsed.
Face red. Aura shattered.
Honestly, he made it easier than Fenton.
The crowd was silent.
I looked around, then gave a little bow.
"Thanks," I said. "I… guess I win?"
The announcer cleared his throat.
"Champion… Ben Dover."
A slow ripple of disbelief spread through the audience.
Tobias, Max, and Flaccidus stood in the shadows of the arena entrance, nodding in approval.
I came here to hide. Instead I walked away with a tournament win, a bunch of elite haters, and probably a target on my back.
Good start.