The afternoon sun dimmed behind drifting clouds as the crowd shifted, eager for the first meaningful clash.
Cheers had waned. Now, murmurs of speculation rose louder—when would the real contenders fight?
Elder Thalor raised his hand once more. "We move now to the highlighted rounds. Talents ranked higher in our house will begin their combat. Let none hold back. Let the Valen name shine."
A hush swept through the courtyard.
The scroll was brought forth again.
"First match… Alina Valen vs. Cenya Valen."
Gasps scattered through the crowd.
Even among the elders, a flicker of interest showed. Two of the top inner disciples, both at Essence Vein Stage 6—both prideful, both dangerous.
Cenya gave a soft scoff. "So early? A shame. I hoped for a more deserving finale."
Alina said nothing. Her white robe—marked with silver threading, unlike Serena's plain white—fluttered as she stepped lightly onto the stage. Her gaze never left Cenya.
Serena didn't cheer. She simply watched.
Maris leaned in. "Young Miss, will they go all out?"
"They'll pretend not to," Serena said coldly, "but Cenya won't hold back. She hates playing second."
And just as predicted, the moment the signal was given, fire exploded across the platform.
Cenya was the first to strike—flames bursting from her palm in a twisting arc that scorched the air. Alina moved swiftly, wind blooming around her like a veil, dousing the attack with minimal motion.
The two clashed in a storm of fire and wind, neither giving ground. The platform cracked beneath their blows. Cenya's rage twisted her face—her flame techniques were fierce but predictable. Alina's movements were fluid and calculated, responding with clinical force.
After ten intense exchanges, Alina's hand flicked outward—and a sharp lance of condensed wind pierced through Cenya's shoulder.
Blood splattered.
The crowd fell silent.
"Alina Valen is victorious," the officiator declared.
Alina stood unflinching, not a single strand of hair out of place. Cenya collapsed to her knees, groaning, unable to hide her defeat.
"That was cruel," Renn murmured, staring down at the stage. "She aimed straight for the nerve."
Taron frowned. "She's not playing around."
Neither is Serena, Renn almost said. But he kept his mouth shut as he glanced toward the other girl in white, who remained silent and unmoved.
Soon, the scroll was brought out again.
"Next match… Serena Valen vs. Taron Valen."
Another shockwave of murmurs spread.
Taron blinked, caught off guard—but quickly recovered with a smirk. "Well. I guess this is fate."
Serena finally stepped forward, descending from the stands, her robe billowing softly in the wind.
Taron laughed as he joined her on the platform. "Don't take this personally. I'll make it quick."
"I don't intend to," Serena replied.
The elder gave a nod.
"Begin."
Taron charged, fists wrapped in thin threads of earth qi. He went for a direct, fast hit—aiming to overwhelm her with brute force.
Serena didn't move.
The wind shifted.
And then—
Her palm lashed out.
"Sweeping Gale Palm."
A burst of wind shaped like a storm slammed into Taron's chest, faster than his eyes could follow. The force launched him off his feet and sent him crashing across the stage like a ragdoll.
He hit the edge and tumbled, groaning in pain.
Silence.
She stood still, arm still extended, white sleeve fluttering. No stance. No flourish.
Just one clean, devastating strike.
The elder swallowed before announcing:
"Serena Valen… wins."
The crowd erupted into chaos.
"She didn't use a weapon—again"
"That was… was that wind affinity?"how is her control so refined.
"Her veins were supposed to be broken—what the hell was that palm technique?!"
In the stands, one of the elder stewards narrowed his eyes. "I didn't think that palm art could be used so generally…"
Back on the stage, Serena turned away without expression.
Alina's smile twitched at the corner.
So you've finally shown your claws.
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