Inside the Silver Mirror branch's secret chamber,
candlelight flickered, smoke curling in the dim air.
Sītú Jìng sat cross‑legged,
eyes narrowed like cold stars
as he listened to his subordinate's report.
"Reporting to Lord Jìng—
Xiǎo Chén and Shī Tóngbǎi left the Sword‑Star Tower yesterday.
They ran around seven or eight marketplaces,
even detoured past several apothecaries and beast shops.
But…
what they brought back
were all ordinary herbs
and low‑grade spirit beast cores.
Here is the list."
The subordinate presented a scroll,
dust still clinging to his sleeves.
Confusion clouded his face.
"We followed them for a long time,
but truly found nothing unusual.
Stranger still—
Xuán Chén never left the Sword‑Star Tower at all."
Sītú Jìng unrolled the list,
his brows tightening.
The herbs were so common
they couldn't form a high‑grade pill,
let alone a forbidden array.
His fingers tapped the table rhythmically,
a chill gathering in his gaze.
"Ordinary herbs?
Ordinary beast cores?
Hmph…
Xuán Chén, simple?
Is this a smokescreen—
or is he truly using such trash?"
He waved his hand,
dismissing the subordinate.
Silence reclaimed the chamber.
He lowered his eyes to the list again.
Every herb, every core—
worthless.
His brows furrowed deeper.
He tried piecing them together
into a pill formula,
a ritual,
a formation—
but nothing fit.
After a long moment,
his eyes narrowed further.
"Could he truly be preparing some secret method?
Or…
is he deliberately feeding me false information
to disturb my judgment?
Enough.
If Xuán Chén refuses to leave the tower,
he must be confident.
Tomorrow's duel
will reveal everything."
He rolled up the list,
a cold smile cutting across his lips.
"The pill has already reached Cáo Jiànyú.
If he wins,
one problem is removed.
If he loses…
one burden is gone."
The candle flame jumped,
and the chamber sank back into stillness—
his shadow stretching long across the wall.
——
The stone chamber was dim,
the oil lamp flickering weakly against the walls.
Cáo Jiànyú sat rigidly in his chair,
his expression dark enough to drip ink.
In his clenched fist
was a crumpled slip of paper.
Only a few words were written on it:
"Dù Péng captured. White Lion investigating."
Cáo Jiànyú stared at the message,
his chest tightening.
—This was bad.
He had believed Liú Xū's death
had been handled flawlessly.
But that useless Dù Péng
had somehow drawn the White Lion's attention.
Of course—
Dù Péng had met with him too many times
before and after the killing.
Impossible to hide.
Cáo Jiànyú let out a cold snort,
but unease churned beneath it.
With Dù Péng's cowardice,
he wouldn't last a few rounds of interrogation.
He would spill everything.
And once he talked,
the White Lion would follow the trail
straight to him.
The consequences were unimaginable.
His grip tightened,
knuckles turning white,
rage boiling beneath his fear.
"Damn it…
Xuán Chén humiliates me in public—fine.
But now the White Lion is closing in.
If I don't turn things around on the arena…
I'm dead sooner or later!"
The fury and panic in his chest
twisted together,
hardening into a single thought:
He must win.
If he won,
he could wash away suspicion,
prove his worth,
and rise in status.
Then not even the White Lion
could touch him—
and even Sītú Jìng
might look at him differently.
A cruel smile crept across his lips.
"Win… and I'm reborn.
Lose… then I die on the stage.
Hmph.
Better to gamble—
I'm dead either way."
He reached into his robe
and slowly drew out a jade vial.
With a shake,
a purple‑black pill rolled into his palm.
Its scent carried a faint metallic rot,
as if death itself had condensed into a pill.
Cáo Jiànyú stared at it,
greed and madness flickering in his eyes.
—Three‑Turn Soul‑Forcing Pill.
He whispered to it,
voice trembling with desperation.
"With you…
I still have a chance."
Then he clenched the pill tightly,
eyes turning vicious.
"Xuán Chén, no matter how strong you are…
you'll die for me!"
His laughter burst out—
wild, unhinged,
echoing through the dim stone room
like a cracked bell ringing in the dark.
——
Dawn had only just broken.
Mist still clung to the outside of the Sword‑Star Tower,
and the morning light filtering through the high windows
left scattered streaks of brightness across the stone floor.
Xuán Chén sat cross‑legged at the center of the second floor,
back straight,
breathing long and steady.
For the past two days,
he had barely left this spot.
There were no signs of a breakthrough,
no surging spiritual tides,
no dramatic visions—
everything was quiet, almost deceptively so.
Only the faint sword intent within the tower
shivered with each breath he took,
then settled again into stillness.
He released one final breath.
Xuán Chén opened his eyes.
For an instant,
something bright flickered deep within them—
then sank back into calm.
He lowered his gaze to his palm,
closing and opening his fingers slowly.
His qi was thicker than yesterday,
flowing smoothly through his meridians,
clear and unobstructed—
he was standing right before the threshold.
Just one step away.
But Xuán Chén did not force it.
He knew that pushing now
would only agitate his qi
and leave hidden flaws.
"Not enough yet…"
The words were barely audible,
as if spoken only to himself.
He closed his eyes again,
letting the gathered momentum disperse,
returning his body to its most stable state.
After a moment,
he rose and walked to the window.
Morning light had grown brighter,
the mist thinning.
In the distance,
the outline of the arena
was faintly visible.
Xuán Chén's gaze remained calm,
unwavering.
He knew he had not stepped into the next realm—
but he also knew
that if pushed to the edge,
that door might open on its own.
Just then,
a faint ripple of unease
brushed across his mind.
He didn't turn around.
He simply lifted a hand
and pressed it lightly
against the cold stone wall of the Sword‑Star Tower.
Footsteps sounded outside.
Xiǎo Chén stepped onto the second floor first.
He glanced at Xuán Chén,
eyes narrowing slightly.
"…Progress?"
Xuán Chén only smiled,
offering no direct answer.
Shī Tóngbǎi followed behind,
dropping a bundle from his sleeve into the corner.
"Those rats outside followed us all day,"
he muttered,
pouting.
"Not a moment of peace."
Xuán Chén turned, his tone unchanged.
"Good work. Go to class first."
The three left the Sword‑Star Tower as they always did,
descending the familiar stone steps
and heading toward the academy halls.
Halfway down the path,
a figure stepped into their way.
Dù Jīnzá stood with his hands behind his back,
his gaze lingering on Xuán Chén for a long moment.
"At noon's duel," he said,
"mind your measure."
His voice was calm,
but the pressure beneath it was unmistakable.
"Last time on the arena…
some students still haven't recovered."
Xuán Chén only smiled lightly.
"I understand."
Dù Jīnzá snorted, dissatisfied with the answer,
then turned and walked away.
The trio continued forward,
their footsteps fading along the stone path.
——
Noon arrived.
The sun hung high overhead,
yet the arena grounds of Àotiān Academy
were far noisier than usual.
This duel had been brewing in the shadows for days,
etched into the minds of many.
The dismissal bell had barely faded
when the stands began to fill.
Breaths mingled in the air—
not just with heat,
but with a tension so thick
it seemed to weigh down even the sunlight.
The arena stood at the center,
its stone surface scarred and mottled.
Every mark was a memory of past battles,
as if the platform itself
had long grown accustomed to blood.
South stands — sparse and uneasy
Only a handful of outer‑courtyard disciples had come.
The last time Xuán Chén stepped onto this stage,
he left a shadow in many hearts.
Few dared return.
Those who did
were mostly newcomers
who had never witnessed him fight,
or young disciples hoping the rumors were exaggerated.
They whispered among themselves,
but their eyes kept drifting toward the arena—
filled with unease and stifled anticipation.
East stands — the loudest crowd
This side was packed.
Especially with female students.
Countless gazes
kept darting toward the arena entrance,
their hushed conversations
laced with excitement, curiosity,
and unabashed admiration.
Xuán Chén had not yet appeared,
yet the atmosphere was already simmering.
West stands — a vacuum of silence
A wide area had been deliberately left empty.
No one dared approach.
At its center sat a white‑haired figure,
eyes closed in meditation.
An invisible pressure radiated from him—
the presence of a king among beasts,
forcing those nearby
to instinctively keep their distance.
The White Lion.
North stands — scattered, but sharp
A few inner‑courtyard male students stood apart,
quietly circulating their qi.
They exchanged no words,
but their auras pressed outward—
as if silently resisting
the White Lion's overwhelming presence.
Among them,
one figure stood out the most.
Arms crossed,
leaning casually against a stone pillar,
back turned to the arena,
eyes closed—
as if this life‑and‑death duel
had nothing to do with him.
Until—
A wave of suppressed gasps
rose from the female students.
The man lifted a hand
and pushed up the glasses on his nose.
Behind the lenses,
his gaze sharpened—cold, calculating—
cutting through the crowd
toward the arena entrance.
Sītú Jìng sneered inwardly.
Xuán Chén… let me see what medicine you've hidden in your gourd.
At the same moment
On the west side,
the White Lion slowly opened his eyes.
But his gaze did not fall on the arena.
Instead, it swept past the crowd
toward another entrance.
A large, heavy figure
was approaching step by step.
Cáo Jiànyú.
——
A figure stepped out from the southern entrance.
Xuán Chén walked at the front,
his pace unhurried,
robes stirring lightly in the wind.
His expression was calm—almost ordinary.
The morning's cultivation left no trace on him;
his aura was restrained,
without the slightest hint of aggression.
But that very calmness
made him impossible to underestimate.
Half a step behind him,
Xiǎo Chén carried his silver spear across his back,
hands tucked into his sleeves,
eyes sharp as frost.
His gaze swept across the stands—
and anyone who met his eyes
instinctively looked away.
Shī Tóngbǎi followed last.
His expression was far more serious than usual,
back straight,
the easygoing air of a runner gone—
replaced by the alertness of someone
standing at the edge of a battlefield.
The moment the trio appeared,
a ripple of excitement spread through the east stands.
Whispers rose,
eyes brightened,
and breaths caught in throats.
Xuán Chén did not look at any of them.
He simply stopped at the edge of the arena.
On the opposite side,
a heavy, lumbering figure
stepped out from the northern entrance
and halted at the arena's boundary.
Xuán Chén lifted his gaze
toward the life‑and‑death stage at the center.
The stone surface was clean,
its carved lines sharp—
as if quietly waiting
for the blood that would soon stain it.
At that moment,
the figure in the north stands
who had been resting with his back to the arena
stirred.
Sītú Jìng pushed up the glasses on his nose
and finally opened his eyes.
His gaze, sharp as a blade,
locked precisely onto Xuán Chén.
Xuán Chén sensed it.
He turned slightly,
and their eyes met in midair.
No killing intent.
No hostility.
Just a brief, piercing assessment.
Sītú Jìng's lips moved—
a faint, unreadable twitch.
On the west side,
the White Lion shifted his gaze toward the arena,
his expression heavier than before.
The air tightened.
A deep, clear announcement echoed across the grounds:
"The life‑and‑death arena is about to open."
The runes beneath the platform
began to glow faintly.
Xuán Chén withdrew his gaze
and exhaled softly.
"Let's go."
His voice was quiet,
but carried clearly.
Xiǎo Chén and Shī Tóngbǎi stepped back,
moving outside the boundary of the formation.
As Xuán Chén ascended the arena alone,
Cáo Jiànyú stepped up from the opposite side.
Xuán Chén looked at him—
expression calm to the point of indifference,
as if the man before him
barely mattered.
But in the next instant,
his brow tightened ever so slightly.
A faint, unnatural aura
was rising from Cáo Jiànyú's body.
In contrast,
Cáo Jiànyú's eyes burned
with the desire to tear his opponent apart.
He thought of the Three‑Turn Soul‑Forcing Pill,
and the corner of his mouth curled upward.
In his mind,
victory was already his—
a future he had rehearsed countless times.
He did not even consider
what would happen
if he lost.
Above the east stands,
the judges' platform stirred.
Gǔ Líng stepped forward first,
his figure calm yet imposing.
Behind him were Xuānyuán Dié and Dù Jīnzá,
with several inner‑courtyard elders
standing solemnly on both sides.
A wave of murmurs rippled through the inner‑courtyard students
as soon as they saw the lineup.
"Why is Dean Gǔ Líng personally overseeing this life‑and‑death duel?"
"And all the inner‑courtyard elders too…
Is someone in this match really worth that level of attention?"
Dù Jīnzá stepped forward,
raising a hand for silence.
His voice rang out, steady and heavy.
"Life‑and‑death arena—
victory grants life, defeat brings death.
The duel is about to begin.
Both sides, prepare."