The weight of a hundred stares pressed down upon the white jade platform, but most lingered on Selene and Seraphina Vale. Only a few glanced briefly at Darian before dismissing him outright. The reason was clear: Seraphina and Selene stood firmly within the early Spirit-Refining Stage, while Darian had only just entered the early Soul-Refining Stage.
To these prodigies, he simply did not matter.
Darian showed no sign of offense. His gaze swept calmly across the gathering. These were the young talents—representatives from the hundred great cities—summoned to compete for glory in the Battle of the Thousand Realms. Some bore themselves with arrogant pride, others with quiet confidence. Cold eyes, curious stares, calculating minds filled the crowd.
When Darian met their eyes, most reacted the same: a flicker of interest quickly replaced by disdain upon sensing the faint ripples of his cultivation.
With a single glance, he counted over a hundred early-stage Spirit-Refining geniuses, dozens in the mid-stage, and several who cloaked their true strength with deliberate skill.
The delegations clustered loosely, territorial and wary, their gazes darting between rivals. The strong and unusual drew scrutiny; the weak were ignored entirely.
Buzz! Whoosh!
Streams of light streaked across the horizon. Radiant treasures descended, bearing fresh prodigies to the assembly. They came in endless waves, as the hundred cities of the vast Eastern Lands sent their best. Drakeflare City was fortunate; it lay relatively close.
Darian, Selene, and Seraphina claimed a quiet corner of the immense platform. Despite its thousand-pace span, it felt open even with hundreds gathered. From here, Darian observed in silence, noting figures worth remembering.
A dozen paces east stood two men and a woman. The woman led them—her slender frame and long legs unmistakable—the same figure Darian had glimpsed on the horizon. Now her veil was gone, revealing a face of striking beauty. Her tight white-and-green martial garb clung to her tall form, tracing every curve, yet her aura was sharp, commanding, indomitable.
Both men behind her were solid mid-stage Spirit-Refining cultivators. The one to her left stood in silent vigilance; the other scanned the crowd with restless eyes. Their strength drew no small attention.
Darian's gaze moved on.
To the northeast stood another trio. At their head was a young man carved from living ice. His presence chilled the air. Clad in a black martial robe, hands clasped behind his back, eyes half-lidded, he radiated quiet, suffocating danger.
Late-stage Spirit-Refining at least, Darian judged. Perhaps stronger.
The man's eyes suddenly opened—sharp, domineering. They locked on Darian, gauged him, then closed once more.
Darian turned away, unaware the man had opened them again—the cold in his gaze deepening as he studied him further.
To the west, three figures in purple robes stood together. The one at the back was Thorne Ashveil—the same who had recently gestured to slit Darian's throat amid the fiery clouds. His eyes remained fixed on Darian, brimming with dangerous intent.
Darian ignored him. His attention was on the two in front. The leader's ruddy face radiated faint heat—a clear sign of mastery over a potent fire-based art.
But then the fire cultivator's expression shifted. Darian followed his gaze—and his own eyes sparked with heat.
Faelan Virethorn.
There he was—the sword-wielder from the Primeval Forest. Clad in white, handsome and poised, a longsword strapped to his back, he radiated a sharpness that seemed to split the air. Two others, also sword-bearers, stood behind him, mirroring his composure.
Darian's heart surged with battle lust.
You said you would wait for me here, Faelan. Now I have come.
Their gazes met. Somewhere between them, a sword seemed to hum. Faelan's blade trembled faintly. His eyes opened, twin arcs of cold light striking across the platform.
My name is Darian, his lips shaped the words. I am here.
Faelan's eyes burned brighter, and though they stood apart, both could feel the same thing—blood igniting, spirits sharpening.
Good, Faelan thought. Your strength has grown. This war will not be wasted.
Elsewhere, rivalries rippled among the gathered prodigies. Here, every genius was an enemy to surpass. The victor would not merely win a tournament; they would claim the title of the brightest star of the Eastern Lands.
At the platform's center, a different gathering took place: the hundred City Lords of the Eastern Lands. Unlike their young warriors, they mostly knew one another well and spoke in small, familiar groups. Yet beneath cordial words lingered the faint scent of gunpowder.
"Hah! Old Jarven, you're even fatter than last year. Keep eating like that and one day you won't be able to lift your own famed blade!"
"And who's talking? Old Sylas! You can't survive a day without wine. Careful, or you'll drink yourself into the river one of these nights and never crawl out!"
The short, round man was Jarven Holt of Frostmoon City. The tall, thin man was Sylas Drayke of Starvale City. Their good-natured insults drew knowing smiles from nearby lords—everyone was used to the routine.
Elsewhere, quieter conversations unfolded—but eyes kept drifting toward two men: Valtor of Drakeflare City, and Malrik of Heavenly Phoenix City.
"City Lord Valtor," Malrik said smoothly, "it's been years. I see your health has returned. Your old injuries must be a thing of the past."
Valtor smiled. "If yours have healed, City Lord Malrik, mine are hardly worth mentioning."
Their eyes locked, both laughed—but no one here was fooled. Once close friends, they had long since become rivals, their genial words masking countless clashes.
Malrik's gaze shifted toward Darian's group. "Ah, these are your geniuses? Two barely in early-stage Spirit-Refining… and—oh? One only at Spirit Core level?" He chuckled. "Is Drakeflare so talent-starved you send one like that to the Battle of the Thousand Realms? You might as well be sending him to his grave.
"Now look here—my Heavenly Phoenix trio." He gestured toward the long-legged woman and her companions. "If they cross paths with yours, I'll tell them to show mercy… hahahaha…"
Valtor's eyes gleamed faintly. "The last to laugh, City Lord Malrik, is the true victor. Let us wait and see."
Malrik's smile widened. "Oh, we shall."
Buzz!
At last, the skies fell silent. The hundred City Lords and three hundred young prodigies stood gathered.
Darian closed his eyes, his mind turning over the Dragon-Assault Battle Formation. With the changes he envisioned, its strength could increase by thirty percent. He intended to teach it to Seraphina and Selene before the battles began.
Then—
A vast, crushing aura swept over the white jade platform. Even the proudest geniuses stiffened. A voice like thunder rolled through the heavens:
"Welcome… to the battlefield of the Battle of the Thousand Realms."