The Stele courtyard seethed with noise long before sunrise. Hundreds of disciples pressed close to the platforms, eager to watch the tournament's first eliminations. The Stele itself glowed faintly in the half-light, ranks shifting as names were challenged, won, or erased. Every breath of qi in the air was sharp with tension.
Li Wei walked among them like a stone in the current. His robes were plain, his hair tied back, his sword at his waist. He looked no different from dozens of others, yet those who had seen him fight in the preliminaries gave him space. He ignored their whispers. His dantian pulsed like a hidden spring, liquid qi circling smoothly. His foundation was flawless, his scripture steady. Today would test how far that perfection carried him.
Zhang Fang — Rank 72
When his name was called, the noise shifted.Across the arena stood a broad-shouldered man with arms like carved wood. Dust clung to his knuckles, and the air around him pressed heavy with earth-qi.
"So you're the newcomer," Zhang Fang said, rolling his shoulders. "Let's see what your foundation's worth."
Li Wei inclined his head. "Begin."
The bell rang.
Zhang Fang stepped in, each blow like a falling boulder. Li Wei met the first with a deflecting twist of his wrist, steel sliding past flesh in a flash of sparks. The second punch drove a shockwave through the floor; tiles cracked beneath Li Wei's feet as he retreated half a pace, eyes narrow, measuring rhythm.
On the fourth exchange, he saw it—the drop of a shoulder before impact, the breath Zhang Fang drew too soon. Li Wei shifted, letting the fist skim his sleeve, and answered with a precise cut across the forearm. Blood welled in a thin line.
Zhang Fang only grunted.
His qi flared, coating his arms in dull bronze. The next strike thundered out, but Li Wei was already gone—Flowing Cloud Steps blurring his form, movement light as mist. The counter came from the side: Tempest Fang Slash, sharp and controlled, slamming into Zhang Fang's guard. The force sent the man skidding back two steps.
For a heartbeat the arena stilled. Then Zhang Fang lowered his arms, breath steady but eyes resigned. Raising his token. "I concede."
"Winner: Li Wei."
Applause broke like distant surf—muted, respectful. The first match was done.
---
His next opponent was a lean youth with a spear. The boy bowed curtly, lips thin, eyes cold. "Rank 98," he said, voice stiff.
Li Wei gave only a nod.
The steward called the start. The spear thrust immediately, fast and precise. Flowing Cloud Steps slipped him aside, sword flashing up in a narrow arc. The youth pivoted, the haft cracking across Li Wei's guard. For a breath they locked—steel against wood, qi flaring between them.
Li Wei shifted his weight, forcing the angle. His blade bit deep into the shaft, snapping the spear in two. The boy's eyes widened, but before he could recover a Tempest Fang Slash howled out, scattering fragments across the platform. The strike didn't cut flesh, but it flung the boy sprawling. He coughed blood, token flashing surrender.
"Winner: Li Wei. Advancement."
Gasps rippled through the crowd, not because of the ease of victory but because of the control. The slash could have crippled. It had not.
The next opponent was a woman in green robes, her palms sprouting qi-vines that lashed like whips. She wasted no words, only spread her arms. Roots shot outward, forming a net that surged toward Li Wei.
He exhaled slowly. The Azure Wind Scripture stirred within him, and his Whirlwind Slash broke loose. The blade cut air itself, drawing currents into its wake. The vines bent unnaturally, caught in pressure they could not resist. His sword carved through them in ribbons.
The woman recovered quickly, forming a shield of braided qi-vines. She advanced step by step, sweat on her brow. Li Wei waited until she committed to a forward strike, then stepped inside her guard, sword flicking. Her vines shredded, her stance buckled, and she stumbled back across the line of the platform.
"I yield," she said quickly, chest heaving.
"Winner: Li Wei."
The third duel dragged longer. A stocky cultivator whose earth qi manifested as stone walls stamped his foot, raising slabs taller than a man. He fortified each step with another wall, turning the stage into a fortress.
Li Wei tested him, carving shallow trenches into the stone, but the man only laughed. "You won't break me so easily."
Li Wei's expression remained calm. Flowing Cloud Steps carried him in sudden arcs, his footwork compressing distance in unpredictable bursts. The man struggled to follow the rhythm. Then Li Wei shifted his blade, the Tempest Fang Slash roaring not at the wall itself but at the cultivator's feet. The ground cracked, the wall collapsed, and the man stumbled beneath his own defense.
Pinned by rubble, coughing, he waved his token.
Another victory.
In the pavilion above, Elder Zhao murmured to his peers. "No wasted movement. His footwork's acceleration is unnatural for early Foundation Establishement."
Another elder nodded gravely. "He builds pressure, then chooses the exact moment to break balance. Rare precision for his stage."
By afternoon Li Wei had cut down three more challengers, his sword never lingering, his pace unshaken. Some tried brute force, others speed, but all fell. The whispers around him grew sharper: too clean, too fast, too unyielding.
Then came Luo Qing.
The name alone drew silence. Luo Qing had been in the sect for years, ranked steadily in the eighties. His reputation was not of brilliance but of reliability: swordsmanship honed to a steady edge, composure under pressure, no wasted flourishes.
He bowed deeply. "Li Wei. I've heard the noise. Let us see if it's deserved."
Li Wei returned the bow. "Please."
They clashed. Luo Qing's sword opened with a probing feint, turning mid-stroke to catch Li Wei's leg. Li Wei parried, their blades ringing. They circled, testing. Luo Qing pressed with sequences of precise strikes, forcing Li Wei to reveal guard after guard. The platform sang with steel.
For the first time that day, Li Wei did not finish the fight in breaths. He matched Luo Qing step for step, savoring the contest. Each pass measured his new cultivation. Each parry showed him how firmly his liquid qi answered his call.
Luo Qing narrowed his eyes. "Your foundation… it's sharper than it should be."
Li Wei said nothing.
The duel tightened. Luo Qing's blade work grew fiercer, sword qi scattering sparks. But Li Wei's Flowing Cloud Steps shortened each arc, blurring distance. Then he loosed the Whirlwind Slash.
The strike bent the air itself. Not a full Intent—only the faintest breath at the edge of steel—but enough. Luo Qing's guard wavered. His blade shook as if struck by invisible wind.
He staggered, boots skidding on stone. For a heartbeat he stared at Li Wei, then exhaled and lowered his sword. "Enough. I concede."
The crowd erupted. Luo Qing conceding was no small matter.
"Winner: Li Wei."
As the sun dipped, the Stele shimmered with shifting ranks, names dimming, while others rose. Li Wei's name climbed, each glow marking his rise.
Elder Zhao leaned on the rail, voice low. "If he holds this pace tomorrow, he'll force clashes with the upper ranks. That's where we'll see what hides in his sleeves."
Another elder grunted. "So far he hasn't needed sleeves at all."
---
Night fell. Lanterns bloomed along the sect's stone paths, their glow soft against the hush of dispersing crowds. Disciples filed back to their abodes, some jubilant, others defeated.
Li Wei left the platform last, sweat cooling on his back. His jade token pulsed faintly at his waist, the glow marking his victories. He passed Mei Yun and Liang Fei near the courtyard edge; both raised hands in greeting. Mei Yun's smile carried quiet pride, Liang Fei's smirk his usual challenge.
Li Wei inclined his head but did not stop. His pack was heavy, his mind heavier.
In his abode, he washed, then sat cross-legged in silence. His sword lay across his knees. His breath cycled slow and deep, qi running smooth through every meridian. The day's battles replayed in his mind—the fists of Zhang Fang, the spear thrust, the vines, the collapsing walls, Luo Qing's steady blade.
He had not yet unleashed his full strength. He would not, until the moment demanded it. But each fight had sharpened him further. The faint edge of wind stirred at his sword's arc, not yet Intent but close enough to taste. It would be ready when the time came.
Tomorrow would demand more. And he would give it.