"I surrender."
A clear voice rang out through the Fangcradle — sharp, steady, unmistakable.
And then… nothing.
Pindrop silence.
The kind of silence that made the entire mountain valley feel hollow, like someone had sucked all the air out of it. Even the wind seemed to stop mid gust.
Hundreds of disciples froze in place.
On the stage, Ziren stood poised in a perfect stance — qi thrumming around him like a drawn blade.
He blinked once.
Lara, still on the ground but conscious enough to hear it, stared up with her jaw hanging slightly open.
Talia — halfway down the steps after her own surrender — almost tripped before catching herself.
Even Elder Syen paused.
Riven stood there, unruffled, lifting his hand as if the whole thing were a minor scheduling inconvenience.
"I said," he repeated, louder this time, "I surrender."
The silence cracked.
"…WHAT?!" someone shrieked from the stands.
"He just—?!"
"Why would he—?!"
"No no no, pause —"
Riven didn't look at them. He didn't look at anyone.
He just exhaled, long and tired, like someone finally putting down a heavy bag they didn't want to be carrying in the first place.
Truth was simple.
He'd already gotten what he needed.
Verdance.
His chance home.
His recovery time.
No need to fight a murderous final boss-type for bragging rights he did not care about.
He was already a core disciple. Why would he care about a promotion to inner disciple, a rank below his own?
He glanced at Ziren, who still hadn't moved.
Ziren's eyes met his.
A long moment passed.
Then Ziren gave a single, almost imperceptible nod — the kind given from one rational person to another who had just avoided doing something deeply stupid.
Riven returned the nod.
A moment later, Elder Syen's voice rang out once more — firm, unwavering, as though nothing had just happened.
"Ziren Raal," he called, tone as dry as ever, "you are the final standing. First place."
The crowd erupted again — not quite cheers, not quite confusion. Just noise. Some celebratory, some baffled, all loud.
"Riven, Lara Kien, Talia," Elder Syen's voice rang out. "Second, third, and fourth."
He paused, letting the dust settle and the murmurs die down, his presence still commanding even in silence.
"All top sixteen participants will receive their rewards within the next three days. Resource Hall disciples will deliver them directly to your residences."
There was a shuffle of movement across the stage — Lara, wincing, finally pushed herself upright with effort. Talia, already near the steps, didn't slow down. She simply kept walking.
"Additionally," Elder Syen continued, tone steady but firm, "the top two are to report to the Armory within the next two days to select their artifact weapon."
Another ripple went through the crowd.
"And finally — the top four will depart for Verdance in seven days. Be prepared. Instructions and provisions will be delivered beforehand."
With that, Elder Syen turned without flourish — finished, as always, the moment his words ran out. He descended the stairs, robes trailing, and vanished into the deeper halls of the sect.
The arena slowly began to break apart.
Ziren gave a small bow toward the stands — polite, nothing more — before stepping down and leaving without a word.
Lara limped after, muttering something under her breath that sounded like a very colorful insult.
Talia was already gone.
The crowd, after a beat of stunned silence, surged into chatter — voices overlapping, excitement and speculation filling the air. Disciples poured down the stone steps in every direction, buzzing like kicked-up bees.
But the stage itself remained quiet. Empty now. The storm was over.
Riven was making his way back to Jasmine Garden, the quiet quarter he called home.
I want a bath.
The last few days had been rough. He'd never really had peace — always on edge, always moving, fighting, watching, calculating.
First in the forest. Then on stage.
Every moment had been tension, whether it came from beasts, disciples, or the suffocating expectations of the sect itself.
But now?
He'd made it.
Top four. The ticket to Verdance secured.
Finally, for once, he didn't have to plan the next step immediately after taking the last.
He could breathe.
Let his muscles stop screaming.
Let his thoughts stop running.
He could relax.
Not forever. But maybe — just maybe — for tonight.
Riven slipped through the garden paths, past blooming night-thistle and quiet stone lanterns, until he reached his room.
He stepped inside, dropped his dusty outer robe to the floor, and headed straight for the pool outside.
The water was warm, faintly scented from some herbal infusions.
Riven hadn't added them but he figured Mira did.
He sank in slowly. Exhaled. Let his head tilt back, hair trailing like ink in the water.
For the first time in a long time, he felt human again. Not a weapon. Not a target.
Just a person. Breathing. Quiet.
The herbal scent drifting through the steam was gentle — cool, slightly sweet. He inhaled again, slower this time, noticing the faint tingle it left in the back of his throat.
…Nice.
He had misjudged Mira. She was quite considerate afterall.
He'd never seen her much. And even if he did, she was usually quite distant. Sometimes he even thought she hated him. But it seemed like she just had a cold exterior.
His eyes closed.
The warmth pressed deeper into his bones.
He exhaled, long and satisfied.
Slowly heaviness crept over his eyelids.
Riven frowned faintly.
…Weird.
Was he that exhausted?
He tried to lift an arm — just to adjust his position — but his muscles didn't quite respond the way he expected. His fingers broke the surface of the water only halfway before sinking again, as though his body had forgotten how to move.
A soft pulse throbbed behind his eyes.
His breathing hitched for a moment.
What…?
His heart gave a single, slow thud.
Something was wrong.
His thoughts tried to sharpen, but they slipped like oil in his grasp. The fog thickened around the edges of his mind, tugging him downward into a velvet-dark drowsiness he couldn't fight off.
His vision blurred.
Shapes softened.
Then — faintly — through the wavering haze:
Footsteps.
Soft. Bare. Careful.
Riven forced his eyes to focus through the blur.
A silhouette stood at the edge of the lantern light.
Small.
Familiar.
Mira.
He couldn't make out her expression with how smeared and distorted his vision had become…
but her posture was weird.
It wasn't the usual more introverted posture.
She was walking with a goal in mind.
Like she'd finally let loose.
A slow pulse throbbed in Riven's temples.
He tried to speak, but the words melted on his tongue, swallowed by the growing heaviness sinking into his bones.
Mira stepped closer.
The soft padding of her feet on the garden stones sounded impossibly loud in the quiet night. Each step deliberate. Controlled. Almost rehearsed.
The herbal scent thickened.
Sweet. Too sweet.
Riven's heartbeat dragged itself through his chest like something moving underwater.
His vision wavered again.
Mira's silhouette sharpened.
Her hand lifted slightly at her side.
Something small.
Metal.
A faint glint caught the lantern light — cold, sharp, unwavering.
A blade.
The gleam hovered for a heartbeat.
Then moved toward him.