The morning of the tournament arrived with a sky the color of a bruised plum. The Azure Arena was a masterpiece of architectural arrogance—a massive bowl carved into the peak of the mountain, lined with white marble that had been polished until it shone like a mirror.
The Welcome Ceremony
The ceremony was a display of pure, suffocating power. Sect Master Yun Che descended from the clouds on a platform of frozen mist, followed by the Twelve Elders. Each Elder released a ripple of their Qi, creating a multicolored "Aura Canopy" over the stadium that made the air feel heavy and sweet.
Elder Gao stepped to the edge of the high podium, his voice amplified by the mountain's echoes. "Today, we cull the weak! From a hundred Outer Disciples, only ten shall remain to enter the Inner Sanctum. And for the first time... we have a 'guest' from the kitchens."
He gestured mockingly toward the tunnel. Long Chen stepped out, dressed in his charred laundry rags, his face smudged with soot. The laughter from the thousands of disciples in the stands was like a physical wave of heat.
"Look! He brought a hammer to a sword fight!"
"Does he plan to wash their robes before he dies?"
The Opening Rounds: A Trail of Broken Steel
The tournament began in a blur of violence. Long Chen didn't wait for the laughter to die down. In the opening "Culling" matches, he moved like a shadow through a forest of steel.
• Match 1 (vs. Disciple Han): Han lunged with a mid-grade iron sword. Long Chen didn't dodge; he caught the blade between two fingers and pulsed his Dual-Polarity Marrow. The sword shattered into twelve pieces. Han was out before he could blink.
• Match 2 (vs. Disciple Mo): Mo attempted a "Flame Palm," his hands glowing orange. Long Chen stepped into Mo's "Blind Rhythm" and tapped his elbow. Mo's own heat backfired into his shoulder, sending him screaming into the dirt.
• Match 3 (vs. The Trio): Three disciples tried to gang up on him at once. Long Chen simply stood still. When their weapons hit him, the recoil felt like hitting a mountain of lead. They fell backward, their wrists sprained by their own momentum.
By the time the sun hit its zenith, the laughter in the stands had turned into a confused, nervous murmuring. The "Dust" servant was still standing, and he hadn't even broken a sweat.
The Quarter-Final: The Invisible Storm
The Great Bell tolled. The small-time matches were over. Now, the real predators stepped onto the marble.
"Quarter-Final: Wind-Walker Feng vs. Long Chen! Begin!"
Feng didn't walk; he drifted. He carried a pair of fans made of silver feathers, and his eyes were full of a cruel, playful light. Feng was a Level 3 Speed Specialist—one of the top three seeds of the Outer Hall.
"I'm going to peel your skin off, layer by layer," Feng hissed.
He flicked his wrist. He didn't swing a sword; he used his Qi to create a three-foot blade of pressurized, invisible air.
The Smart Play:
Long Chen felt the air sharpen. To the audience, it looked like Feng was dancing, his fans waving gracefully. But Long Chen's Origin Sight flared. He didn't see a dance; he saw the air currents being compressed into jagged, saw-like edges.
Slash. A thin line appeared on Long Chen's cheek.
Slash. His shoulder rag was torn away.
The crowd roared, thinking Feng was winning. But Long Chen was "listening." Every invisible blade had a Vortex Tail—a specific frequency where the pressure stabilized.
Feng grew arrogant. He lunged forward for a decapitating strike. "Die, trash!"
Just as the invisible edge touched Long Chen's throat, he didn't dodge. He clapped.
His hands, reinforced by the Dual-Polarity Marrow, slammed together directly on the "node" of the wind blade.
BOOM. The vacuum collapsed with the sound of a thunderclap. The sudden change in pressure sent a back-wave of force directly into Feng's silver fans. The fans shattered into a thousand shards, and the recoil snapped Feng's wrist like a dry twig.
The Finish:
The arena went deathly silent. Long Chen stepped through the falling silver feathers. Before Feng could scream, Long Chen reached out and tapped the boy's forehead.
Thump.
He sent a low-frequency vibration through Feng's skull, short-circuiting his nervous system. Feng's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed into the dust like a puppet with its strings cut.
Long Chen stood over him, his chest rising and falling in a slow, powerful rhythm. He looked up at the high podium, his eyes locking onto Elder Gao. The soot on his face made his eyes look like two burning stars.
The mocking was gone. In its place was a heavy, suffocating weight of fear.
"Who," Long Chen asked, his voice echoing in the silent stadium, "is next?"