The second day of the Autumn Festival arrived with a sky the color of bruised plums, heavy clouds hanging low over the jagged spires of Thousand Blade City. The festive atmosphere in the streets had deepened into an intense, feverish energy. For the common citizens, the Grand Tournament was entertainment; for the clans, it was a ledger where the balance of power was recorded in blood and broken bone.
Blake Harrison spent the early morning in a state of meditative stillness. He sat on the floor of his chamber, his breathing so slow it was nearly imperceptible. He was mentally tracing the pathways of his internal energy, ensuring the 5th-layer tempering was holding firm. The encounter with Sila the night before had left a strange residue in his mind—a reminder that beneath the grand architecture of the Sterling Clan, there were people living in the cracks, desperate and fragile.
A sharp knock at the door broke his concentration. It was one of his father's personal attendants.
"Master Blake, the carriage is ready. The Clan Head and your father are already departing for the arena. They expect you to arrive with the disciples' procession."
Blake rose, the silk of his robes whispering against the floor. "I'll be down momentarily."
As he walked through the manor's halls, he noticed the shift in security again. There were more guards than usual, and many of them were men he didn't recognize—mercenaries or branch-family warriors brought in for the festival. They stood at every intersection, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. The air felt thick, as if the manor itself were holding its breath.
At the North Gate, he found Jazmin waiting. She was dressed in shimmering silver light-armor, her twin swords strapped to her back. She looked radiant, the very image of a Sterling noble, yet there was a slight tension in the set of her jaw.
"You're late," she said, though there was no heat in her voice.
"I was centering myself," Blake replied. "The crowd will be louder today. The stakes are higher."
"Garrett Hawthorne won his first match in three moves," Jazmin noted as they climbed onto their mounts. "He didn't even use a weapon. He simply walked through a Valerian's defense and threw him out of the ring. People are calling him the 'Human Wall.'"
"A wall only stands until someone finds the right place to strike," Blake said calmly.
They rode through the city, flanked by a dozen Sterling disciples. The path to the arena was lined with spectators who cheered as they passed. Blake saw the faces in the crowd—the hope, the envy, the sheer excitement. To them, he was a figure of legend in the making. He felt the weight of their expectations, a heavy mantle that settled over his shoulders.
The arena was even more crowded than the previous day. The roar of fifty thousand voices was a physical force, vibrating in Blake's chest. He took his place in the Sterling waiting area, a shaded stone terrace overlooking the sandy pit of the combat floor.
The morning matches were a blur of steel and dust. Blake watched as geniuses from minor clans were systematically dismantled by the big three: Sterling, Hawthorne, and Valerian. The gap between the major houses and the rest of the city was widening, a testament to the resources and techniques they hoarded.
Then, the announcer's voice boomed across the sands.
"Quarter-finals! Blake Harrison of the Sterling Clan versus Kaelen of the Iron-Fist Hall!"
Blake stepped out into the light. The heat of the sun, filtered through the clouds, felt stifling. Across from him stood Kaelen, a man in his early twenties with shoulders like a draft ox and hands wrapped in heavy leather. Kaelen was a 5th-layer cultivator, a veteran of the city's underground pits who had recently been sponsored by a merchant guild.
"I've heard you're the pride of the Sterlings," Kaelen growled, thumping his fists together. "Let's see if that silver robe stays clean once I get my hands on you."
The gong sounded.
Kaelen moved with surprising speed for his size. He lunged forward, his fists whistling through the air. These weren't the refined strikes of a clan technique; they were brutal, efficient blows designed to crush bone.
Blake retreated, his footwork effortless. He moved like a leaf caught in a gale, always an inch out of Kaelen's reach. He was observing, measuring the man's strength. Every time Kaelen's fist missed, the air pressure brushed against Blake's skin, a reminder of the raw power behind the strikes.
"Stop running, boy!" Kaelen roared, unleashing a double-fist hammer strike toward the ground.
The sand exploded as Kaelen's fists hit the floor, creating a small crater. Blake used the momentary obstruction to close the distance. He didn't draw his sword. He wanted to test his physical tempering against a man who specialized in it.
Blake stepped inside Kaelen's guard, his palm striking the man's solar plexus. It was a "Vibrant Palm" strike, the same one he had practiced on the basalt pillars.
Kaelen's eyes bulged. He stumbled back, gasping for air as the vibration rippled through his chest. But he was tough—his 5th-layer tempering was solid. He snarled and swung a wild hook at Blake's head.
Blake ducked, his hand snapping out to grab Kaelen's wrist. With a sharp twist and a surge of internal energy, he used Kaelen's own momentum to flip the larger man over his shoulder.
Kaelen hit the sand with a heavy thud. Before he could recover, Blake was there, his foot pressed firmly against Kaelen's throat.
"Yield," Blake said, his voice devoid of emotion.
Kaelen struggled for a second, then went limp, tapping the sand in submission.
"Winner: Blake Harrison!"
The crowd erupted. In the Sterling box, Elder Marcus nodded with approval, and Jazmin was on her feet, waving. Blake released Kaelen and offered a hand to help him up. The man took it, looking at Blake with a newfound respect.
"You're solid, kid," Kaelen wheezed. "Like hitting a mountain."
Blake returned to the staging area, his mind already moving to the next round. He hadn't used much energy, but he could feel the 5th-layer tempering humming in his limbs. It was becoming more natural, more integrated into his every movement.
As the afternoon wore on, the field narrowed. Finally, it was the match everyone had been waiting for: the semi-finals.
"Garrett Hawthorne versus Blake Harrison!"
The atmosphere in the arena shifted instantly. The casual cheering died down, replaced by a tense, expectant silence. This wasn't just a match; this was the clash of the two most powerful houses in the city.
Garrett Hawthorne stepped onto the sand. He was a head taller than Blake, his skin the color of hammered bronze. He wore no armor, only a pair of simple trousers. His muscles were so dense they looked like they had been carved from wood. He didn't carry a weapon, but his hands were massive, his fingers thick and scarred.
"Blake Harrison," Garrett said, his voice a low rumble. "The 'Genius' of the Sterlings. My father says you're the one I have to break to ensure our dominance. It's a shame. You have a good frame."
"You're welcome to try," Blake replied, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He knew he couldn't hold back against Garrett. The "Iron Son" was at the 6th Layer of Flesh Tempering. His organs were tempered, his recovery was faster, and his strike-force was on a different level.
The gong sounded.
Garrett didn't rush. He walked toward Blake, each step heavy and deliberate. Blake drew his sword, the silver blade gleaming even under the grey sky. He didn't wait for Garrett to close the distance; he used the Sterling Gale footwork to circle, looking for an opening.
He lunged, a lightning-fast thrust aimed at Garrett's shoulder.
Garrett didn't parry. He simply braced himself.
The sword hit Garrett's skin, but instead of piercing, it felt like Blake had struck a sheet of cured leather. The blade slid off, leaving only a faint white mark on Garrett's bronze skin.
Blake's eyes narrowed. The 6th Layer. His skin is as tough as armor.
Garrett grinned and swung a massive arm. Blake leaped back, the wind of the strike ruffling his hair. He immediately counter-attacked, unleashing a flurry of slashes. Each one hit, but Garrett simply ignored them, moving forward like an unstoppable tide.
"Is that all?" Garrett mocked. "I thought the Sterlings taught you how to cut."
Garrett suddenly lunged, his speed catching Blake by surprise. He grabbed Blake's forearm with a grip like an iron vice. Blake felt his bones groan under the pressure. He didn't panic; he channeled his internal energy into his arm, hardening his muscles to resist the crush.
He used his free hand to deliver a "Vibrant Palm" strike directly to Garrett's chest.
THOOM.
The sound was like a hammer hitting an anvil. Garrett was forced back several steps, his grip loosening. He looked down at his chest, where a red palm print was forming. For the first time, his smirk vanished.
"That... actually hurt," Garrett said, his voice dropping an octave. "You've got internal force. At the 5th Layer? Interesting."
Garrett roared and charged. This time, he wasn't just walking. He was a juggernaut. He unleashed a series of devastating punches, each one capable of shattering stone. Blake was forced into a full defensive stance, his sword blurred as he parried and redirected the blows.
The fight moved across the arena, a chaotic dance of silver and bronze. Blake was faster, his technique superior, but Garrett was a fortress. Every time Blake landed a blow, it felt like he was wasting his energy. Every time Garrett swung, Blake had to use every ounce of his strength to avoid being crushed.
Blake's mind was racing. I can't beat him with attrition. He has the 6th-layer stamina. I have to find the weak point in his tempering.
He noticed that while Garrett's chest and arms were nearly invulnerable, he was slightly slower when protecting his throat and the joints of his knees. It was a minute flaw, likely a result of Garrett rushing his own progression to reach the 6th Layer before the festival.
Blake took a deep breath, focusing all his energy into a single point. He stopped circling and stood his ground.
Garrett saw the opening and threw a massive overhand right.
Blake didn't move until the last possible second. He slid under the punch, his body practically touching the sand. As he came up behind Garrett, he didn't use his sword. He used his fingers, stiffened like iron, and struck the nerve cluster behind Garrett's ear.
At the same time, he kicked the back of Garrett's knee with a burst of "Vibrant" force.
Garrett let out a strangled cry. His leg buckled, and his head snapped to the side as the nerve strike sent a jolt of agony through his system. For a heartbeat, the "Iron Son" was vulnerable.
Blake didn't hesitate. He brought the hilt of his sword down on the base of Garrett's skull.
Garrett hit the sand hard, his body skidding several feet. He struggled to get up, his movements uncoordinated. Blake stood over him, his sword pointed at Garrett's heart.
The arena was silent. Then, a slow, deafening roar built up from the crowd.
"Yield, Garrett," Blake said, his own chest heaving from the exertion. "Your balance is gone. You can't win this."
Garrett looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his face contorted with rage and shame. He looked at the Sterling box, then at the Hawthorne box where his father sat with a face like stone. Slowly, he lowered his head.
"I... yield."
"Winner: Blake Harrison!"
The Sterling section of the arena went wild. Jazmin was screaming, her face lit with a triumphant glow. Elder Marcus was standing, a rare, genuine smile on his face. Blake had done the impossible; he had defeated a 6th-layer genius while still at the 5th.
Blake sheathed his sword and walked off the sands, his body aching, his mind exhausted. He was met in the tunnel by his father, who gripped his shoulders with a strength that spoke of his pride.
"You did it, Blake," Thomas whispered. "You showed them. You showed all of them."
"It was close, Father," Blake admitted. "He was stronger than I expected."
"But you were smarter. And your foundation is better. That's what matters."
The finals were scheduled for the following day, but for most of the city, the tournament was already over. Blake Harrison was the undisputed hero of the festival.
As the Sterling contingent returned to the manor that evening, the celebration was already beginning. Servants were setting up tables in the gardens, and the finest wines were being uncorked. Blake was surrounded by disciples wanting to touch his robe, to hear how he had made the "Iron Son" kneel.
He eventually managed to slip away, seeking the quiet of the reflecting pool. He needed a moment to breathe, to let the adrenaline fade.
"You were incredible today."
He turned to see Jazmin standing in the moonlight. She had changed into a soft, flowing gown of pale blue, her hair loose. She looked beautiful, and for the first time, Blake felt the full weight of the future they were about to share.
"I did what I had to," Blake said, sitting on the edge of the pool.
"No, you did more," Jazmin said, sitting beside him. She reached out and took his hand, her fingers interlacing with his. "You secured everything. My grandfather is signing the final scrolls tonight. The betrothal will be announced tomorrow evening, right after the final match."
Blake looked at her, seeing the genuine warmth in her eyes. "Are you happy, Jazmin?"
"I am," she said softly. "I really am. We're going to be the most powerful couple this city has ever seen. No one will be able to touch us."
They sat in the quiet of the garden, the distant sounds of the feast providing a backdrop to their shared moment. Blake felt a deep sense of peace. The struggle, the training, the pain—it had all led to this. He was fifteen, a hero of his clan, and the girl he loved was by his side.
"I should go," Jazmin said after a while, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "I have to prepare for tomorrow. It's going to be a long day."
"I'll see you in the morning," Blake said.
He watched her walk away, her silhouette disappearing into the shadows of the manor. He sat by the pool for another hour, his mind drifting over the events of the day. He thought about Garrett Hawthorne's face when he fell, and about the pride in his father's eyes.
He stood up to return to his room, but as he passed the entrance to the inner sanctum, he saw a familiar figure. It was Vance, the guard who had been "reassigned." He was standing in the shadows of a pillar, looking around nervously.
"Vance?" Blake called out.
The guard jumped, his eyes wide with terror. He looked at Blake for a second, then turned and ran into the darkness of the servant's passage.
Blake frowned, his sense of unease returning. Why was Vance back? And why was he so frightened?
He started to follow, but his father's attendant appeared at the end of the hall. "Master Blake, your father requests your presence. There are matters concerning tomorrow's ceremony that need your attention."
Blake hesitated, looking toward the dark passage where Vance had vanished. He pushed the feeling down, attributing it to the lingering tension of the fight with Garrett.
"I'm coming," Blake said.
He walked toward his father's quarters, the light of the torches flickering on the walls. The Autumn Festival was almost over. Tomorrow, his life would change forever. He was Blake Harrison, and his future was brighter than the sun.
He didn't look back at the shadows.