Wuya woke to roosters and the smell of fried dumplings drifting up from the street.
The room was still dark. Just a sliver of gray light leaking through the paper window. He sat up, stretched until his joints popped, and listened to the city waking up outside. Vendors shouting. Cart wheels on cobblestones. Somewhere distant, the rhythmic thud of someone running through their forms.
He splashed water on his face from the basin. Cold enough to sting. Good.
His sword leaned against the wall where he'd left it. Plain wooden scabbard, simple grip wrap, nothing special. He picked it up, felt the weight settle into his hand, and tied it to his belt.
By the time he hit the street, half the city was moving in one direction—toward the Assembly grounds on the western edge. Wuya joined the flow, hands in his sleeves, head down.
The grounds were massive. A central arena big enough to swallow a village, surrounded by tiered seating that could probably fit ten thousand people. Smaller practice rings scattered around the outer courtyards. Sect banners everywhere—Crimson Blade's red and gold, Azure Sky's blue and white, Emerald Peak's green. Nothing for Clearwater. Not surprising. They probably didn't know Clearwater existed until yesterday.
"Competitors for preliminary matches, over here!"
An official in gray waved toward a pavilion near the main arena. Wuya headed over. Inside, disciples clustered in groups wearing their sect colors like armor. Conversations buzzed—boasts, predictions, strategy. A few glanced at Wuya's plain robes and looked away immediately.
"Jin Wuya?"
An older official sat at a table with a roster. Wuya nodded.
"Clearwater Sect. First match, main arena." His brush scratched across paper. "Rules are simple. Yield, knockout, or ring-out. No killing blows. We've got healers, but try not to need them. Questions?"
"No."
"Good luck."
He didn't sound like he meant it.
Wuya found a stone bench in the corner and sat. Around him, disciples kept talking, kept boasting. He closed his eyes and breathed. In. Out. Steady. The qi in his dantian circulated on its own, flowing through the pathways Elder Feng had spent years drilling into him.
"So you actually showed up."
He opened his eyes. Shen Liya stood there, hands on her hips. She'd cleaned up since yesterday—newer clothes, hair tied back.
"You came to watch?"
"Paid silver for a decent seat. Wanted to see if it's worth it." She sat down next to him. "Sleep okay?"
"Good enough."
"Nervous?"
Wuya thought about it. "No."
"Liar." But she smiled. "Everyone's talking about your match. Yan Feng's won every tournament Emerald Peak sent him to for two years straight. Direct disciple of Elder Shan. He's good."
"Mm."
"That's all you've got? 'Mm'?" Liya shook her head. "You're either the calmest person alive or completely out of your mind."
"Told you. Probably both."
A gong sounded. Deep enough to feel in your chest. The pavilion went quiet.
"First preliminary match!" The announcer's voice boomed across the grounds, amplified by some qi technique. "Main arena! Jin Wuya of Clearwater Sect versus Yan Feng of Emerald Peak Sect!"
Liya stood. "Try not to die. I want to see if you can actually back up that calm routine."
Wuya stood and adjusted his sword. "I'll do my best."
The walk to the arena felt longer than it was. Crowd noise built with every step—excited murmurs, last-minute betting, thousands of people settling in. When he stepped out onto the packed dirt floor, the noise became a wall of sound.
Most of it wasn't for him.
Across the arena, Yan Feng walked out to cheers and applause. Tall. Maybe a few years older. The kind of confident stride that came from winning a lot. Green robes embroidered with silver thread in a mountain pattern. Expensive-looking sword at his hip.
Behind him in a special section, Elder Shan sat with other Emerald Peak disciples. Their banner snapped in the wind.
Wuya walked to the center. Yan Feng did the same.
The announcer stepped between them. "Preliminary match of the Autumn Assembly! Standard rules—yield, knockout, or ring-out. No killing blows. Both competitors ready?"
"Ready," Yan Feng said. His voice carried easy.
"Ready," Wuya said quiet.
"Begin!"
The announcer got out of there fast. The crowd leaned forward.
Yan Feng didn't move right away. He studied Wuya like someone who'd learned not to completely underestimate people. "I heard about yesterday. You've got some skill. But Wei's just a junior disciple. I'm not."
"I know."
"Then you know how this ends." His hand moved to his sword. "I'll make it quick. Nothing personal."
His qi exploded out. The pressure hit like a wave, and people in the crowd gasped. Stronger than Wei's. More controlled. Yan Feng drew his sword smooth, the blade catching morning light.
Wuya didn't draw. Just shifted his weight to his back foot.
Yan Feng's eyes narrowed. "You're not even—"
He moved.
Fast. Way faster than Wei. The distance vanished and his sword came up in a rising slash that would split Wuya from hip to shoulder.
Wuya pivoted. The blade passed close enough he felt the wind.
Yan Feng transitioned into the next strike, his form perfect. Emerald Peak's Seven Rivers Sword, but nothing like Wei's clumsy version. Each strike flowed into the next like water, qi enhancing both speed and power.
Wuya moved between the strikes. Minimal footwork. Hands still in his sleeves.
*Interesting.* He watched Yan Feng's technique unfold. *Better than Wei. Hides his openings better. No shoulder telegraph. But there—when he commits to the thrust, his back foot slides. Just a fraction. That's the moment.*
"Stand still!" Frustration crept into Yan Feng's voice as his strikes came faster.
The crowd had gone silent. Watching Wuya dodge strike after strike without blocking, without countering, without even drawing his weapon.
In the Emerald Peak section, Elder Shan leaned forward.
Yan Feng jumped back, creating space. Sweat on his forehead. "What are you doing? Fight back!"
"Do I have to?"
The question seemed to confuse him. "What?"
"You haven't hit me yet. Maybe work on that first."
Yan Feng's face flushed. His qi flared brighter and he launched everything—all twelve forms of Seven Rivers Sword in rapid succession, each strike faster and harder. The arena floor cracked under his movements.
Wuya wove through it like smoke.
When Yan Feng finally stopped, chest heaving, Wuya was standing exactly where he'd started. Not one strike had connected.
The crowd didn't know what to do.
Yan Feng stared at him. Disbelief and anger fighting on his face. "How... what technique is that?"
"No technique," Wuya said honestly. "You're just predictable."
Something snapped in Yan Feng. He roared and charged, abandoning form for raw power and speed.
Wuya sighed. Pulled his right hand from his sleeve and tapped Yan Feng's wrist as the sword came down.
The blade went wide. Yan Feng stumbled. Wuya's left hand came out and tapped his chest—not hard, just a push with two fingers.
Yan Feng flew backward, skidding across the arena floor, stopping inches from the boundary line.
The crowd exploded.
Yan Feng lay there staring at the sky, sword arm trembling. Slowly he pushed himself to one knee. Looked at Wuya. Looked at his own hands. Back at Wuya.
"I yield," he said quiet.
"Winner—Jin Wuya of Clearwater Sect!"
The crowd's roar doubled. In the stands, Shen Liya sat with her mouth open. In the Emerald Peak section, Elder Shan's face was unreadable.
Wuya walked over and offered his hand. After a second, Yan Feng took it and let himself get pulled up.
"Your Seven Rivers Sword is good," Wuya said. "But you commit too much qi to each strike. Leaves you unbalanced."
Yan Feng stared at him like he'd grown a second head. Then he laughed. Bitter sound. "Five years of training. And I didn't even make you draw your sword."
"Maybe next time."
Wuya turned and walked toward the exit. Behind him the crowd buzzed with speculation and excitement. The nobody from nowhere just beat one of Emerald Peak's strongest.
Without drawing his sword.
He found a quiet spot outside the pavilion and sat. His next match wouldn't be until afternoon at the earliest. Plenty of time.
"Hey!"
He looked up. Liya was running toward him, weaving through the crowd.
"That was—" She stopped in front of him, catching her breath. "What the hell was that?"
"A match."
"You made Yan Feng look like a complete amateur!"
"He's not an amateur. He's actually good."
"Then what does that make you?"
Before Wuya could answer, a shadow fell across them. He looked up.
Elder Shan stood there, expression thoughtful.
"Jin Wuya of Clearwater Sect," the elder said slowly. "I think we need to talk."