MElder Shan didn't sit. Just stood there looking down at Wuya like he was examining a piece of jade—trying to figure out if it was valuable or just shiny.
Liya had gone still beside him. Meeting an elder from a mid-tier sect wasn't something merchant families took lightly.
"Elder Shan," Wuya said. Didn't bother standing. His legs were tired from all that dodging.
"You didn't use qi." Not a question.
"Didn't need to."
"Against Yan Feng. One of my best disciples." The elder's voice was calm, but something sharp lived underneath. "You made him look like a child with a stick."
"He's not a child. His technique's solid."
"But?"
Wuya shrugged. "He broadcasts everything. Gets frustrated easy. Relies on power when he should use precision."
Elder Shan went quiet. Then he laughed—short and sharp. "You just described half the disciples in this Assembly." He tilted his head. "Clearwater Sect. I've traveled the jianghu thirty years. Never heard of it. Where is it?"
"Yanmist Mountains. Three days north."
"How many disciples does Clearwater have?"
"Right now? Just me."
That got him. Elder Shan's eyebrows climbed. "Just you. And your master sent you here alone to compete."
"He thought I should see the world."
"The world, or the martial world?" Elder Shan glanced at Liya, back at Wuya. "That match should've lasted thirty exchanges minimum. It lasted less than ten, and you spent all of them avoiding. Then you ended it with a finger strike that sent Yan Feng flying without doing real damage. That kind of control doesn't come from nowhere."
Wuya said nothing.
"Your master. What's his name?"
"Elder Feng."
"Just Elder Feng? No family name, no title, no reputation?"
"Just Elder Feng."
Elder Shan studied him another long moment. Shook his head slow. "I don't know if you're being deliberately mysterious or genuinely this straightforward. Either way, you've made things interesting." He turned to leave, paused. "Word of advice, Jin Wuya. You're going to draw attention now. The wrong kind, from the wrong people. The great sects don't like unknowns. They especially don't like unknowns who embarrass their allies."
"Noted."
Elder Shan walked away, green robes swaying.
Liya let out a breath she'd been holding. "Do you have any idea what you just did?"
"Won a match?"
"You made yourself a target! Emerald Peak has connections to half the mid-tier sects in the region. And the great sects watch these preliminaries to scout talent—or threats." She shook her head. "You should've lost. Or at least made it look harder."
"Why?"
"Because now everyone's going to want to test you! To see if you're real or just got lucky." Liya ran her hand through her hair. "Gods, you really are from the middle of nowhere."
Before Wuya could answer, a group in blue and white robes walked past. Azure Sky Alliance. One of them—a young man with a sword almost as tall as he was—glanced their way and smirked.
"That's the Clearwater nobody?" Loud enough to carry. "Doesn't look like much."
"Bai Chenfeng," one of his friends said. "Elder Sister said not to provoke anyone."
"I'm not provoking. Just observing." Bai Chenfeng's smirk widened. "Though I hope I get matched against him. Would be fun to see if he can dodge when someone's actually trying."
They walked on, laughing.
Wuya watched them go. "Friend of yours?"
"Hardly. Bai Chenfeng is Azure Sky's rising star this year. Twenty-four, made Master realm last year, hasn't lost a tournament match since." Liya grimaced. "Also an arrogant ass, but that's half the disciples from great sects."
"Seems nice."
"You're really not worried, are you?"
Wuya thought about it. "About the matches? No. About politics?" He shrugged. "Can't do much about that now."
"You could withdraw. Say you're injured—"
"I'm not injured."
"I know, but—" Liya stopped, studying his face. "You're not going to withdraw no matter what I say."
"Probably not."
She sighed. "Stubborn. Fine. At least let me help you understand what you're walking into. Come on."
"Where?"
"The betting houses. If you're going to be the center of chaos, you should know what people are saying."
Wuya followed her through the crowded grounds. Past training areas where disciples practiced, food stalls selling dumplings and roasted meat, gambling tents where dice and loud arguments spilled out.
Liya led him to a bigger place with a painted sign—Golden Fortune Betting House. Inside, walls covered in boards showing odds for matches. Wuya's name was already up.
"Jin Wuya versus Yan Feng - COMPLETED. Winner: Jin Wuya." Below it, new odds getting chalked in. "Jin Wuya, second round - thirty-to-one against."
"Still terrible odds," Liya muttered. "But better than yesterday."
"People think I'll lose?"
"People think you got lucky. Or Yan Feng had an off day. One victory means nothing until you prove it wasn't a fluke." She pointed to another board. "Look. Bai Chenfeng is five-to-one to reach the final eight. Zhou Ming from Crimson Blade is three-to-one. You're not even listed for the finals."
Wuya looked at the boards. Numbers and predictions. People trying to make sense of uncertainty. Elder Feng used to say: *The river doesn't care what odds the stones give it. It just flows.*
"Does any of this matter?" he asked.
Liya stared at him. "Does it— Yes! This is how reputations are built! How sects gain influence, how disciples get recruited, how—" She stopped. "You really don't care about any of this."
"Not really."
"Then why are you here?"
Good question. Wuya thought about Elder Feng's last words. *Go see the world, Wuya. Test yourself. And remember—the river flows because it must, not because it wants to impress the fish.*
"My master thought I should," Wuya said. "So I am."
Before Liya could respond, shouting erupted outside. Something breaking.
They stepped out. Small crowd gathering near a practice ring. In the center, a young disciple in plain brown robes was on the ground, blood running from his nose. Standing over him—three disciples in crimson and gold. Crimson Blade Hall.
"Know your place, trash," one said. "Minor sects don't use the main practice rings. That's for actual martial artists."
The kid on the ground—couldn't have been more than seventeen—tried to stand. One of the Crimson Blade disciples kicked him back down.
Something tightened in Wuya's chest. Not anger exactly. Recognition. He'd seen this before. Different faces, different robes. Same scene. The strong pushing down the weak because they could.
"Don't," Liya said quiet beside him. "Wuya, don't. That's Crimson Blade Hall—a great sect. You can't—"
Wuya was already walking.
The crowd parted. Conversations died. People recognized him from the arena—the nobody who beat Yan Feng.
Wuya stopped a few feet from the Crimson Blade disciples. "He can use the ring."
Three heads turned. The one who'd done the kicking—built like a bear with a scar across his cheek—looked Wuya up and down. "Who the hell are you?"
"Someone who thinks you should pick on people your own size."
Scar-face laughed. "Big talk from—" He stopped. Recognition hit. "Wait. You're that Clearwater nobody. The one who got lucky against Emerald Peak."
"Didn't feel like luck."
His expression darkened. "You want to test your luck against Crimson Blade? Because we're not Emerald Peak. We don't play gentle."
His two friends spread out, flanking. The young disciple scrambled away, smart enough to clear out.
"I'm not looking for trouble," Wuya said. "Just saying the kid can use the practice ring."
"And I'm saying he can't. Got a problem?" Scar-face stepped closer. His qi flared—strong, aggressive, like heat from a forge. "How about this. You want him to use the ring? Go through me first. Right here. No rules, no refs, no ring-outs."
Liya pushed through the crowd. "Wuya, this is insane. Your next match is this afternoon—"
"I can use a different ring," the young disciple called out. Voice shaking. "It's fine."
Wuya glanced at him. Eyes downcast, shoulders hunched. Resigned. Like this happened all the time and he'd learned it was easier to just accept it.
Elder Feng's words echoed: *The strong exist to protect the weak, not crush them. If you forget that, you're not a martial artist. You're just a thug with qi.*
Wuya looked back at Scar-face. "Alright. Let's settle it."
The crowd erupted in whispers. Someone ran off—probably to fetch officials.
Scar-face grinned. "Finally. Someone with—"
Wuya was already moving.
Not attacking. Just walking forward, hands in his sleeves, closing the distance with that same steady purpose.
Scar-face's grin faltered. His hand went to his sword.
Wuya stopped directly in front of him. Close enough their faces were inches apart.
"Well?" Wuya said soft. "Draw it."
The practice grounds went silent.
Scar-face's hand trembled on his hilt. Sweat beaded his forehead. Up close, facing Wuya directly, he could feel... something. Not qi exactly. Just presence. Like standing at the edge of a deep, still pool.
"I said draw it."
Scar-face's hand fell away. He took a step back. Then another.
"That's what I thought." Wuya turned to the young disciple. "Ring's yours. Use it."
He walked away. Scar-face standing there, face red with humiliation and relief.
The crowd parted like water.
Liya caught up, grabbing his arm. "Do you have a death wish? That was—"
"Necessary."
"That was stupid! When the elders from Crimson Blade hear—"
"Then they'll hear." Wuya looked at her. "Would you rather I let them keep beating that kid?"
Liya opened her mouth. Closed it. Sighed. "No. But I also prefer you alive."
"I'm still alive."
"For now," a new voice said.
They turned. A girl in crimson and gold stood there, maybe a year or two older than Wuya. Unlike the thugs, she carried real confidence—the kind that came from skill, not bluster. Her sword hung at her side in a scabbard marked with gold inlay.
"Liu Yanmei," she said, nodding slightly. "Crimson Blade Hall. Senior disciple."
Wuya nodded back. "Jin Wuya."
"I know. Everyone knows now." She glanced where Scar-face and his friends had slunk off. "Those three are idiots. They deserved it. But they're still Crimson Blade disciples."
"So?"
"So there will be consequences." Her expression was unreadable. "My sect doesn't forget embarrassments. You should've walked away."
"Probably."
That caught her off guard. She studied him, shook her head. "You're either very brave or very stupid."
"Been told both today."
Liu Yanmei almost smiled. Almost. "Watch yourself, Jin Wuya. Preliminaries are easy. Real matches start tomorrow. And after today, you've painted a target on your back."
She walked away, crimson robes flowing.
Liya groaned. "This is a disaster."
"Could be worse."
"How? How could this possibly be worse?"
Wuya thought about it. "I could be hungry. Is there food around here?"
Liya stared at him. Then she laughed—slightly hysterical. "You're impossible. Come on. There's a noodle stall near the south gate that doesn't completely rob you."
They walked through the grounds, Liya muttering about politics while Wuya mostly thought about noodles.
Behind them, in the shadows of a tea house, an old man watched them go. He pulled out a small jade token, hesitated, put it away.
"Not yet," Old Merchant Gu murmured. "Let's see how deep this river really runs first."
He disappeared into the crowd, leaving only faint incense behind.