“Cold…” Mei Chulan’s voice was barely a whisper, a thread of sound unraveling into the heavy mountain mist. Yansheng’s heart felt like a lead weight plunging into an icy well. He scooped her into his arms, ignoring the fresh agony that flared through his newly restored meridians from the sheer effort. Her skin was growing colder beneath his touch, the vibrant silk of her robes doing little to ward off the chill that emanated from within. The toxic green sheen pulsed brighter along her neck, a malevolent jewel on pale skin.
“No, Chulan. No, you can’t… You can’t leave me,” he choked, his voice raw. He ran, scrambling over loose gravel, through the dense bamboo grove, the mournful brass wail of the Institute’s alarms echoing his own internal scream. The Sun-Dew Elixir. The grand prize of the preliminary duels. He had to win it. He *would* win it.
He remembered the story Yuwen Zhan had shared, the spectral mentor’s voice hollow with ages of sorrow. A similar desperation, a woman he loved, dying as his own life ebbed away, poisoned by the crimson spear of a betrayer. The image of the spectral general, once magnificent, now a fading wisp, flashed in Yansheng’s mind. Yuwen Zhan had held his consort, her breath growing shallow, as the venom from his sworn brother’s spear seeped into both their lives, a cruel, drawn-out severance. The betrayal, the agony, the helplessness… it had consumed Yuwen Zhan utterly. Yansheng felt that same consuming fire now, a searing grief mixed with a potent, terrifying resolve.
He emerged from the bamboo grove, gasping, into the chaotic clamor of the Obsidian Arena. The outer courtyard was a maelstrom of anxious youths and shouting elders, the air thick with damp earth and spilled qi. The first round of clashes was already underway, the crowd roaring incessantly. He gripped Chulan tighter, her head lolling against his shoulder, her breath shallow and uneven. He had to get her to the pavilion, but the draught was vital.
“Look, it’s the sweeping dog!” a snide voice cut through the din. “And he’s late! Carrying… is that Mei Chulan?”
Around the edge of the central flagstone pit, a group of students in the crisp, deep indigo robes of Lin’s faction smirked. One, a burly youth with a cruel sneer, stepped forward. “Still clinging to a woman, Yansheng? Can’t even make it to your own death match on time? Even your consort has given up on you!” He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Perhaps she’s already dead. Saved you the trouble of burying her after you lose.”
Qiao Yansheng stopped, his chest heaving. His arms were shaking, not from exertion, but from the raw, volcanic rage that simmered beneath his skin. He gently lowered Chulan to the soft grass at the edge of the pit, propping her against the stone railing, trying to shield her from the taunts. Her lips were a darker violet now, a silent scream of agony. He saw it, and his control snapped. The stutter that usually held him captive vanished, replaced by a low, guttural growl.
“She… she will live,” he rasped, his eyes, usually downcast, blazing with an intensity that silenced even Lin’s cronies. “And you… you will regret… every word.”
He drew the famished blade. The rusted edge, once dull and unassuming, hummed with a dark, hungry vibration, a faint scarlet glow emanating from its ancient metal. Yuwen Zhan’s presence flared within him, a surge of vengeful power.
“He’s finally here!” Pang Dalong’s voice, a familiar, excited shout, cut through the hush. He pushed through the crowd, his face smeared with some dark, sticky confection, a huge grin splitting his face. “I knew he’d make it! Another thousand spirit-stones on Qiao Yansheng!”
The burly fighter scoffed, regaining his composure. “Fool. He’s already forfeited. The first round is almost over. And even if he enters, he faces five of us. You’ll lose your lunch money, Dalong.”
“Quiet!” Elder Ruan Hu barked from the judges' stand. “The matches are open. Late arrivals may join if a slot remains. Qiao Yansheng, you wish to enter?”
Yansheng didn’t answer with words. He merely clutched his rusted weapon, his gaze fixed on the five sneering figures from Lin’s faction. They stood ready, their forged steel glinting in the pale morning light, forming a loose arc around the pit. Each blade pulsed with refined power, marking their clan's vast wealth amidst the Institute's decline. Lin himself, perched on an elevated viewing platform, watched with a cold, analytical gaze.
“The rules permit five against one in this open trial,” Elder Ruan Hu continued, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “A fitting challenge for a resurrected prodigy. If you defeat all five, the Sun-Dew draught is yours. Fall, and your cultivation is forfeited forever.”
“Five against one?!” Dalong cried, aghast. “That’s not fair! The opener is usually two-on-two!”
“The rules are the rules, boy,” Ruan Hu snapped, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “Or perhaps the sweeping dog prefers to abandon his dying consort?”
Yansheng didn’t flinch. He walked onto the stones, the notched steel now fully alight with a malevolent carmine. The iron thrummed in his hand, an eager predator. The essence he’d drawn from the stone guardian and broken armory relics churned within his restored meridians, fueling the weapon's insatiable appetite.
“Come on then, dog,” the burly disciple sneered, raising his gleaming 'Earth-Splitter' greatsword. His four companions likewise brandished their weapons: a shimmering 'Cloud-Piercer' sabre, a slender 'Whisperwind' rapier, a heavy 'Iron-Serpent' halberd, and a twin set of 'Azure-Fang' daggers. All were well beyond low-tier, each a significant investment for their clans.
Yansheng moved. Not with the elegant, flowing forms of the Institute’s techniques, but with a primal, brutal efficiency. The broad iron tasted the air, a phantom shriek echoing only in Yansheng’s mind. It was a blur of rust and blood-red steel, a hungry ghost unleashed. He met the Earth-Splitter’s charge head-on, not blocking, but *consuming*.
[Starving Heaven Cleaver: Earth-Splitter (Tier-4 Spiritual Greatsword) absorbed. Spiritual Energy +120]
The greatsword, struck mid-swing, vibrated violently, then dissolved into shimmering motes of light, leaving the burly boy staring at a hilt that crumbled to dust. Before he could react, Yansheng's edge spun, intercepting the Whisperwind rapier and the Cloud-Piercer sabre in a single, devastating arc.
[Starving Heaven Cleaver: Whisperwind (Tier-3 Spiritual Rapier) absorbed. Spiritual Energy +90]
[Starving Heaven Cleaver: Cloud-Piercer (Tier-3 Spiritual Sabre) absorbed. Spiritual Energy +90]
Two more youths stood stunned, hands empty, faces drained of color. The crowd gasped in horror. This was no contest; it was an annihilation. The weapon pulsed with deeper carmine, demanding more. The remaining two, the halberd wielder and the dagger-master, attacked simultaneously, a desperate, coordinated assault.
Yansheng met them with a flurry of strikes, his weapon turning into a whirlwind of destruction. The Iron-Serpent halberd shattered against his edge with an arena-wide clang, its fragments swallowed whole.
[Starving Heaven Cleaver: Iron-Serpent (Tier-4 Spiritual Halberd) absorbed. Spiritual Energy +120]
The daggers, swift and precise, aimed for his vitals. But Yansheng, guided by Yuwen Zhan’s instincts, twisted, parried, and his blade met them, consuming both daggers in a final, furious gulp.
[Starving Heaven Cleaver: Azure-Fang (Tier-3 Spiritual Daggers x2) absorbed. Spiritual Energy +180]
Five superior weapons, gone in less than a minute. The sand lay mute, save for Yansheng’s ragged breathing and the faint, satisfied hum in his grip. The five, disarmed and terrified, scrambled back, their arrogance replaced by pure dread. The onlookers stood paralyzed between terror and awe.
“Unbelievable!” Dalong roared, leaping onto the railing, waving his arms madly. “He did it! He actually did it! You owe me, all of you! Another hundred thousand spirit-stones!” He cheered, then his eyes darted to Yansheng, who was swaying slightly, the severe inner toll taking effect. Dalong, his face serious for once, fumbled beneath his robes, pulling out a small pouch. He didn’t hesitate. He scrambled down to the edge of the pit, ignoring the security guards. “Yansheng! Here! You’ll need these!” He threw a handful of glowing medicinal pills into the pit. “Eat them! Quickly!”
Elder Ruan Hu’s eyes narrowed, but the sheer shock of the upset and Dalong’s insolence held his tongue. Yansheng, without a word, scooped up the pills, swallowing them greedily. The surge of raw strength was immediate, a warm balm to his exhausted channels. He glanced at Dalong, a silent acknowledgment of true friendship passing between them.
“The Sun-Dew draught!” Ruan Hu finally sputtered, his face taut with fury. “It is yours, Qiao Yansheng.” A servant, trembling, approached the judges’ stand, holding a small jade vial containing a viscous, golden liquid that shimmered with healing light. Yansheng snatched it, his gaze fixed on Chulan, who lay still against the railing, her breath almost imperceptible.
He rushed to her side, uncorking the vial with shaking hands. Just as he tipped the glass, Lin’s cold, clear voice cut across the arena from his high dais.
“A moment, Elder Ruan Hu.” Lin’s eyes, devoid of any emotion, swept over the shaken crowd, then settled on Yansheng. “A spectacular performance, indeed, Qiao Yansheng. It’s clear these opening matches are no longer a sufficient test for such… talent.” His lips curved into a thin, venomous smile. “After consultation with the Venerable Elders, a new rule has been decided for the finals. Effective immediately: the concluding duels of the Obsidian Tournament will now be a two-on-two deathmatch. Each participant must have a partner.” He paused, letting the implication hang heavy in the air, his gaze mocking Yansheng. “And as I recall, Qiao Yansheng, you are quite alone.”