“Lou Hezheng! Lou Hezheng! By decree of the Pavilion Elders, your match is forfeit! Disqualification due to absence!” The booming voice of Steward Qin, amplified by a Resounding Bell charm, reverberated across the Grand Jade Stele Plaza. Thousands of disciples, packed shoulder-to-shoulder on the tiered viewing platforms, erupted. Not in outrage, but in raw, jeering laughter that crashed against the towering Jade Stele itself.
“The invalid actually showed up? To watch himself be stripped of his meager rank?” a disciple from the Verdant Stream sect sneered, earning chuckles from his peers.
“He’s probably here to beg Mu Feiyan to take him back,” another chimed in, pointing a finger at Lou Hezheng, who now stood near the arena entrance, a wide, unbothered grin plastered across his face. He looked utterly ridiculous, his simple trainee robes dusty from his journey, contrasting sharply with the pristine, embroidered silks of the other participants.
From the highest tier of the Elder’s Vista gallery, a figure rose with deliberate grace. Mu Feiyan. Her robes of silver-threaded azure shimmered under the morning sun, her expression a careful mask of disdain. A hush fell over the crowd, a collective anticipation. This was the moment. The public repudiation. She would surely deliver a speech, tear him down, solidify her ascent and his utter ruin.
Her red lips parted, a carefully rehearsed declaration forming. “Lou Hezheng, after due consideration and the unanimous… ”
Before the words could fully form, Lou Hezheng moved. Not with the frantic, pleading desperation everyone expected, but with a cheerful briskness. He covered the distance between the arena entrance and the Elder’s Vista in a flash, a whisper of movement too quick for most eyes to follow. He was suddenly standing directly below Mu Feiyan’s balcony, his head tilted back, still grinning. In his hand was a rolled-up parchment. He tossed it lightly, almost playfully, upwards.
It unfolded mid-air, a crisp white rectangle, and landed with a soft *slap* against Mu Feiyan’s perfectly made-up face. It stuck there for a moment, obscuring her elegant features, before fluttering to the ground, revealing words written in bold, confident strokes: “ANNULMENT OF BETROTHAL.”
The crowd gasped. The Elders, usually stoic figures of authority, shifted in their seats, their expressions a mix of confusion and indignation.
Lou Hezheng, completely oblivious to the stunned silence, clapped his hands together. “Ah, Feiyan, darling! You really ought to work on your posture. That hesitant lean, the way your shoulder rolls forward – it completely telegraphs your intentions. No wonder your ‘Soaring Phoenix Stab’ looks more like a startled pigeon peck. I've always told you, maintain a firm core, a straight back. It allows for a much cleaner pivot, and you'll find your Qi flows far more freely then.” He spoke loudly, his voice carrying effortlessly across the plaza, each word a direct, public critique of her martial ineptitude.
Mu Feiyan’s face, now free of the annulment paper, was a canvas of pure, unadulterated fury. Her cheeks flushed crimson, her eyes blazing with humiliation. She, the darling of the Scarlet Peak, the second most promising talent, being lectured on sword forms by the disgraced outcast? In front of everyone? It was an insult that cut deeper than any blade.
Beside her, a tall, imposing young man with a severe topknot and robes signifying the Inner Circle, snarled. This was Elder Brother Shen Tuo, Mu Feiyan’s personal protector and a rising star in his own right. His hand shot to the jade hilt of his sword, a blade renowned for its lightning-fast draw. “You insolent dog! How dare you insult Lady Mu!”
His movement was a blur of righteous fury. Shen Tuo dropped from the balcony, a silent, deadly projectile. His sword, the Swiftcurrent, whistled through the air, aimed not for a challenge, but for Hezheng’s exposed spine, a lethal sneak attack designed to slaughter the boy before anyone could intervene. A flash of jade-green energy trailed the blade, marking it as a cultivation-enhanced strike, meant to shatter bone and sever meridians.
Lou Hezheng’s smile didn’t falter. He stood there, seemingly rooted, until the very last nanosecond. Then, a ripple. Not a step, not a dodge, but a distortion of the air itself. One moment, he was in Shen Tuo’s path. The next, he shimmered, a phantom echo of his former self, and was suddenly three feet to the left, standing where he had *just been* a fraction of a heartbeat earlier. The Swiftcurrent sliced through empty space, its jade energy dissipating harmlessly where Hezheng’s back *should* have been.
Shen Tuo, off balance from his missed strike, found himself facing an impossibly wide, still-grinning Lou Hezheng. Before he could recover, Hezheng’s leg snapped out, not with martial force, but with the casual, almost bored flick of a foot. It caught Shen Tuo squarely in the rear, a humiliating, undignified kick that sent the esteemed Elder Brother sprawling. He tumbled out of the arena proper, sliding across the polished stone floor and slamming into the base of a decorative stone dragon, a cloud of dust puffing around him.
The silence was absolute. Not a single person in the plaza dared to breathe. The formidable Shen Tuo, a cultivation master renowned for his precise strikes, had been punted from the arena like a discarded training dummy. By Lou Hezheng. The supposed laughingstock.
From a lower, more secluded VIP section, Bao Xiyue, her face framed by severe, obsidian-dark hair, watched the scene unfold. Her usually placid, almost bored expression was gone. Her eyes, the color of winter ice, were narrowed, focused with an intensity rarely seen. A flicker of something — curiosity, perhaps even a sliver of grudging admiration — passed through them. This wasn't the Lou Hezheng she had dismissed for years.
*Kid, wipe that goofy smile off your face; the bastard who cursed your womb is sitting in the VIP gallery right now.*