A brass bell boomed over the Grand Plinth, shivering the morning frost off ten thousand granite slabs. "The outer scullery whelp has fled!" someone yelled from the upper terrace of the Mist-Piercing pavilion, drawing barks of laughter from hundreds of silk-robed cultivators. "He knew Senior Brother Zhao would turn his bones into grit!" Zhao Feng sat upon a throne of carved basalt at ringside, his fingers tapping the gold inlay of his scabbard. His sneer was wide, sharp, and confident. Beside him, Elder Wu stroked a sparse gray beard, enjoying the spectacle. "Count the strikes," Zhao Feng ordered the herald. "Three calls, then forfeit the mongrel. His beast goes to the pit pens before sundown." "One!" the herald bellowed. "No need to count to two," a raspy voice cut through the clamor. The gates of the Grand Plinth groaned back. He Chuan strolled across the threshold. Mud smeared his calves, his servant tunic hung in tatters, and in his right fist he dragged a sprawling heap of embroidered azure satin. The heap groaned, limply kicking a single embroidered boot. He Chuan hauled back his arm and flung the bundle across twenty paces of pristine flagstone. Young Master Lin skipped across the ring like a tossed cabbage, rolling until his bruised forehead banged hard against the gilded footstool. The crowd went completely dead. Several junior maidens dropped their painted fans. "Found your stray dog rooting through my laundry," He Chuan said, dusting off his palms. "Keep him on a shorter chain next time. The noise offends my ears." From the warm disc resting against his collarbone, an irate rasp flared in his mind. *Arrogant pup! You look like a half-plucked duck and you strut like an emperor! Watch your flanks, there are seven elders watching you! And tuck in your shirt, you shame your grandfather's bloodline!* *Quiet, old ghost,* He Chuan answered internally, not breaking his bored stare from Zhao Feng's twitching face. *You told me to make an entrance. I made one.* Zhao Feng looked down at the whimpering Lin Feng, whose jaw hung askew from yesterday's thrashing. Veins pulsed at the young master's temples. "Impudent cur. You dare assault an inner peak scion outside the duel ring? Elder Wu, strike him down!" Elder Wu hesitated, glancing at the blood on Lin Feng's robes, then at the Grand Arbiter presiding over the high altar. "The boy accepted the tournament summons. Under the ancient codes of Cangtian, all grievances between contestants are dissolved into the ring. But..." Wu leveled a venomous finger at He Chuan. "You face the Gauntlet of Three Peaks before you earn the right to challenge Senior Brother Zhao. Step onto the slate, scullery wretch, or die where you stand." "I don't need a lecture from a man whose beard smells of cheap incense," He Chuan said, jumping up to the platform with a lazy shrug. Behind him, a round, furry shape scurried under the wooden risers unnoticed. Baozi had already vanished into the loose topsoil beneath the ring, a half-chewed lotus root clamped tight between his teeth. *He's in position,* He Chuan noted, feeling the small tug of the creature's presence through the dirt. "First bout! Tie Gang of the Iron Cloud Peak!" the herald shouted. A burly brute vaulted the rope, arms thick as pine trunks, his skin gleaming with bronze Qi. He did not bow. He simply lunged, fists whistling through the air like iron mallets, aiming straight for He Chuan’s throat. "Die, garbage!" He Chuan didn't draw a blade. He didn't even shift his footing. As the fist rushed within an inch of his nose, his left palm flicked upward in an airy, curling arc. *Falling Willow Plucks the Reed.* An ancient deflection, buried five centuries ago. The bronze fist slid harmlessly past the youth's cheek. He Chuan's index finger snapped forward, tapping Tie Gang’s collar hollow with the force of a falling pebble. Tie Gang’s breath vanished in a harsh wheeze. His knees buckled, and his massive frame hit the flagstones face-first, completely paralyzed. Silence suffocated the terrace. "Next," He Chuan muttered, wiping nonexistent dust from his cuff. "Insolence!" yelled a second challenger, leaping from the inner pavilion rows with a rapier drawn. "Sword of Seven Rains!" Silver flashes showered down like a winter squall. He Chuan took two half-steps back, turned sideways, and caught the flat of the sword between two fingers. He twisted. The blade shrieked, slipped from the owner’s numb grasp, and He Chuan’s palm struck the disciple’s breastplate. The metal caved. The disciple flew thirty feet backward, crashing through the banner poles and sprawling into the dirt. "Next." A third disciple, an agile spearman from the Storm Crest Peak, barely touched the stone before He Chuan stepped inside his reach. A knee to the solar plexus. An elbow across the jaw. The spear clattered away; the man folded into a quiet heap. Three elite swordsmen down in ten breaths. Elder Wu rose from his bench, eyes bulging, fingers digging into his wooden armrest so hard the cedar split. "That stance... that isn't the sect's foundation style! Where did a kitchen dog learn the Cloud-Sundering Hand?" *Tell him his grandmother taught it to you in a dream!* Guci cackled in He Chuan's head. *Look at their faces! Look at that old goat Wu! Ah, this is better than five-hundred-year-old wine! Hit the next one harder! Bring your elbow lower, you stiff-jointed mule! You nearly pulled an arm muscle because your hip was turned two inches off!* *Will you shut your ancient mouth?* He Chuan thought, suppressing a grim smirk. *I had it under control.* Zhao Feng was no longer smiling. His face had gone pale, then blotchy red. He stepped over Lin Feng’s groaning body, his boots clicking onto the arena stone. "You think parlour tricks will save you, He Chuan?" Zhao Feng hissed, drawing a long saber that shimmered with an unnatural, oily violet hue. "You crawled out of the dirt, and back into the dirt you go." As Zhao Feng drew near, his heel dug secretly into a faint seam between two flagstones. Deep beneath the floor, a hidden array carved from black iron was primed to erupt, set to shoot four thousand needle-bursts of fire directly into He Chuan's ankles the moment the gong sounded. It was a cowardly, lethal ambush, bought with blood-tokens from the black markets. Zhao Feng channeled his Qi into the trigger tile. Nothing happened. He stomped harder. Still nothing. Below the stone, Baozi was busily gnawing on a thick bundle of red spirit-cords. The dumpling-shaped beast gave a cheerful snort, severed the primary node with his razor-sharp incisors, and shoved the sparking ends backward directly into the primary volatile reservoir. Above, the slate beneath Zhao Feng’s rear foot turned glowing cherry-red. "What—" Zhao Feng gasped. *BANG!* A geyser of foul-smelling sulfur and black soot exploded straight up through the floor seam. The blast scorched Zhao Feng’s embroidered breeches into smoking tatters, blackened his thighs, and threw him ten feet into the air. He landed heavily on his rear, coughing ash, his ornate silk robe burning at the hem while his fancy topknot stood straight up like a frayed scrub-brush. A muffled chitter of delight echoed from a nearby drainage grate, followed by the sight of two fuzzy ears vanishing into the darkness. The entire amphitheater went dead for one heartbeat, then erupted into uncontrollable, roaring laughter. Even some of the inner elders buried their faces in their wide sleeves to hide their trembling shoulders. "Senior Brother Zhao has... profound fire mastery!" a servant boy snickered from the back. "His trousers certainly think so!" "Quiet! Silence!" Elder Wu roared, his face purple, but the mockery only grew louder. Zhao Feng sat in the soot, choking on the smoke of his own ruined garments. The humiliation stripped away every shred of his haughty grace. His vision swam with scarlet venom as he stared at He Chuan, who was merely standing ten feet away, leaning casually on one hip with an expression of dry, unbearable pity. "You... you dead dog..." Zhao Feng rasped. His hand darted into his collar, pulling out a jagged, crimson pill that reeked of rot and copper. "No, Zhao Feng! That is the Forbidden Marrow-Rot!" Elder Wu shouted in horror, rising to his feet, but it was too late. Zhao Feng crunched the pill between his teeth. His spine arched with a sickening pop. Thick, oily black veins bulged across his throat, crawling up his cheeks like burrowing centipedes. His muscles swelled, tearing his burning tunic into rags as crimson steam hissed through his pores. Bone spurs burst outward from his elbows, dripping dark, corrupt sludge that sizzled where it dripped onto the stone. "I will drink your blood!" a distorted, dual-toned roar tore from Zhao Feng's throat. He launched himself across the ring, a demonic mass of bone and corrupt slaughter, claws aimed directly at He Chuan's chest.

The Biannual Tournament