The roar of the crowd was a physical force, pressing against Ren Zifeng’s ears, vibrating through the stone stands. Above the din, the crisp clang of steel on steel echoed from the central arena, a massive circular platform of polished obsidian that seemed to drink the harsh midday sun. Disciples from every peak of Mount Wuyin, a sea of jade robes and arrogant faces, jostled for better views, their shouts a primal chorus of bloodlust and ambition. Zifeng stood near the back, a lone figure in simple grey, his gaze fixed not on the combatants, but on the small, shivering form beside him. Xiaoxiao, bundled in a threadbare cloak, coughed into a silk handkerchief, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe. “Brother…” she whispered, her voice reedy. “You don’t have to go through with this. I’ll be fine.” He squeezed her hand, a silent promise. “I do.” He had to. The Elixir of Verdant Bloom, the only cure for her Lung Consumption, was the grand prize for the tournament’s top three cultivators. Without it, her flame would flicker out. Down in the arena, a duel ended with a sickening crunch. The victor, a burly fighter from the lower tier, smirked, kicking his unconscious opponent’s sword arm with casual brutality. The crowd cheered, indifferent to the suffering. A sonic array flared overhead, booming across the peaks: “Next up, from the Inner Sect’s Crimson Peak, the illustrious, the incomparable… Jiao Renjie! Against… Tian Lei from the outer ranks!” Zifeng stiffened. Tian Lei. His only true friend in the outer ranks, a lanky boy with an honest smile. And Jiao, Song Liena’s new betrothed—the one who had kicked over Xiaoxiao’s medicine. The young master swaggered onto the stage, a preening peacock in crimson silks, his curved blade gleaming wickedly at his hip. He gave no glance to Tian Lei, who ascended with a nervous swallow, clutching a chipped iron stave. “Begin!” barked the herald. Jiao vanished in a crimson blur, reappearing behind Tian Lei. The curved steel flashed, not at a vital point, but at Tian Lei’s right knee. A shriek tore from Tian Lei’s throat as the saber severed tendons and bone, leaving his leg a mangled mess. He crumpled, screaming, his iron stave clattering uselessly. “Too slow, worm,” the victor sneered, nudging Tian Lei’s head with his boot. “Perhaps this will teach you who you can and cannot stand with.” His gaze flickered up to Zifeng’s position in the stands. A cruel, knowing smirk twisted his lips. The message was clear: *This is for you, crippled trash.* A spike of rage pierced Zifeng’s chest. Blood drained from his knuckles as his hands balled tight. Xiaoxiao gasped, pulling at his sleeve. “Brother… his leg…” The arena medic rushed in, quickly whisking Tian Lei away, his cries fading. Without a speck of remorse, the swordsman basked in the scattered applause, his gaze still locked on Zifeng, inviting him down. Zifeng took a deep, shuddering breath. His usual timidity vanished beneath his friend's agony, replaced by searing resolve. He gently unclasped Xiaoxiao’s hand. “Stay here. Don’t move.” He walked, slowly at first, then with increasing purpose, toward the arena entrance. The crowd, still buzzing from the bloody display, barely noticed him, a nondescript figure heading for the sign-up ledger. He didn't even have to sign. His name, thanks to Elder Song’s challenge, was already etched into the day’s schedule. “The outer ward's trash is finally showing his face!” a voice bellowed, followed by a ripple of laughter. Zifeng ignored them. He stepped onto the obsidian floor. The mockery swelled. He looked small, out of place, his grey robes clinging to his slender frame. He met Jiao’s stare, and for a fleeting instant, the swordsman's smirk faltered. Something in Zifeng’s gaze, an abyss of ancient power, stirred unease through the boastful prodigy before being dismissed as fear. “Look at this cripple!” Jiao scoffed, drawing his saber, its steel humming with spiritual energy. “Did you come here to beg for mercy, Zifeng? I’ll grant you a swift death, unlike your pathetic friend.” Zifeng gave no answer, standing with a stillness sharper than any boast. The herald raised a hand. “Begin!” Jiao lunged, cold steel whistling toward Zifeng’s throat. This was no mere maiming; this was a killing blow, meant to end the nuisance with extreme prejudice. A triumphant roar burst from his throat. Just as the blade was a finger’s width from Zifeng’s skin, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the air. Zifeng’s eyes, normally downcast, snapped open, revealing pupils that seemed to hold the cold fire of distant stars. He raised his right hand, not to parry, but to hit back. There was no fancy footwork, no elaborate stance, just an open-handed thrust. [Monarch’s Wrath activated.] A silent, invisible force, like a condensed supernova, erupted from his palm. It wasn't a physical impact in the traditional sense; it was a pure, unadulterated wave of primordial energy. The prized weapon shrieked, then *shattered*, exploding into a thousand glittering fragments of broken spirit-jade that rained down like deadly confetti. The force continued, slamming into the scion's chest. The air crackled, distorted by the raw power. Jiao's boastful roar transformed into a choked gasp of agony. He flew backward, launched across the arena and slamming into the perimeter wall with a sickening thud. He slid down in a crumpled heap, silks torn, skin pale, coughing blood. The core at the center of his spirit shuddered, cracked at the foundation. Stillness choked the Mount Wuyin tournament grounds. The laughter died. Onlookers exchanged stunned glances. Song Liena, watching from the VIP section, her face a mask of smug satisfaction just moments before, now froze in disbelief. Jiao… broken in a single thrust? By *him*? Zifeng lowered his hand. His expression was calm, almost serene, as if he had merely flicked a fly. He glanced at the metal shards on the stone, then at his groaning foe. “Next,” he said, his voice carrying to every corner of the frozen arena. The tournament continued, but the mood had broken. Each subsequent challenger stepped onto the stage with bluster, only to meet the same terrifying, effortless display. A faint tremor in the air, a single, precise thrust, and they flew from the ring with weapons cracked. Zifeng moved through the brackets like a ghost, every parry clean, every retaliation an absolute humiliation. He secured the Elixir of Verdant Bloom, along with a pouch full of supplementary cultivation pills, without breaking a sweat. Song Liena watched each fall with growing horror. Her discarded fiancé, the supposed cripple, was not only obliterating her new suitor but every prestigious talent she had revered. High-born contenders collapsed in heaps, slapped down by Zifeng's calm palm. As the final challenger fell, the announcer, still visibly shaken, stammered, “The victor… Ren… Zifeng!” The crowd erupted, not with cheers, but with a bewildered, uneasy murmuring. They didn’t understand what they had just seen. A legend, perhaps. A monster. Zifeng simply retrieved the cultivation pills, placing them carefully in a satchel. He thought of Xiaoxiao, of Tian Lei, of the celestial threat. This was only the beginning. He turned to leave the arena, his back to the VIP stands, the pouch of pills safely secured. But just as he reached the edge of the platform, a searing pain erupted in his left shoulder. A blur of movement, too fast to track, a metallic glint, and a needle-thin dart, shimmering with an ominous viridian glow, embedded itself deeply. The attack had come from his blind spot, launched with murderous intent. Elder Song, his face contorted with rage, had discarded all pretense of impartiality, his hand still extended from the VIP section, a faint, acrid scent of poison already beginning to waft toward Zifeng.

The Grand Tournament