The viridian venom ate into Zifeng’s skin, tracing dark veins along his bicep. In the VIP gallery, Elder Song leaned over the rail with bared teeth. Disciples leaned forward, iron weapons clinking against the bleachers. The toxin burned into his shoulder, stiffening the muscle fibers toward his throat. The memory of Xiaoxiao coughing blood over their broken stove flared sharp. Song Liena’s sneer during the annulment. The wardens waiting past the clouds. He rooted his boots into the stone slab. A deep, ancient chord resonated deep beneath his marrow, past his ruptured meridians. The surge came unbidden, a pure reflex of ancient will. The air grew dense as cold iron, muffling the stadium shouts beneath an absolute stillness. The entire arena groaned. The polished stone floor beneath their feet buckled, spiderweb cracks spreading outwards from Zifeng. An ancient gravity flattened the ring. Disciples who had mocked him dropped. Their knees hit the ground with dull thuds, followed by the clatter of dropped weapons. Their faces twisted, red with strain, as if an invisible mountain had settled upon their backs. Elder Song, arm still outthrust, petrified mid-motion. The smirk vanished from his mouth. His knees buckled, driving his kneecaps hard against the balcony flooring, his forehead slammed flat against the polished cedar. His throat worked silently against the lock of suffocating force, expelling only a wet, rasping hiss. Across the balcony, High Sect Master Jinyu bent double. Gold-stitched silk snapped tight across his shoulders as he fought the force, his temples flushing dark plum. Droplets of sweat ran into his graying beard before his knees struck the floorboards, palms flattened against the wood beside his slippers. Far above the crags of Mount Wuyin, a tear opened across the cloud bank, flashing sharp violet. An unseen warden turned its gaze down through the mortal mist, zeroing in on the ring. The long-hidden soul resonance hummed through the firmament like a struck bell. On the arena floor, the viridian glow of the dart began to recede, the poison recoiling as if burned by an invisible flame. The crushing aura dissipated, sliding back into his core. Zifeng blinked, the ancient fury receding, replaced by a familiar flush of embarrassment. He looked at the cracked flags, the groveling crowd, and the prostrated figures of Elder Song and the Sect Master. Heat flared in his neck. “Ah, um, I’m so sorry,” Zifeng mumbled, his voice hoarse, his gaze darting around the devastated arena. “Did… did I make a mess? I didn’t mean to. I just… I don’t know what happened.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, his internal energy still thrumming with the aftershocks of a power he barely comprehended. The dart, now inert, simply dropped from his shoulder, leaving behind only a faint red mark. Jinyu dragged himself up, brushing splinters from his hem. He forced his back straight, pulling his mouth into a rigid line before shouting across the stone yard. “The… the victor! Ren Zifeng is the champion of the Monthly Tournament!” Jinyu declared, his voice a little too loud, a little too strained. “A decisive, unparalleled victory! Such raw power! Never before seen! He has secured the grand prize for the Outer Courtyard!” He gestured vaguely towards the cultivation pills, still sitting undisturbed where Zifeng had placed them. “Elder Song, leave the grounds! Your conduct violates sect law!” Elder Song, still shaking, could only nod, his face ashen. He fled, not daring to look back. Jinyu stared down as Zifeng took the satchel. The boy was an open beacon for cosmic hunters, a catastrophe waiting to strike Mount Wuyin. Better to strip the youth of his secrets before yielding him to the heavens. Zifeng ignored the elders, focusing entirely on the herb pouch. The monthly tournament was won. Xiaoxiao’s medicine was in his hands. Yet the violent backlash in his chest left a sharp, hollow ache. Beneath his tunic, the jade pendant warmed against his ribs, humming with Buzhou’s drunken whisper: *a rigged cycle of reincarnation, manipulated through heavenly laws.* The buried memory echoed in his ears: *Every loss, every wound, orchestrated to bypass the laws binding the heavens.* His mother’s disappearance. His crippling. The pendant. Even his frail sister. Was it all part of *his* past life’s design? The thought struck him cold. His prior incarnation had prepared this ruin, sacrificing his own flesh and blood to construct a living weapon. Nausea churned his stomach. Ignoring the stunned stares of the outer disciples, Zifeng bolted toward the lower terrace path, the medicine pouch gripped white in his fist. He burst into their small shack, the dim light struggling to pierce the gloom. Xiaoxiao lay on her straw mat, a small, weak cough escaping her lips. But it wasn't the usual cough. Her face was flushed, her breathing shallow and ragged. Her eyes, usually bright despite her illness, were distant, clouded with pain. Above her left brow, an intricate pattern flared against her skin like an azure spiderweb, pulsing in sync with her failing pulse. A divine tracker, burning brighter with every breath.

The Sovereign's Pressure