The next name was called almost immediately.
The arena stone still held the warmth of the previous bout when two earth practitioners stepped into the center.
One carried no weapon. A low, rooted stance. Qi packed through his forearms, shoulders, and legs—his body itself was the shape of his technique.
The other held a heavy single-bladed axe. The broad edge flashed dully. Qi streamed to his wrists and shoulders, reinforcing every motion.
A bow.
The signal.
The unarmed fighter moved first. A short push off his heel—and he was in striking range. His palm went for the torso, not the head.
The axe practitioner met him with an overhead swing.
The collision wasn’t loud, but the air trembled. The blade dropped, the palm shifted, the torso turned. The unarmed fighter slipped inside the arc and drove an elbow into the ribs. Dense earth-qi surged through the contact in a short pulse.
The axe wielder retreated.
His strikes were broader and heavier. Every swing created pressure that made the stone underfoot vibrate dully. But the unarmed fighter didn’t take the full arc head-on—he cut the angle.
On the third exchange, the axe fighter reinforced his weapon harder than before. Qi thickened around the edge, making the motion heavier and sharper.
A swing.
The unarmed fighter didn’t fully evade—he stepped in. His forearms flared with packed qi, taking part of the load. The blade skated past. The momentum opened a line.
A knee to the torso.
A short shove to the throat.
The barrier flared.
The axe fighter staggered back, his breathing thrown off.
Arden watched their circulation. The axe fighter’s weapon reinforcement was refined, but costly—his qi came in bursts. The unarmed fighter spread his power more evenly, holding the rhythm.
The next match changed the tempo.
Wind practitioner versus fire practitioner.
The fire practitioner came out aggressively. Even during the bow, his spear was already coated in a thin layer of flame. His qi moved actively, with obvious excess pressure.
The signal.
First thrust—straight and fast. Flame stretched behind the tip.
The wind practitioner shifted half a step aside. Almost soundlessly. His qi didn’t flare—it slid.
A second thrust followed immediately. The fire practitioner reinforced the spear harder. The flame brightened; the air warped.
The wind practitioner still didn’t block. He changed his body angle and slipped off the attack line.
The fire practitioner didn’t stop. The third thrust was the strongest—almost his entire reserve went into strengthening the tip. The flame flared sharply, but his breathing broke.
The wind practitioner stepped into the opening.
A short cut across the forearm.
A shift behind his back.
A pommel strike to the shoulder.
The flame went out.
The barrier registered the result.
The fire practitioner’s qi stuttered and snapped; the wind practitioner’s flow stayed thin, but unbroken.
The third match lasted longer than the others.
Fire practitioner versus water practitioner.
Both were at the fourth stage. But the difference was clear.
The fire practitioner was mid-stage. His circulation was stable, but lacked depth.
The water practitioner was at the peak of the fourth stage. His flow was denser, his breathing steady.
The signal.
Fire went first—short flashes, quick spear jabs. Water didn’t meet the flame head-on. It smothered the edge of each attack, shifted the pressure, refusing to let the fire catch.
If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
The first fire spell—an empowered thrust with a burst of flame.
The reply—a water screen, thin but precise.
The second spell—a sweeping arc of fire.
Water took it partially, bleeding the heat into steam.
Steam stole the view. The fire practitioner stepped forward, counting on pressure.
A third spell—weapon reinforcement with what remained of his reserve.
The water practitioner answered with a fourth.
A short, concentrated stream aimed at the opponent’s wrist.
The fire-qi wavered.
One spell more.
One breathing cycle longer.
The spear dipped.
The water flow ran through his torso, knocking his stance off.
The barrier flared.
The fire practitioner exhaled heavily; his meridians emptied faster than he expected.
The water practitioner stood steady. His qi remained stable.
Arden noted the difference in their cultivation.
How deep into the stage they were.
And the difference in how many techniques a reserve could sustain.
The gong sounded again, but now the stands hummed differently.
If the first bouts had been met with curiosity, now voices carried appraisal. Comparison. Expectation.
The tournament was slowly ceasing to be a warm-up.
After the third match, the murmur in the stands grew heavier.
The side branch no longer hid its expectations.
“If this keeps up, he’ll make the semifinals.”
“At least.”
“The main thing is not to rush.”
Several senior members of the side branch exchanged looks. There was no delight in their voices—only calculation.
Corvin had become more than just a participant to them.
He had become a chance.
He sat motionless, but he felt it. Looks that used to slide past now lingered. The expectation weighed heavier.
Higher up, among the vassals, the mood was different.
“Even their side branch has techniques a level above,” a man in dark green robes said quietly.
“Execution school…” someone answered. “Did you see how he reinforced the blade? Not a single wasted burst.”
“Our main disciples can’t maintain that kind of cohesion.”
“The difference isn’t volume,” someone added evenly. “It’s quality.”
The dissatisfaction was quiet, but tangible. A great clan taught differently. Even those outside the direct line struck with more weight, more cleanly, more steadily.
On the elders’ dais, the atmosphere was entirely different.
Dorian Lunveyr watched the arena without interest.
“Watching children fight is a waste of time,” he said dryly.
His voice was calm, holding neither mockery nor irritation—only a statement.
Serael turned her head toward him, a faint smile touching her lips.
“You always say that,” she noted gently. “And yet you still come.”
He didn’t look at her.
“The formation is stable. That’s enough.”
Serael leaned in a little; the fabric of her sleeve brushed the armrest softly.
“Have you found a way to delay the Soul’s fading?”
The question sounded almost playful. Almost.
Dorian didn’t change.
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t blink.
His gaze stayed on the barrier.
The silence weighed heavier than any reply.
Serael smiled barely—but understanding flickered in her eyes.
Off to the side, beneath the imperial delegation’s banners, Lucaris watched without a trace of admiration.
“Not a single second-tier technique,” he said with light contempt. “All of this is just a preparatory stage.”
“For the fourth stage of Qi Gathering, it’s respectable,” an attendant said cautiously.
Lucaris smirked.
“Respectable doesn’t mean interesting.”
His gaze drifted lazily over the participants.
“So far I only see mediocrity.”
A little farther, Darion Crayne wasn’t looking at the arena at all.
He spoke quietly with an advisor. It was about something else—not the fights. Routes. Supplies. Borders.
The murmur of the stands didn’t draw his attention.
To him, it wasn’t a tournament.
It was background noise.
The next participant’s name rang out louder.
Conversations died down.
But the tension didn’t go anywhere.
The next participant’s name was announced clearly.
This time, attention gathered faster.
Corvin didn’t return to his seat right away.
He stopped at the arena’s edge, in the barrier’s shadow, as if checking whether something in the air had changed.
Several representatives of the side branch came closer.
“Clean.”
“No unnecessary spending.”
“Keep it up.”
These weren’t compliments.
They were expectations.
Corvin nodded, accepting them without a smile. His breathing had already evened out. His qi losses were minimal—everyone could see it.
He sat down, but he didn’t relax.
His gaze lifted to the arena again.
And for a moment it met Arden’s.
No hostility.
No greeting.
Just understanding.
This wasn’t the meeting yet.
Arden felt the field around him changing.
After the vassals’ talk about technique quality, the looks grew heavier. Where once they’d looked at him as the heir, now they looked at him as a measure.
He noted it calmly.
Not for the first time.
But today it felt sharper.
The next bout was already being set up, but his attention slid over the contestants differently.
He saw how some kept their qi deep inside, refusing to let it flare.
Saw how others relied on sheer volume, unable to spread their power properly.
Saw the difference in schools.
And saw the stands begin to compare.
His name hadn’t been called yet.
But it was already present.
Lucaris, seated off to the side, flicked his gaze to him for a moment—appraising, without a smile.
Corvin noticed it too.
The arena was no longer just a place to fight.
It had become a scale.
And everyone in the stands was choosing whom to measure next.
The arena didn’t pause.
The next pair was already stepping into the center.
The next matchup was announced without a break.
Two stepped forward.
A water practitioner—slender build, calm stance. Qi moved softly, without bursts, as if it never left the boundary of his skin.
Opposite him—a wind practitioner. Light footwork, torso slightly turned; his weapon was a narrow curved blade.
A bow.
The signal.
The wind practitioner moved first.
He didn’t attack head-on—he tested. A short step to the right, then a sharp lunge. The blade cut diagonally, leaving a thin line of pressure in the air.
The water practitioner shifted without breaking stance. His movement wasn’t fast—it was timely. The wind blade brushed his sleeve, not flesh.
Second exchange.
The wind sped up. A series of quick thrusts, each from a slightly different angle. He tried to force the water to open.
The water practitioner didn’t answer with strikes. He accepted each trajectory and redirected it. The blade slid along a dense layer of qi, losing speed. One step back. One step aside. The wind’s pressure gradually bled away.
The third exchange came tighter.
The wind practitioner reinforced his blade. Qi thickened along the edge, lending the strike extra bite. The air in front of it vibrated.
The water practitioner didn’t meet it directly.
He stepped closer.
Too close for a wide swing.
A short turn of the torso; his palm touched the opponent’s forearm. Not a strike—a shift.
Water qi ran in a thin stream, knocking the attack angle aside.
The wind practitioner tried to retreat, but the step came late.
Water didn’t smother.
It held.
A short shove into the shoulder. The center of gravity shifted.
The wind blade dipped for an instant.
That was enough.
The water practitioner turned his wrist, and his own blade stopped at his opponent’s throat.
Silence.
The barrier flared.
The wind practitioner let out a sharp exhale—not from pain, but from realizing the moment.
He was faster.
But not more precise.
The water practitioner didn’t celebrate. He simply lowered his weapon and bowed.
Whispers ran through the stands.
It wasn’t a fight of power.
It was a fight of position.
Arden watched the tempo shift.
Wind dictated the speed.
Water dictated the outcome.
The murmur in the stands deepened.
Now the spectators weren’t watching schools.
They were watching those who hadn’t fought yet.
After the water practitioner’s victory, the talk in the stands changed direction.
They weren’t discussing schools anymore.
They were discussing those who still hadn’t stepped out.
“Strong matchups left.”
“The heir hasn’t fought yet.”
“We’ll see.”
The words were quiet, but more frequent.
Arden sat calmly. Back straight, gaze fixed on the arena. He didn’t answer the looks—he accepted them.
On the elders’ dais, Serael watched him openly, not hiding her interest.
For the first time, Dorian shifted his gaze toward him.
Not over the arena.
Not past him.
Directly.
Without expression. Without approval. Without doubt.
Simply taking note.
Off to the side, Lucaris no longer looked bored.
His posture stayed loose, but his gaze sharpened.
“We’ll see,” he said quietly.
Darion Crayne kept talking with his advisor—about matters unrelated to the tournament. But for an instant his speech broke. He lifted his eyes to the arena—then returned to the conversation.
Corvin sat motionless.
When the announcer paused before the next pair, Corvin’s fingers clenched almost imperceptibly.
The gong sounded.
The first participant’s name.
A short pause.
And then the voice rolled across the amphitheater:
The arena stone seemed to be waiting.
“Arden Lunveyr.”
For a moment, the noise died.
