Back in the pavilion, Guo Liang leaned lazily on the table’s edge, swirling his wine with casual arrogance.

  “The Azure Cloud Sect is spirited, I’ll grant you that,” he said with a smirk, “but spirit alone cannot earn prestige. Compared to the great sects of the Eastern Province, this place is a mere backwater.”

  His words drew polite laughter from some of the other visiting disciples seated nearby.

  Patriarch Shigo Tianyu sat motionless, his long sleeves resting on his lap.

  Guo Liang continued. “If the Azure Cloud Sect truly wishes to rise, it should seek alliance with powers like our Heavenly Sword Pavilion. A proper alliance brings not just strength, but reputation. And reputation, dear host, is what sustains authority in this world.”

  Across from him, Su Qingyue gave a wry smile.

  Guo Liang caught the motion and frowned. “You disagree, Junior Sister?”

  “Not wholly,” said Su Qingyue softly.

  “So in part, then?” he asked.

  “Even small sects sometimes produce geniuses that change the fate of nations," she said. "These stories are not uncommon.”

  Guo Liang paused mid-sip. “Oh? You believe this little sect will produce such a genius?”

  “I cannot say for certain,” she replied simply. “But I will say that history remembers not the largest sects, but the brightest stars. A single flame can outshine a thousand candles.”

  Guo Liang snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Idealism. A romantic notion for poets, not cultivators.”

  Patriarch Shen’s lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly. “And yet,” he suddenly spoke, his voice calm and ancient, “poets often outlive kings. If not in body, then in memory.”

  Guo Liang fell silent.

  Su Qingyue’s eyes glimmered briefly, and she inclined her head to the old patriarch in quiet respect.

  Below them, the clash continued. Xiao Lan was barely standing now. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, his chest heaving. Blood trickled down his temple. The lackey opposite him grinned, circling like a predator sensing the end.

  The crowd chanted for the kill.

  “End it!”

  “Show him his place!”

  Xiao Lan’s spear trembled as he raised it again, his breathing shallow, his vision hazy. Every muscle screamed. Every heartbeat was a hammer in his skull.

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  But he refused to kneel.

  “I won’t…” he whispered through bloodied lips, “let them… see me crawl…”

  The lackey laughed and lunged, his sword flashing with crippling intent.

  The world seemed to slow.

  A blur of black and silver dropped between them.

  The incoming strike met resistance, metal clashing against metal with a sound like thunder. Sparks burst into the air, scattering in dazzling arcs.

  Gasps rippled through the stands.

  “What—?”

  “Who is that?”

  The masked figure stood upright, blocking the sword with the spear he was wielding, the spear he’d taken off Xian Lan at the last second. His posture was calm, balanced.

  A ripple of recognition passed through the crowd. Whispers spread like wildfire.

  “It’s him…” someone whispered aloud.

  “The... the vigilante!”

  “The Buddha Mask Disciple has returned!”

  On the pavilion, Guo Liang’s smirk faltered. “Who is that masked fellow?” he asked.

  A nearby servant bowed slightly. “My lord, he’s the mysterious disciple who’s been stirring up the sect these past few months. It’s a rather strange story. About four months ago, he appeared out of nowhere…” The servant hurried to recount the tale—how the Buddha Mask Disciple had defended servants, saved outer sect disciples from bullies, and vanished each time before anyone could uncover his identity. As the story unfolded, Guo Liang’s expression shifted from disdain to intrigue. By the end, he was grinning, eyes alight with amusement. “Mask-wearing is childish,” he said, clicking his tongue, “and that kind of self-righteous heroism is unbearably trite… but strength deserves respect. For that alone, he has mine.”

  Beside him, Su Qingyue’s gaze had sharpened. Her lips parted slightly, a flicker of interest glinting in her eyes as she studied the masked figure on the stage.

  Patriarch Shigo Tianyu, silent as always, rested his chin against his hand, also studying the figure below with measured calm.

  Down on the stage, the dueling platform still trembled from the masked man’s entrance, the air humming faintly with spiritual energy.

  Dust and smoke curled around the vigilante's feet, carrying the scent of scorched qi.

  Xiao Lan blinked through the haze of exhaustion, his blurred vision clearing just enough to see the black-clad figure before him.

  “You…” he rasped, disbelief in his voice.

  “Save your strength,” the masked figure said quietly, gently lobbing Xian Lan’s spear toward him. The latter fumbled to catch it, and stared awkwardly at the masked figure.

  The masked figure took a step forward.

  Startled but defiant, Zhao Feng’s lackey sneered. “Who are you to interfere in a sect duel?”

  “Someone who doesn’t enjoy watching schemes of crippling others succeed,” the masked disciple replied casually.

  Murmurs spread through the stands.

  “Crippling? What does he mean?” someone asked.

  “I thought they were just fighting seriously,” another said.

  “Could it be that that fellow really meant to cripple Xian Lan?”

  “What? Intentional crippling? How dishonorable! How vile!”

  “Isn’t he one of Zhao Feng’s men? Could Zhao Feng have planned this?”

  On the stage, the lackey grew flustered, his tone sharpening; “You dare spout nonsense? What proof do you—” He didn’t finish. The masked figure moved. His palm struck once, light as a breeze, yet the impact sent the lackey skidding backward across the stage, crashing into the barrier that hummed faintly at the arena’s edge.

  The crowd erupted.

  “Did you see that speed?”

  “He didn’t even use a weapon!”

  “What kind of technique was that?”

  From the pavilion, Guo Liang grinned. “What a daring fellow. Without a weapon, he fights with his bare hands. This is how a man should be!”

  Su Qingyue suppressed a smile.

  Below, the lackey staggered to his feet, eyes wide with disbelief and humiliation. He had just been thrown across the stage like a rag doll, and yet, somehow, the masked figure stood calm, almost tranquil, as though he had done nothing at all.

  “You… you’ll pay for that!” the lackey roared and charged again. His sword flared with earthen light, qi coiling around the blade. The strike came fast, aimed straight at Li Wei’s chest.