Fatty Ben adjusted the lapels of his robe, a twinkle of mischief dancing in his eyes as he walked through the bustling path carved along the lower slopes of the Heavenly Phoenix Range.
The crowd was enormous, and the excitement of the Golden Heir Tournament hummed in the air like electricity. Countless stalls lined the path, each boasting colorful flags, glowing trinkets, exotic food, and most interestingly to Ben, plenty of gossip and speculation about the tournament's frontrunners.
"Let's see who the fools are betting on this time," he muttered, his belly bouncing slightly with every step as he waddled towards the first cluster of rowdy onlookers.
The first stall he approached was a simple one, with a chalkboard showing names and odds hastily scribbled in glowing ink. A trio of burly cultivators with tankards of spirit wine were arguing loudly.
