A hush fell over the crowd as Duō Yī stepped onto Platform Three. His pale, almost ethereal complexion seemed to glow under the sunlight, his lean frame shrouded in white and blue robes that moved with the breeze. His snow-white hair was a stark contrast to the more conventional colors of his clan. Born with a fractured soul, Duō Yī had once been considered frail, but the youth standing on the platform now radiated a calm that unsettled even the seasoned elders watching from above. His piercing blue eyes, clear as the summer sky, scanned the arena with quiet intensity.
Across from him, Duō Méi stood, her stance full of poise and confidence. Her raven-black hair flowed like a waterfall, framing sharp, refined features. She exuded quiet fierceness, her crimson robe hugging her figure as if to enhance both her elegance and the deadly intent beneath. Her eyes—so alike Yī's in hue, yet vastly different in temperament—sparkled with anticipation.
Whispers filled the crowd.
"Duō Méi has this in the bag," one young man muttered, awe plain in his tone.
"He only won last time because Zhì underestimated him," another scoffed. "He'll be exposed soon enough."
"He doesn't even look like a cultivator," someone else jeered, pointing at Yī's slender frame. "More like a wandering scholar who picked up a stick."
Still, a few held their breath, captivated by the eerie elegance Yī projected.
Elder Lǐ raised his hand, signaling the start. "Let the battle… begin!"
Méi lunged forward, a blur of crimson and steel. SWISH! SWISH! Her crystal-tipped rapier cut the air with deadly precision. But Yī's pristine white staff moved in seamless arcs, each strike redirected by a flick of his wrist.
CLANG! CLANG!
The sharp rhythm echoed across the grounds. Méi's blade, though dazzling, found no purchase. Yī's defense was impossibly fluid, weaving through her strikes like water parting around stone.
Frustration flickered in Méi's eyes. She reset her stance. "Your defense is impeccable," she said, her voice cool. "But let's see how long you can endure."
Her rapier blurred in a storm of thrusts, SWISH! SWISH! SWISH! A web of glimmering steel pressed Yī back step by step. The crowd murmured.
"She's too fast!"
"He can't hold on forever!"
Yī's eyes narrowed. He adjusted his grip, his movements shifting. The staff spun into a blur, no longer purely defensive—this was Bōjutsu. THUNK! THUNK! Each strike struck with ruthless precision, turning Méi's momentum against her. The rhythm reversed; now she was the one forced backward, her rapier rattling under the relentless assault.
"Where did he learn to fight like that?" an elder whispered.
Another nodded. "That boy… he's dangerous."
Still, Méi refused to fold. With a fierce cry, she leapt, her rapier gleaming with icy Qi. SWISH! The blade descended in a plunging strike infused with her Crystal Frost technique. A chilling mist spread, frost crackling faintly along the platform.
"He's slowing down!" someone shouted, excitement crackling in their voice.
"Maybe he really was just lucky!"
Yī's breathing steadied. He moved with sudden sharpness, conserving his strength, watching for the tiniest gap. Then—WHAM! His staff struck her ribs in a precise counter.
Méi staggered, breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened, but her determination flared. With a defiant cry, she lunged once more, driving her rapier in a desperate thrust.
Yī sidestepped smoothly, his staff sweeping low. CRACK! Méi's legs buckled as he hooked her ankle, sending her sprawling onto the stone.
The crowd gasped.
Méi pushed herself up, grit flashing in her gaze—but froze. Yī's staff was already there, the polished tip resting an inch from her forehead, steady and unshaking.
A silence settled over the arena.
Méi's chest rose and fell, her expression shifting from disbelief to reluctant respect. At last, she lowered her gaze and gave a small nod.
"The winner of Platform Three… Duō Yī!" Elder Lǐ's voice rang out.
The crowd rippled with shock.
"He beat her…?"
"Twice in a row. Maybe it wasn't luck after all."
Yī lowered his staff and turned, his breathing calm despite the battle. As he stepped off the platform, the sunlight caught in his white hair, making it gleam like silver fire. The murmurs followed him, but he walked away in silence, leaving only unease—and awe—in his wake.