A brief intermission was called before the final matches, giving the spectators a moment to catch their breath and the finalists a precious few minutes to center themselves for the ultimate trial. The air in the concourse buzzed with speculation.
The four friends navigated the chattering river of disciples and found a small stall selling roasted meat skewers and sweet plum juice.
"Well, there you have it," Lily said, her tone a mix of excitement and tension as she bit into a skewer. "Four disciples remain. One of them is about to have the worst day of their cultivation career."
Elara nodded grimly. "It's the cruelest part of the tournament. To make it this far, to prove you're one of the absolute best, only to be denied at the final step. The pressure on them must be immense."
"The pressure is on my fifty spirit stones," Lily huffed, looking genuinely worried. "I thought Seraphina was a sure thing. She's the highest stage, her technique is flawless... but that Lyra... I just don't understand her ability." She looked at the others, a frown creasing her brow. "There's no visible technique, no elemental fluctuation. One moment her opponent is fine, the next they're on the ground. Did you guys see anything I missed?"
Jay shook his head, chewing his food with a troubled look. "Nothing. It's not a normal art. A physical attack leaves traces, an elemental one leaves residual Qi. Her attacks leave... nothing. It's like she's fighting in a different dimension and we're only seeing the results. It's unsettling."
"It's more than unsettling," Elara added quietly. "It's frightening. To be able to neutralize a Golden Core cultivator without a visible struggle... that's a level of control that shouldn't be possible."
All three of them turned to Alex, who had been quietly listening. He hesitated for a moment, thinking back to the faint, black threads he'd seen woven into Lyra's spiritual energy, a detail so subtle his friends couldn't have possibly perceived it. He knew he couldn't explain how he knew, but he couldn't let it go, especially with Lily's money on the line.
"I'm not sure what it is," he said carefully, choosing his words. "But you're right. Something is off about her."
Lily leaned in, her annoyance forgotten, replaced by genuine curiosity. "Off? How?"
"Her Qi," Alex explained, struggling to find the right analogy. "It looks pure, but... it isn't. It feels... tainted. Like a clear stream with a thin trickle of black oil running through it. You wouldn't notice it unless you were looking for it, but it's there. It's corrupt."
The other three fell silent, processing his words. They had long since learned to trust Alex's strange perceptions. Jay's eyes narrowed in thought. Elara's brow furrowed with concern, perhaps connecting this "tainted Qi" to the malevolent energy they'd found in the Marshlurker's core.
It was Lily who looked the most distressed. Her wager wasn't just on a powerful cultivator anymore; it was on a powerful cultivator facing an opponent using a tainted, unknown, and terrifyingly effective art. Her chances didn't look so good anymore.
Just then, the great bell tolled once more, its deep, resonant sound cutting through the chatter of the crowd, signaling the end of the intermission. The final matches were about to begin.
---------------------------
A charged silence fell over the Grand Arena as they returned to their seats. Below, on the immaculate central stage, the four finalists took their positions. Kaelen and Raiden faced each other on the eastern side, a simmering inferno against a crackling storm. On the western side stood Seraphina and Lyra, the graceful master of wind versus the unsettling shadow.
The great bell tolled, its sound a deep, resonant declaration that the final trial had begun.
The first move was a blur of pure speed. Raiden vanished. He didn't just step; he became lightning, reappearing as a series of blinding white flashes around a bewildered Kaelen, each flicker accompanied by the sharp crackle of a probing lightning jab.
Kaelen roared in frustration, unable to land a blow on the teleporting phantom. Learning from his previous fights, he changed tactics. He stomped his foot, sending a wave of fire across the platform, turning it into a searing hotplate to limit Raiden's movement. But Raiden had learned too. He didn't try to maneuver on the scorching stone; instead, he reappeared high in the air Kaelen, his body arcing downwards like a thunderbolt, his hand aimed at Kaelen's head.
This was a battle of pure reaction, of battle sense honed over countless spars. Kaelen couldn't look up in time. He couldn't dodge. Instead, he unleashed the full, unadulterated power of the Blazing Sun Fist directly in front of him. A concussive, spherical wave of fire exploded outwards, not to hit Raiden, but to use the blast's force to propel himself backward, just out of the lightning strike's path.
He landed hard, but he was safe. Raiden, his attack having missed, landed gracefully, the two of them now facing each other across the heated stage, breathing heavily. It was a draw of wits. But as Raiden prepared to launch his next assault, Kaelen grinned, a flicker of brutal cunning in his eyes.
The fight had never been about one exchange. Kaelen's Scorched Earth technique wasn't just about limiting movement; it was about super-heating the very air. The platform was now an oven. Raiden, whose lightning techniques required a massive amount of Qi, was visibly sweating, the suffocating heat draining his stamina with every passing second. Kaelen, a fire cultivator, was in his element, growing stronger.
Raiden knew he had one last chance. He poured all his remaining Qi into one final Thunderclap Step. He appeared before Kaelen, faster than ever before. But Kaelen was waiting. He didn't throw a fire fist; he simply opened his hand. A wall of compressed, shimmering flame materialized, catching the exhausted Raiden and sending him tumbling from the platform.
"Victor: Kaelen!" the proctor declared.
As the crowd roared its approval, all attention turned to the second match.
Seraphina was a whirlwind of controlled, beautiful power. Her cutlass danced, unleashing precise blades of azure wind that sliced through the air. Lyra was on the defensive, parrying each gale with simple, efficient blocks of her spiritual energy. To the onlookers, it seemed Lyra was moments from being overwhelmed.
"Seraphina has her trapped!" Elara said, her voice filled with admiration for her idol. "She's controlling the pace completely."
Pushed into a corner, Seraphina saw her chance. "This is the end," she declared, her voice calm and clear. She began to channel her ultimate technique, the Gale of a Thousand Blossoms, the very air around her swirling into a miniature tempest.
It was then that Lyra smiled.
"Yes," Lyra whispered, her voice a cold note that somehow cut through the roaring wind. "It is."
The subtle black threads Alex had seen before now manifested openly. A toxic, inky miasma bled from Lyra's form, corrupting her pure Qi. It wasn't an elemental attack; it was a wave of spiritual pollution, a soul-deep poison that pulsed across the stage.
Seraphina's flawless technique faltered. The despair hit her first, a soul-crushing wave of hopelessness. Then came the doubt, a venomous whisper that told her she was worthless, that her years of training were a joke. The perfect harmony she held with the wind was shattered. The swirling gale around her blade sputtered and died. Her eyes, once sharp with focus, went wide with a vacant terror.
Lyra glided forward, her hand, now wreathed in visible black tendrils of corrupt energy, reaching for Seraphina's forehead. It was not a move to defeat her; it was a move to cripple her very spirit.
"ENOUGH!"
The voice boomed from the Elders' balcony, resonating with an absolute authority that shook the entire arena. Before anyone could react, a streak of brilliant gold light shot down from the sky. A shimmering, rune-covered rope materialized in the air and wrapped itself around Lyra, binding her arms to her sides and instantly severing her connection to the dark energy.
Lyra froze, the black miasma dissolving from her body. She looked down at the golden spirit rope binding her, then up towards the balcony, her serene expression finally breaking, replaced not with fear, but with a look of pure, cold annoyance.
On the stage, Elder Zheng stood where he had not been a moment before, his hand outstretched, his face a mask of thunderous fury. The arena was in chaos. A finalist had been restrained by an Elder mid-attack.
"Heretical arts," Zheng's voice boomed, cutting through the clamour of the crowd. He took a heavy step toward the bound Lyra. "You dare to practice such filth within these sacred walls?"
His eyes narrowed, and he extended his spiritual sense, intending to probe the depths of Lyra's consciousness and uncover the source of her dark power.
But the moment his senses touched her, something answered.
The pristine white stone beneath Lyra's feet began to bubble. A black, viscous sludge, thick and foul like grave dirt and rot, started to boil up from the solid platform, defying all logic. It swirled around her ankles, a living pool of darkness. Lyra looked down at the encroaching ooze, not with fear, but with the faintest hint of a relieved smile.
The sludge surged upwards, enveloping her completely. The golden spirit rope hissed like water on a hot forge, its light flickering violently as it fought against the corruption before being swallowed whole. In a matter of seconds, both Lyra and the pool of sludge were gone, sinking back into the stone as if they had never been there, leaving no trace behind.
A stunned, terrified silence fell over the entire arena.
Then, a voice spoke. It did not boom from the sky; it whispered inside every single person's mind, a cloying, sickly sweet, and unnervingly nurturing tone.
"Oh, my poor little lamb..."
The voice paused for a heartbeat, and then the tone shifted, exploding into a wave of pure, suffocating wrath that pressed down on the entire arena, causing disciples to stumble and gasp for air.
"HOW DARE YOU TOUCH MY THINGS! I WILL SOON TEACH YOU ALL A LESSON YOU WON'T FORGET!"
The furious words echoed, not in the air, but in the marrow of their bones, a chilling promise of future devastation. Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.
There was only silence. A vast, cold, and terrified silence.