The arena grounds were still buzzing with the aftermath of the day's matches. Contestants huddled in groups, whispering alliances or plotting betrayals. Xiao Chen, seated in the corner of the courtyard, appeared to be nothing more than a tired participant resting after a long bout.
But what sat in the corner was not Xiao Chen at all.
In the shade, the true Xiao Chen leaned against a pillar, his lips curving slightly as he looked at the figure sitting where everyone could see. The clone's breathing was steady, its expression perfectly imitating his subtle indifference. Even the faint scuffs on its robes were replicated. A casual glance—or even a careful one—wouldn't reveal the difference.
He had made it for this purpose—to let the vultures circle while the real predator moved elsewhere.
Tonight, he wasn't here to fight. He was here to steal.
---
Slipping away into the deeper halls of the sect's tournament venue, he avoided the better-lit corridors. His steps were soundless, his presence swallowed by the shadows.
The vault was his destination. And inside that vault… the body refining medicine that had haunted his mind since he first heard whispers of it.
A faint web of silver runes shimmered on the heavy metal door when he arrived. It was protected by an array, the kind only the hosting elders could open. The casual thief would have walked away. Xiao Chen smiled.
His first attempt was the subtle way—he pressed his palm against the cool surface, letting his demonic qi seep into the lines of the array like poison through a vein. Slowly, the runes dimmed at his touch. He felt the resistance, like a stubborn beast refusing to yield. For a moment, one rune flickered… then the entire pattern flared back to life, burning away his intrusion.
He clicked his tongue.
Next came precision. From within his sleeve, he drew a thin needle of dark steel. Activating Scourge of Heaven, his eyes shifted—every flaw, every imbalance in the array's weaving appeared to him in faint threads of red. He struck at them one by one, each jab aimed with surgical precision.
The door shuddered, a few runes blinked out—and then reformed with a spiteful hum.
Tch. Still too stubborn.
Finally, his hand curled around the hilt of the Mahākāla Saber. The blade whispered out, drinking in the surrounding shadows. He struck—not with raw force, but with a sliver of intent that could cleave a man's soul. Sparks cascaded like falling stars. Yet when the light faded, the vault stood untouched, its surface mocking him in silence.
---
He sheathed the blade. This wasn't going to be easy.
With no other choice, Xiao Chen began wandering through the less-traveled corridors. If force wouldn't open the door, perhaps knowledge would.
Near the west wing, he found it—two guards in gold-trimmed armor standing before an empty hallway, their conversation carrying through the still air.
"Another boring shift," one complained, leaning on his spear. "We've been standing here for days. They could at least rotate us with the front gate crew."
The other chuckled. "You know why. Until the finals, we guard that vault without rest. Once the prizes are displayed for all to see, our duty will be done. The elders don't trust anyone until then."
"Yeah, yeah. But really, who's gonna be dumb enough to try before the finals?"
The first laughed. "Exactly. Even if they tried, they'd never get past the elders' seal."
---
Xiao Chen didn't stay to hear the rest. He slipped away, a faint smile pulling at his lips.
They'd open the vault themselves—for the final display. That would be the moment to strike.
And when that moment came, the body refining medicine would be his.