Xiao Yan tested angles with clean, efficient strikes. Xiao Chen answered with pressure—short, sharp bursts of lightning feints and malice-edged counters that shaved away space to breathe. Each pass tightened the vise. The flame phantom held the line at first, but every block cost. Xiao Yan's footwork began to give ground, the ring shrinking around him inch by inch.
He didn't panic. He read the tempo, kept his guard narrow, and endured until the window he'd planned for finally opened. He slipped a hand to his waist and bit down on a sequence of pills—one to flood fire qi, one to refill Dou Qi, one to clear the mind, one to patch internal strain, and two more to push his output higher. Bitter, metallic, medicinal—he'd prepared them in the month between rounds, measured their interaction, timed their onset. He felt the surge hit in staggered waves: heat first, then calm, then the coil of strength settling into every tendon.
The flame phantom brightened. Xiao Yan didn't waste the moment. He drew the Green Lotus Core Flame tight, braided it with the chill to suppress turbulence, and forced both into a single channel. The phantom unraveled willingly, returning its fuel to his control. Blue fire bled through green, then took the core—cold and clear, the temperature spiking and dropping in the same breath as he compressed it past comfort and into risk.
A lotus formed above his palm, petal by petal, each sheet of flame packed tight enough to hum. The arena's air thinned. Hairline cracks laced the tiles under his feet.
Xiao Chen felt the change and advanced anyway. His phantom lifted both pairs of arms, malice rippling under electric hair, and drew a bolt into the Sword of Heavenly Punishment. He closed the distance, blade poised to cut the lotus before it could bloom.
Xiao Yan exhaled and let it bloom.
The blue lotus collapsed inward—and detonated.
A slab of sound hit first, then heat, then a white flash that swallowed the center of the stage. Stone erupted; wards groaned and split; the shock lifted both fighters and threw them hard in opposite directions. The flame phantom disappeared in the blast, fuel spent. The malice phantom staggered, lost an arm, then dissolved into a rain of red motes.
Silence, then ringing. Dust rolled over the stands, a crawling fog that dulled color and sound. The central platform had fractured into a broken fan of slabs.
Xiao Yan pushed an elbow under him, tasted iron, and got his knees under his weight. Blood slicked his forearms. He blinked grit away and realized the air wasn't gray—it glowed faintly. The dust sparkled, warm and metallic. Gold.
He looked down. The grit on his hands shone the same way. Not normal stone. Not flame residue.
A murmur grew, confused at first, then sharp. He glanced up toward the viewing chambers.
A steward burst to the railing, voice cracking as he shouted over the settling haze, "The prizes—!"
Another voice, louder, cut through him: "All three! Gone! The vault's empty!"
The hall snapped awake. Elders lurched to their feet. Guards stumbled for exits. Someone swore.
On the ruined stage, Xiao Yan dragged in air, heartbeat steadying as the truth arranged itself. While eyes were fixed on the blast, while the golden dust turned heads—someone had moved.
Somewhere at the edge of the arena, a shadow slipped between pillars, the smallest curl of a smile never touching his eyes.