Chapter 22 – When the Swan Appears
From Han Yun Zhe's Perspective
The martial arena rose like a colossus of stone and wood, embracing the heart of Gray Sky City with its imposing presence. Rows of stands encircled the vast combat floor, paved with dark granite slabs polished to reflect the sky—a mirror awaiting the blood and sweat of its future protagonists.
Red pillars supported the circular roof that partially covered the honored seats, where patriarchs, elders, and special guests would sit, shielded from the cutting wind. Silk banners dyed in each clan's colors already hung above the main entrances, swaying gently in the morning breeze.
The Han clan had been the first to arrive. Han Yun Zhe knew this was partly due to their base's proximity to the arena, yet he couldn't deny the uncomfortable heat rising up his spine—a blend of anxiety and anticipation. He was a man of cultivated patience, but today… today was no day to lose ground in the theater of appearances.
He led the procession forward, his steps echoing along the stone corridor toward the reserved section. His eyes, before searching for rivals, rested upon the youths he had brought.
Four figures stood aligned behind him, shoulders straight, eyes fixed on the arena's center. They weren't the only Han participants in the tournament, but they were the best.
Han Zhi Rong, ninth stage of Body Refinement. Tall, broad-shouldered, stern-faced. His talent was as solid as his fists.
Han Yue Xin, ninth stage. A young woman with sharp eyes, hair tied in a high bun adorned with a fine golden pin. Her speed in combat was likened to dancing blades under moonlight.
Han Qiu Ming, ninth stage. Shorter and leaner than the rest, but with quick reflexes and surgical precision in his strikes. A specialist in close-range techniques.
Han Liang, ninth stage. The youngest, still impulsive from lack of serious defeats, but gifted with raw strength like a wild bull.
And, of course, his youngest son, Han Qian, whose reputation as the most promising of the generation already echoed through the central markets. Han Yun Zhe was certain his son would naturally claim the tournament's championship, placing himself above all others of his age.
The firm, coordinated echo of footsteps interrupted his thoughts.
The eastern gate of the arena opened, and, like a well-rehearsed wave, the Yuan He clan entered. Their banner bore the symbol of a golden snail encircled by silver waves—an emblem of patience and slow, inevitable accumulation, like the tide that swallows all in time.
At the front walked Patriarch Yuan He Zhao Ming—a man of average stature, with a long black beard streaked silver at the temples. His dark-blue robe was embroidered with golden spirals that seemed to shift in the light. Zhao Ming was not known for fury, but for steadiness and calculation—qualities that had kept him one of Gray Sky's three lords.
Behind him, a young pair drew the most attention—the heirs of the Yuan He clan.
The elder, Yuan He Jian, ninth stage of Body Refinement, walked with a posture mixing discipline and arrogance. Strong-armed, firm-stepped, his gaze carried a confidence bordering on open challenge.
Beside him, Yuan He Lin, eighth stage, bore softer features and an easy smile—but her narrow, sharp eyes betrayed a calculating instinct.
As the Yuan He clan took their seats, Han Yun Zhe kept his face impassive, but inwardly he weighed every detail: their march's rhythm, the order of formation, the gleam in their youths' eyes. Everything was information. Everything would be used.
And that was only the second clan to arrive.
Then silence fell—but not for long.
The quiet strategy blanketing the arena was broken by a heavy, metallic sound, like war drums. From the southern gate, the Tie Xuan clan entered with the discipline of a veteran army. Their leather boots struck the ground in unison, each step accompanied by the clink of small metal plates sewn into their clothes—not decoration, but tradition.
At the front, their banner rose: a black hammer driven into a golden anvil, wreathed in gray flames—symbol of strength and endurance, forge and fire. The heavy fabric barely stirred in the morning wind, as though even their flag had been made to endure eternity.
Patriarch Tie Xuan Bao marched at the lead, a man whose presence needed no introduction. Built like a fortress, with thick arms and a bull's neck, his bronzed skin bore scars etched by heat and battle. His short, graying hair was as unruly as the beard framing his square jaw. He wore a leather cuirass reinforced with steel strips—a silent provocation to the ceremonial robes of the other patriarchs.
It was said that before leading the clan, Tie Xuan Bao had worked the mines himself, forging the very weapons with which he won his first duels.
Behind him strode the clan's pride, his heir—Tie Xuan Hao, ninth stage of Spiritual Refinement. Tall, broad-shouldered, standing as straight as a freshly tempered blade, Hao's sharp eyes belonged to one who already knew the weight of victory. His dark-gray robe was belted with a leather sash clasped with protective runes—masterpieces of their family forge. A tense calm surrounded him, like a perfectly drawn bow waiting to release.
As the Tie Xuan clan settled in the opposite stands, Han Yun Zhe studied every detail: the weight of their march, the silence that followed, the lack of smiles.
The Tie Xuan didn't need to declare readiness. Their very breathing said it for them.
Time in the arena seemed to flow in slow waves. The crowd's chatter dimmed, replaced by expectant silence. The cold morning wind coiled among the pillars, snapping the banners of the three clans already present.
From his reserved seat, Han Yun Zhe noticed the gazes exchanged between patriarchs and elders. There was one glaring absence: the fourth pavilion, the Zhuge clan.
It was Yuan He Zhao Ming who broke the silence, his deep voice ringing like the slow toll of a bell.
"Strange…" he said, eyes fixed on the northern gate. "Only they remain. And we are well past the appointed hour. Did Patriarch Zhuge change his mind?"
Han Yun Zhe turned slightly to face him, weighing his response. Before he could speak, Tie Xuan Bao let out a coarse laugh, like embers flaring in the wind.
"Change his mind? Hah!" he barked, leaning forward. "You mean… flee. That wouldn't surprise me. Those wheat fields breed hunger, not courage. Perhaps they decided it's better to harvest barley than broken bones."
Some Tie Xuan elders chuckled behind him. Zhao Ming, for his part, did not laugh—but his sharp eyes betrayed an amused interest in the provocation.
"Bao, at times you are… overly direct," Zhao Ming remarked, in a tone that sounded more like praise than reproach. "Still, you are right—it is unusual. A patriarch does not simply fail to appear at a tournament to which he gave his word."
Han Yun Zhe drew a deep breath, keeping his face composed. He was no fool—he knew every word spoken here was meant to test reactions, not seek answers. Yet he spoke calmly, loud enough for nearby rows to hear.
"The Zhuge clan gave their word." His gaze stayed on the gate, avoiding theirs. "They will come."
He paused briefly, weighing each syllable. "Perhaps they are simply… delayed."
As the words left his lips, Han Yun Zhe couldn't tell if he was trying to convince the others—or himself.
Tie Xuan Bao shrugged, his rough laughter returning.
But before anyone could respond, a murmur rose in the stands. At first faint, uncertain, then steadily growing. Eyes turned toward the southern gate. There, against the wind, a banner began to rise.
The white fabric unfurled slowly, and upon it, embroidered in black and silver thread, spread the figure of a swan in flight—its wings open as if to cleave the very sky. The standard swayed like a verdict that needed no trumpet.
Han Yun Zhe felt the air in the arena shift. The murmur swelled, mixed with muffled exclamations. The swan, symbol of the Zhuge clan, advanced step by step, followed by the steady beat of marching feet.
Tie Xuan Bao leaned back, arms crossed. "At last…" he muttered, almost disappointed, as though robbed of the chance to declare his enemy's cowardice.
Zhao Ming only arched a brow, eyes fixed on the banner's movement. "Late… but here."
Han Yun Zhe said nothing. His fingers tightened on the armrest. For at that moment, as the Zhuge banner drew nearer, he wondered—were they truly late… or had they simply been waiting for the exact moment to be remembered?