Chapter 23 – When Silence Watches the Start of a Show
From Zhuge Su Yeon's Perspective
Upon reaching his elevated reserved seat, Zhuge Su Yeon let his gaze drift across the arena with the calm of one surveying a landscape, not a battlefield. And, as he expected, the eyes of the three assembled clans turned toward them with the hunger of predators finally seeing their prey step into reach. Tie Xuan, Yuan He, Han… each in its own pavilion, yet united by the same expression: hunger.
The silence that followed was not absence of sound—it was the pause before a feast. Within it, whispers sliced the air like thin blades, carrying the sweet weight of scorn.
The arena buzzed with murmurs and stifled laughter.
— "Finally decided to show up…"
— "And they brought the cripple with them."
— "Yu Jin? That one's still breathing?"
— "Breathing… but not for long."
— "He didn't really beat Han Zhi…"
But among the scattered voices, one stood out, sharp and venomous, meant for all to hear. A Han disciple, seated near the front, spoke far too loudly for it to be chance.
"Tsk… I still don't get why people talk about that fight. It was just dumb luck. I was distracted, and that trash took advantage."
He paused briefly, leaning forward so more could hear.
"If it were today, I'd break him before he even drew breath."
A short laugh, dripping with contempt.
"He must be praying he doesn't face me… or he'll learn luck doesn't favor the same fool twice."
Zhuge Su Yeon didn't know him—not by face, at least—but the silence that followed his words carried his name: Han Zhi. Clearly the first antagonist… Poor boy, Su Yeon thought, he would suffer soon, never even understanding why. A sigh escaped him at the thought.
The laughter carried easily. Su Yeon heard it as clearly as he might hear water dripping from a roof edge. Yet there was no anger in his heart. Not even irritation. Only a cold record of events. The truth was, if not for the points promised by the system, he would be anywhere else—preferably far enough away to forget such tournaments even existed.
His clan, and his brother as the primary target, seemed to draw endless whispers. Su Yeon suspected it was the product of negative propaganda from the other three clans—helped along, of course, by a nudge from fate and its unseen author. After all, what protagonist's journey didn't begin with being scorned as trash in his own city?
And now here he was, not reading the story from a screen, but watching it unfold live and in color—even knowing its inevitable end.
An end that would surely prove painful, at least for their opponents.
Because this was always the ultimate cliché.
And it always began the same way: the "trash" of the clan, humiliated for years, stepping into the arena before his hometown… and winning. Revealed as an incomparable genius, silencing every voice, and from there soaring ever upward, defeating stronger foes until even the sky grew too small.
Predictable.
But still exciting.
Who doesn't enjoy watching a character finally show who's in charge?
So, while everyone prepared for the start of the tournament, Zhuge Su Yeon leaned back in his chair, waiting for the curtain to rise on yet another show.
Soon, Han Yun Zhe, patriarch of the Han family, stood with the pomp of a man convinced he was about to shape history.
His voice spread through the arena like a slow drumbeat, thick with false solemnity:
"Today we gather to celebrate the talent, strength, and determination of the generation that will inherit the destiny of this city…"
What followed were phrases on honor, effort, and the sacred duty of youth to protect their clans' future. Words dripping predictability, one after another, as if torn from some cheap manual of martial ceremonies.
Su Yeon almost rolled his eyes. The only reason he didn't was to deny the other clans the satisfaction of imagining their words had weight. So, while Patriarch Han droned on about "surpassing limits" and "carving names into history," Su Yeon let his gaze wander the arena, like someone searching for interest in a poorly painted mural.
At first, nothing. Just familiar faces—youths straining to look more confident than they were, patriarchs feigning calm, elders staring at the arena floor as if salvation or ruin might rise from it.
But then, in the seat of honor beside the Han clan, someone stood out. It wasn't the posture—rigid yet natural—nor the face—aged yet serene, with no need to prove anything. It was the symbol.
A black sun, stitched in golden thread on a dark sleeve, glimmered faintly.
The Dark Sun Sect.
The realization brought no apprehension to Su Yeon. On the contrary, a slow curve formed at his lips, subtle enough to pass unnoticed by anyone not watching closely.
So that's what we have here… he thought, while Han Yun Zhe rattled off about courage as though reciting ancestral recipes. The new antagonist stepping forward as the first one nears his fall…
He had known the Han's youngest son was tied to that sect. But the presence of an elder was unexpected. After all, Gray Sky was too small, too useless in the empire's grand game. Unworthy of such a weighty presence.
But in the end, Su Yeon understood. The elder's presence was only there to enrich the narrative.
Perhaps, in time, the Dark Sun Sect would become the first enemy of real worth for his brother to face on his rise to power.
But that was a distant, uncertain future.
So, while the patriarch's final words echoed, Su Yeon remained motionless, watching the Dark Sun elder not as an immediate threat, but as the opening of a chapter whose ending he already knew—just waiting for the page to turn.
Han Yun Zhe's speech ended like a weak rain finally surrendering to silence—not for bringing relief, but out of exhaustion. And in the next moment, the arena's atmosphere shifted.
At the highest point of the eastern stands, a raised platform was occupied by representatives of each clan, who took turns drawing names from a dark jade urn. A simple ritual, almost childish in execution, but to Zhuge Su Yeon it carried the peculiar charm of badly told jokes: everyone pretending fairness existed in the draw, when any cultivator with the slightest spiritual perception could bend the result with ease.
And no one here was "slightly trained"—all were far beyond that.
The first to step forward was a Han elder, his expression that of a merchant about to close a particularly profitable deal. His voice, deep and laden with calculated enthusiasm, boomed across the arena:
"First match! Han Zhi Feng, seventh stage of Body Refinement!"
From the Han seats, a tall youth rose. Broad-shouldered, hair tied in a simple knot, his eyes dripping with the arrogance of one who had only ever fought opponents chosen to lose. A short blade hung at his waist, the hilt worn only on the side displayed to the crowd—a detail telling Su Yeon more about his training than any report could.
The Han elder drew the second name, his smile widening theatrically.
"Opponent… Zhuge Wen! Sixth stage of Spiritual Refinement!"
A murmur swept through the arena like smoke through cracks. The difference in cultivation levels was obvious, and the looks cast toward the Zhuge pavilion gleamed with anticipated mockery.
Su Yeon did not move. He simply rested his elbow on the chair's arm and his chin on his hand, watching the scene compose itself like a painter observing the first strokes of a canvas he already knew by heart.
There was no worry. No anxiety.
If they wanted to strike his clan straight away, so be it.
He leaned back a little further, robe sliding softly against the armrest, his eyes fixed on the center of the arena—where Zhuge Wen, the young archer he had shaped with patience, was taking his place.
A faint smile touched his lips.
If Gray Sky City wanted a spectacle… it was about to have one.