From Zhuge Su Yeon's Perspective
The next two fights passed before me like poorly painted landscape scrolls: wide in space, but empty of details worth remembering.
No Zhuge youth stepped onto the arena. No name of real weight in the city. Only diligent youngsters—or those convinced they were—crossing fists and blades without offering more than the basic repertoire any half-decent cultivator could replicate after an afternoon of practice.
The first was between a Yuan He boy and a Tie Xuan girl. He carried himself like brute force could replace strategy. She carried the haste of someone eager to finish before her tea grew cold. It was brief: he tried to crush her with palm strikes, she withdrew until he tired, then landed a kick to his flank that toppled him like an unsteady barrel. Clean victory, without brilliance.
The second, an internal duel of the Han clan. Two cousins, apparently more interested in proving who could make uglier grimaces than who could win. They traded common techniques, a few poorly aimed punches, and a handful of kicks that looked more like dance than combat. In the end, one tripped on his own, letting the other claim glory—or whatever they decided to call it.
I observed in silence, not even bothering to disguise my boredom. Some cheered, some whispered tactical analyses as if they were watching celestial dragons clash. To me, they were just interludes between the true chapters of this tournament.
Until the urn spun again.
The Tie Xuan elder drew a slip, and his voice rang across the arena:
"—Tie Xuan Hao, ninth stage of Spiritual Refinement!"
A collective murmur swelled, like strong wind through bamboo. The Tie Xuan heir, forged since childhood as his clan's living wall. I remembered seeing him years ago, accompanying his father to the markets: tall for his age, straight-shouldered, with that unwavering gaze. The kind of youth who never needed to raise his voice for others to clear the way.
The opponent, drawn next, was Yuan He Lian. Also ninth stage of Spiritual Refinement, a cultivator of some renown—fast, precise. It was not only a battle of cultivation, but of philosophies: the wall versus the blade.
When Hao entered the arena, the ground seemed to absorb his weight. He did not hurry. Each step was a brick laid, each breath the reinforcement of a fortress. Lian, by contrast, advanced with the gleam of one who had already chosen the angle of his cut before even drawing an imaginary sword.
The first clash was a study in contrasts: Lian's diagonal slash, swift as mountain wind; Hao blocking with a turn of shoulder and clenched fist, absorbing and returning force like stone echoing sound.
The exchanges came fast, but never rushed. Lian slid around, probing for gaps. Hao held the center, turning like a tower that follows the sun without losing its base. Each block was not mere defense—it was a strike reminding the foe that even steel bends when it meets denser matter.
Then, little by little, I noticed the wall change. Hao began to advance.
The final blow came when Lian, leaping, attempted a cross strike at his exposed shoulder. Hao twisted his torso, parried with his forearm, and in a single movement drove his fist into the opponent's chest. No dramatic flight followed, only the clean collapse of a body robbed of breath in an instant.
Victory was declared. The Tie Xuan cheered with vigor.
The Yuan He accepted defeat in silence.
Another elder soon returned to the urn. His thin fingers rattled through the bamboo slips like dry bones in a jar. When he drew the next pair, I caught the faint rise of his brows, followed by the smallest pause before he announced:
"—Zhuge Rong!"
I was surprised. Not because it was my clan's turn… but because it was that name.
If the last match had been the clash of wall and blade, now we would see someone who was both.
Zhuge Rong rose with the ease of one who bore his own weight as part of the landscape. In his right hand he carried his massive blade, still sheathed—more like a war chest than a weapon meant to cut. His silhouette, broad as a fortified gate, advanced down the corridor to the arena.
I had long heard the nickname among the younger generation: the big duo—him and Zhuge Ren. I rarely approve of those improvised titles disciples invent to feel part of some future chronicle… but that one, I admit, had always felt just.
Just before stepping onto granite, Rong halted. With a single motion, he drew the blade from its sheath and set the scabbard aside like an unneeded accessory. Up close, his weapon was nearly his size—and without the Stone Dragon Muscles technique, it would have been dead weight. But in his hands, there was no excess: it was his body's extension.
The opponent, drawn next, was a Han boy. I recognized him—Han Zhi. The same troublemaker who had crossed paths with Yu Jin.
This time, no loud bravado. No mockery. He descended in silence.
I couldn't help but wonder what this boy was planning.
Even knowing he would fail regardless.
At the judge's signal, Han Zhi began circling Rong, relying on speed to find a blind spot.
But blind spots are luxuries walls like Rong do not allow.
The cut did not come—at least not as the crowd expected.
With the Offensive Fortress Slash technique, Rong used micro-movements of his blade to deflect each approach. The sword—if such weight could still be called that—moved little, but always enough to block. Each defense looked simple, but was cold calculation: a twist of the wrist, an elbow's angle, weight redistributed at the precise instant.
The Han boy, once so confident, soon grew frustrated. And then, reckless.
I couldn't help but think how perfectly he fit the role of a cliché first antagonist—hailing from a powerful clan, full of words and empty of substance, content to intimidate the strong and kneel to the weak. Normally, he should have been crushed by Yu Jin, but apparently fate did not consider him worthy. So his end fell to Rong.
At the first true opening—the one he didn't even notice creating—Rong didn't cut. He spun, and the flat of his massive blade came down on his opponent's head like a blacksmith's hammer. The sound was dull. Han Zhi collapsed instantly, unconscious before hitting the granite.
Mercy is rarely announced, but here it was evident. Had Rong used the edge, there would have been no body for the judge to declare defeated—only silence and blood.
Rong left the arena without display, without provocation. Not as an untouched wall, nor as a broken blade. But as something rarer: a wall that is itself a blade.
His footsteps had barely left the ring when I noticed the tone of murmurs shift. It was no longer scattered noise of wagers or tactical chatter—it carried weight, direction.
The other clans were speaking among themselves—low, but not low enough to escape my perception. A whisper here, another there, stitching together a fabric of unease.
Three matches.
Three victories.
These were our results so far.
Inevitable that such simple arithmetic would become discomfort. With each triumph, the portrait they kept of us—elite farmers, silent guardians of fields and roots—gained new layers, sharper, less predictable.
Rong was welcomed back by his companions without exaggerated celebration, only clenched fists and steady gazes that needed no words. Yet even in silence, the looks around us betrayed no mistake: something was happening here.
The elder returned to the urn once more.
The bamboo rattled, and for a moment the arena held its breath. When his voice rang again, it cut through murmurs like a blade:
"—Zhuge Fen!"
A near-smile touched my lips—too quick for anyone else to notice. Fen. If they were already unsettled, now they would lose the ground beneath their feet.
I knew Fen well. And even by my standards, Fen was an undeniable genius. Not only for holding the greatest spiritual potential among the ten, but for something greater still.
If the whispers had deepened with Rong, then the fight about to unfold would not just unnerve them…
It would carve into their bones what until now had only been a rumor: the Zhuge clan was no longer a side piece on this board, surviving only by the absolute power of its patriarch.