From Zhuge Su Yeon's Perspective
The next three fights passed before my eyes like torn pages from a cheap combat manual—predictable, poorly stitched together, and with nothing worth remembering.
In the first, two youths traded blows like people slicing bread, with no real intent to kill or even injure. It was too rehearsed to be spontaneous, yet too careless to be art. Victory wasn't about strength but about which of them would stumble first on his own ego.
The second was worse. A Yuan He boy, ninth stage of Body Refinement, crushed a Han opponent at the seventh stage with all the subtlety of an axe splitting clay pots. No technique, only brute force and the rush to end the spectacle. The crowd feigned excitement; I couldn't even bother.
The third… if I were to describe it fairly, it was a play masquerading as a duel. Two names from side branches, with no pretense of glory, simply fulfilling a schedule before the real protagonists returned to the stage. They exchanged restrained cuts, half-hearted smiles, even a muttered apology before the final strike. If the goal was to convince us of rivalry, they failed miserably.
In truth, nothing there demanded attention. No flashes of genius, no twists worth note—just more fuel for the rumor that this tournament so far was nothing but a bloated prologue to the handful of fights that truly mattered.
I remained seated, unmoving, like someone watching rain fall on a field he has no intention of tilling.
Applause withered at the end of the third fight, and for a moment the arena seemed to inhale. It wasn't silence of respect… just the lazy pause between two forgettable acts.
That was when I felt them.
New eyes fell on me and the Zhuge pavilion—not the bitter, slanted gazes of the three rival clans. Those were still busy chattering among themselves, as if the last fights had been true milestones in Gray Sky's martial history. No. These came from the common stands.
There, behind columns and side bleachers, crowded the city's commoners: rough-voiced merchants, apprentice blacksmiths with soot-stained hands, clanless cultivators, even patriarchs of families too small to compete. Faces that would normally blur into the mass now lifted, fixed, as though they wished to draw something from us by sheer weight of their gaze.
I found it amusing. A recognition more honest than any patriarch's praise.
And I could understand why.
For though none but me fully knew, the youths we'd sent to the arena so far hadn't used a single thing this city could offer. Every step, every block, every strike was infused with Early Earth-rank techniques—refined to a level most local masters wouldn't dare teach.
It was inevitable that their eyes sought more.
And in the end… perhaps guided by the collective desire simmering in the arena, fate chose to answer the silent chorus of the crowd.
It didn't take long for the judge's voice, sharp and cutting, to rise above the murmurs:
"—Next match! Zhuge Shan versus Yuan He Jian!"
Ah… so that was it.
A Zhuge against the Yuan He heir—the same youth whose proud stance was always at his sharp-eyed sister's side.
I felt the subtle crackle of expectation sweep the common stands like wind through a wheat field.
Unfortunately, I knew the audience would not get the show they wanted.
My eyes turned to Zhuge Shan.
He was where he had always been since the tournament began—seated, motionless, as though the bustle around him were just wind passing a mountain. His eyelids half-closed, his breathing slow, and across his lap… the long blade he cradled like a sleeping child. Not ostentation. Not habit. A silent bond needing no explanation.
If Zhuge Fen was a genius of combat—a living blade honed to kill—then Shan was a genius of another kind: the genius of dedication.
Honestly, after almost a month watching his progress, I had to admit I felt a bit… disappointed. Not with his effort, but with his results. Shan's progress with the sword technique I'd given him had been slow, almost painfully methodical. And in a clan that, to my surprise, seemed to brim with hidden talent, that stood out.
But I didn't question why the Zhuge clan held so many hidden prodigies.
It was natural for the protagonist's clan to overflow with geniuses—narratives enjoy that kind of irony.
What truly mattered was that, even without monstrous talent for the Dao of the Sword, Shan's dedication was… absurd. To the point I could only admire it.
When I handed him those techniques, my intent had been simple: sharpen a good swordsman, just another valuable piece on the clan's board. But my words—direct, technical, stripped of poetry—awoke something in him I had not foreseen.
From that day on, Shan devoted himself solely to the sword.
Not like a cultivator training with a weapon.
But like a monk devoting his life to a single sutra.
Even at meals, the blade rested across his lap, untouched by others. He slept with it at arm's reach. It accompanied every step, every pause, as though the world itself were nothing but intervals between one cut and the next.
It was surprising—not his stubbornness, which I understood well—but the way it had taken root in him.
Talent or not, I had no hurry.
Shan was like a new company in my portfolio: no need for immediate profit. It was a long-term investment. And when the time came, the dividends would be worth the wait.
The fight didn't take long to start.
Shan remained still, blade low in guard.
When Yuan He Jian stepped into range, they traded short, dry, clean strikes. No wide steps or dramatic spins: a cut, a defense, a minimal retreat.
Jian withdrew. Shan reset his guard.
Jian pressed. Shan answered.
A rhythm almost hypnotic.
The Yuan He heir, proud as every youth carrying a banner, soon realized.
His opponent… wasn't really "fighting" him.
He was using him.
Like just another training partner, useful to polish edges, test angles, measure timing.
His expression began to strain, like steel over-forged.
With each new advance, the weight at his spear's tip grew heavier. More Qi, more force, more rage.
It made no difference.
No matter how Jian poured energy, Shan matched him, millimeter by millimeter, a mirror too polite to stop reflecting. His defense showed no cracks, his attacks sought no kill—only to respond. And that calm, more than any strike, was corroding the Yuan He heir from within.
At last, Jian pulled back several paces.
He lowered his spear and began gathering Qi in arms and core. Clearly he was preparing a higher-grade martial technique—something that demanded seconds of buildup, testing whether Shan would interrupt or continue waiting.
I knew his thought: Will he stop me, or let me finish?
His plans were spoiled.
Not because Shan chose to attack.
Nor because he chose to wait.
But because, mid-preparation, my disciple simply raised his arm in a clear gesture of surrender.
Unhurried, he sheathed his blade, turned, and walked out of the arena, his steps as slow and steady as those that had brought him there.
Not a surprise to me.
These had been my instructions to him.
Unlike the other Zhuge youths, Shan wasn't there to be currency for tournament points. He was a blade I had brought to be sharpened.
I had hoped for him to have more than one match, yes… but facing the Yuan He heir from the start was already enough.
That single experience, under real pressure and flow of combat, would feed his Sword Heart for some time.
The rest… would come at its own pace.