Through the eyes of Zhuge Su Yeon
The tournament moved on like a river that refused to rush, even as everyone on the banks begged for rapids. Five matches passed—five stories as distant from our clan as the muffled thud of a drum behind fog. Not a single Zhuge name was called.
Chance? Perhaps. But as always, it wasn't hard to see the silent work behind the supposed chance. The three rival clans seemed to have struck an improvised truce—one of those fragile alliances that last only long enough to delay a problem. The problem, of course, was us.
While the youths of Han, Tie Xuan, and Yuan He took turns in the arena, I watched the audience more than the fights. Each victory, each defeat, each poorly thrown strike drifted past the stands like lukewarm wind—but the moment a Zhuge stepped onto the granite, the air turned to fire. People leaned forward, merchants cut off mid-bargain, even wandering cultivators held their breath.
Make no mistake: that kind of attention is never useless.Even the strongest clan in the city cannot act with impunity against the entire populace. An enemy or two can be eliminated in the silence of an alley or the emptiness of a road, but the people as a body... they belong to the White Flame Empire. To challenge them is to challenge the imperial clan itself.
And so, the other three clans' efforts were almost visible. Matches drawn out too long, pairings calculated, even "technical surprises" meant to distract eyes. All to dissolve the focus that inevitably circled back to us.
During the last selection of combatants, the Zhuge elder responsible for the urn approached me with the look of one seeking permission before moving a piece on the board. His unspoken question was clear: "Shall we call someone to keep the crowd stirred?"
I kept to my earlier decision.
— "No."
There was no need to manipulate the urn.The names were there.Sooner or later, they would surface, no matter how many turns the others tried to take.
Fate—and the lazy authors who manipulate it—always find a way to bring their favorite pieces back onto the stage.
The sixth match after Min's did not arrive like gentle rain; it sounded like the blare of a war trumpet. The Han clan moved their golden piece onto the board: Han Qian, darling prodigy of the merchants and his father alike. His robe bore discreet black lines at the sleeves—the hidden sun embroidered by one who had no need to announce the obvious. Opposite him, a Yuan He youth, body well-tempered at the ninth level of Body Refinement. Correct posture, steady eyes... and that cultivated confidence the teahouses like to call "talent."
The crowd leaned forward. For a moment, the arena seemed to breathe only through its mouth.
They stopped five steps apart. The judge—a Tie Xuan elder, ironically—raised his hand, but Qian spoke first, smiling with the kind of politeness used to weigh hearts on a merchant's scale.
— "To make this fair," he said, voice clear enough to reach the highest rows, "I grant you three strikes."
The Yuan He youth clenched his fist.
— "I don't need charity, Han." His gaze did not waver. "I'll take the three... only so they can't say I lacked courtesy."
Qian inclined his head like one yielding space in a crowded market.
— "Courtesy is a good way to frame defeats."
The judge's hand fell. The air cracked with the first step.
The first strike
The Yuan He moved in a half-circle, sole sweeping granite in a clean arc. Steps of Enveloping Mist: hips swaying, left sleeve delaying the eye, right palm shooting toward the sternum's gap. Beautiful enough to draw murmurs from the stands.
Qian did not retreat. He shifted only his chin—a fraction, the space of half a finger, as if avoiding the rim of a cup. The palm struck nothing, slapping emptiness with a sad sound.
The grace of the Steps lies in tricking the eye; the problem is, the eye cannot bind one who looks from within.
The second strike
Without breaking rhythm, the Yuan He lifted his knee, locked his torso, and dropped his elbow toward the collarbone—a short-range move meant to crush breath. The energy flowed correctly, heel to fist, no leaks.
Qian rotated his shoulder a centimeter, as if straightening his robe. The elbow landed, yes, but met no body—only a fixed axis. There was impact... and it died there, absorbed in alignment. The Yuan He stepped back, forearm tingling. Somewhere in the stands, someone held their breath without noticing.
The third strike
Haste bit down. The youth tried deception: right foot feigned retreat, stance switched, heel swept low at Qian's ankle while the left palm drove for his solar plexus. Two planes, leg and palm—the kind of combination that topples larger men.
Qian, still unmoving, let his ankle be touched. No sweep. It was like striking a post rooted in stone. In the same moment, two of his fingers rested lightly on the attacking wrist—light, yet enough to deflect it half a hand's width aside. No break, no injury. Merely emptiness, like blowing out a candle before prayer.
The third strike ended, and with it, the staged courtesy. Up to this point, Han Qian had won without moving. The crowd was beginning to understand the show.
Qian exhaled slowly. Not a sigh—a reminder. Pressure shifted.
Qi surged like forge heat splitting winter. Not a storm, not a bolt of lightning—something cleaner: the invisible edge of a blade slicing through a pavilion without raising dust. I saw silk banners quiver below, the wood of benches groan softly, the sound above the arena turn sharper.
— "First level of Spiritual Refinement." Qian's voice was low, almost a private remark. Just loud enough for his opponent. Just enough for the arena to fall silent.
The Yuan He youth paled in pragmatic realization: numbers. Ninth of Body Refinement versus first of Spiritual Refinement was still a step—and not a step one climbed with will alone.
He stepped back once, then again, arm rising in the formal gesture of surrender. Belated prudence is still prudence... but not for one who must prove himself to a master of the black sun seated two rows above.
— "I yie—" he began.
But Qian had already advanced.
No flourish. His palm shot straight, Qi condensed to the size of a coin, compressed to its limit. The impact did not sound like a blow; it cracked like wood when ice gives way.
The Yuan He's body flew back in a clean line, crossing the granite's edge and vanishing from my sight before the judge found his voice.
The judge raised his arm with delayed reflex; the Han clan erupted in applause. In their pavilion, I saw the faint movement of the Dark Sun elder—sleeves adjusted, Qi restrained. Approval from above rarely needed words.
I remained seated, feeling the echo of the strike fade into the amphitheater's bones.
It was not my moment to speak, nor to move.
The tournament continued. The stage as well. And fate... still amused itself with its own "originality."
My eyes turned to Yu Jin.That... was his opponent for this chapter of the story.
His skin seemed to vibrate—not from fear, but from the raw excitement of a general who sees a wall and feels the imperative to climb it, even if it means breaking every stone in the way. Outwardly relaxed, but inside, a bow drawn to its limit, waiting to release the arrow.
I had to admit... the plot was cliché.The kind of narrative so simple and direct it might have been written in haste by an author already thinking of the next chapter before finishing this one.And yet... it was impossible to deny the force of watching it unfold with my own eyes.
It was the kind of scene that needed no surprises to be thrilling.The inevitable was enough.