Through Zhuge Su Yeon's Eyes
The intermission ended.
The first name drawn made the crowd lean forward: Han Qian.The Han's "trump card." The only one among the twenty left who had reached Spiritual Refinement—and the piece everyone expected to collide with something valuable.
But his opponent... wasn't a Zhuge.It was a Tie Xuan youth who didn't even bother descending to the arena to formally concede. He simply remained seated, unmoving, accepting the announcement as one who knows his piece on the board had already been toppled.
And so, Han Qian advanced without spending a shred of Qi.
He wasn't the only one.
Right after, the Tie Xuan heir received the same treatment. His opponent, more interested in surviving the tournament than in glory, surrendered from the stands.
Yuan He Lin, with her flawless posture, was spared as well.
The three great clans seemed curiously intent on guaranteeing their names among the top ten—even if it meant sacrificing the very sense of competition.
Of my own, only one received the same "favor": Zhuge Han.He too advanced without fighting, without sweating, without even warming his body. A courtesy I wondered who else might receive.
To me, the dragon tearing through the skies still terrified the lesser clans.
Four matches, four victories handed over, each placing a different name on the list of the top ten. A silent trade of favors that made the elders breathe easier and confirmed the obvious: even among cultivators, diplomacy is rarely far from barter.
But every performance has an expiration date.And the name Zhuge Ren was the first to break the artificial balance.
This time, the opponent wasn't here to back down.He was the classic swordsman prototype: firm stance, sharp expression, eyes measuring distance as though already calculating the strike. One of those who believed the blade existed only to be used, that steel must prove its worth not against air, but against flesh.
And from the cold gleam in his eyes, he had decided Ren's skin would be the testing ground.
The first real fight of the qualifiers was about to begin.
At the judge's signal—
The swordsman advanced without hesitation.
Proper stance, steady grip, restrained breath.
The opening slash came clean, cutting diagonally for the clavicle—a strike that, against any other skin, would have carved its way to bone.
Against Ren's, it was only sound.
The crack of metal on metal rolled through the arena like thunder swallowing the earth.
Ren stood exactly where he had since stepping onto the stage: feet parallel, hands behind his back, jaw relaxed. Almost a statue.
The golden sheen of his skin gleamed under the afternoon sun.
The swordsman stepped back half a pace—not yet in fear, but to adjust his rhythm. I saw, in the tension of his fingers and the faint crease along his thumb, the moment he chose persistence over precision.
The blade came again—horizontal, vertical, in crescent arcs—testing ribs, shoulder, neck. A rhythm without flourish, enough to make an elder nod and say "correct."
From my seat, I counted.
Five cuts. The blade still rang whole, though its tone had shifted—less crystal, more weary iron.Ten. The edge lost its initial arrogance and began to rasp like a hoarse whisper.Fifteen. Microfractures. The sound betrayed what lazy eyes could not see.
The boy realized it too. At the sixteenth strike, he infused his Qi to keep the blade alive.
Twenty.
Ren hadn't moved.
The "golden skin" remained the same. Untouched.
Twenty-two.
I could swear the blade was already begging for retirement.
Twenty-five.
The crowd, used to explosions, had to learn to hear the silence between blows.
Twenty-eight.
The swordsman, to his credit, did not have weak hands. His body obeyed. His mind too. But there are battles that cannot be won by will alone.
Twenty-nine.
The Qi flickering along the steel wavered. He fed it again, tearing from his dantian one last portion—enough, perhaps, for a decent strike or to prolong the inevitable for one more blow.
Thirty.
The slash fell straight, honest, aimed at the same spot where so many others had failed. When it struck the golden skin, the blade simply broke.
A dry snap, like wet wood splitting. The sword split in two: the edge flew in a short arc, a sad semicircle, and lodged itself in the floor a few feet away.
What remained in his hand was nothing but a broken hilt.
Ren moved for the first time.
It wasn't a step. Not a turn. Only his face, turning, like a gate that creaks once a day. His eyes settled on his opponent with the calm of someone watching rain fall on already soaked ground.
— "Was that all?"
There was nothing in his voice that sought to humiliate. It was as simple a question as "have you eaten?" asked at a doorway. And perhaps for that reason, it humiliated even more.
Ren's right hand rose a span.
Enough to bring back the memory of his last fight to everyone's mind.
The next sound in the arena would not be steel, but thunder.
The swordsman glimpsed the future in a brief flash—not in his mind, but in his body. His shoulder trembled, his grip tightened on what remained of the hilt like one trying to hold water with a sieve.
Prudence arrived before pride.
— "I... I surrender!" His voice came out rough, but whole.
The herald raised his hand without joy, declaring the obvious. The crowd exhaled—some relieved, some disappointed, a few with that childish hunger for blood who always say "the arena teaches."
I remained seated. Ren's fights were almost tedious, his style of simply standing there felt exaggerated, but I had to admit—it had a certain charm. It was fascinating to watch opponents' faces sink into desperation, not knowing what to do.
Ren stepped down from the stage the same way he had gone up: unhurried, uncelebrating. The golden sheen on his skin faded gradually, retreating beneath the flesh like a sun hidden by clouds. And for a rare moment, the arena seemed to remember that true strength rarely needs to make noise.
I leaned back.
The spectacle was now preparing for its grand finale, and even I was beginning to feel curious about how it would all end.