Under the gaze of Zhuge Su Yeon
The battles that would define the finalists could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Five duels — one for each name that, before sunset, would carry upon their shoulders the expectation and pressure of an entire city. It was the climax of the tournament… at least in theory.
In practice, the first three were a silent reminder that the narrative loves to waste time.
The first match placed Zhuge Han against one of the few young men of the Han clan who had managed to make it that far in the day. And, for a brief moment, the arena breathed differently. It was not common to see our Han facing someone with whom he could truly cross weapons. Until then, his day had been a parade of victories without sweat, as if the opponents had lined up to hand him the spot in the finals along with a bouquet and a red carpet.
This time, at least, the opponent stepped onto the stage with steady hands and the right expression: eyes fixed, breathing measured, no easy smiles. It was not arrogance, but the calculated concentration of someone who had a plan.
His reasoning, on paper, was solid: to win before Zhuge Han could gather enough energy to unleash his most dangerous technique, the Rising Dragon Charge. A simple strategy… and, for some, even elegant in its objectivity.
And I must admit — it really was a good idea.
The Rising Dragon was not a strike to be ignored. I had seen Han train it countless times: the accumulation of energy at the base of his feet, rising through the meridians like a dammed current, condensing in the spear until the weapon itself seemed to want to roar. Once released, it was not merely an attack; it was a straight line between the opponent and oblivion.
Preventing that moment from arriving was, indeed, the only safe way to face Han. The problem is that strategy alone hurts no one. It must be sustained with something else… something that the young Han simply did not have before him: absolute strength.
The Refined Precision Body technique was not flashy. It did not paint the body with golden light like Ren's Tempered Golden Body, nor did it turn bones and muscles into obvious walls. It revealed itself in the details: in the perfect alignment of the stance, in the breathing that wasted not a single thread of Qi, in the posture that never seemed to leave balance. It is the kind of refinement that turns each step into a threat and each retreat into a trap.
Thus, even with the haste stamped in his opponent's movements, Han did not yield a single grain of ground. The other advanced with clean cuts and quick sequences, trying to force an exchange of blows before the energy in the spear could accumulate. Han, however, seemed to be cultivating within the fight itself — each block, each counterattack was a brick in the foundation of a strike that, even if never launched, already weighed upon the air.
The crowd, of course, expected to see the dragon raise its head. The murmur grew with every exchange, as if they were all counting the seconds until they could witness the moment. And I… I only counted Han's breaths. From the subtle tension in his shoulders, I knew the accumulation was nearing its peak.
It was then that the opponent understood what would happen if he continued. I did not need to hear it to know — fear has a specific way of altering the rhythm of a fight. The pressure in his advance diminished, his cuts became more cautious, almost defensive. He retreated a step… and then another. And then, with a quick gesture to the referee, he declared his surrender.
The roar of the crowd turned into a frustrated murmur. The dragon did not ascend. Not because Han had lost — but because, upon realizing he was a breath away from being devoured, the opponent chose to preserve his life.
In the stands, some booed. Others shook their heads, as if they had been deceived. I, on the other hand, saw only the inevitable.
After all, most who come to the arena do not seek a fight — they seek a spectacle. And spectacle rarely survives the instinct of self-preservation.
The second match began carrying the kind of expectation that only deceives those who do not know the two names.
The herald called:
— Zhuge Ren!
And right after, as if announcing a lesser dish in a banquet of masters:
— Tie Xuan Luo!
The boy descended the steps of the stands with a confidence almost comical, sustained more by lack of awareness than by any real foundation. He was not one of the Tie Xuan heirs, nor even a name remembered from previous rounds for anything beyond having miraculously avoided death on the way to the finals. But the shine in his eyes and the weight of the sack he carried on his shoulders showed that he had a plan.
His reasoning was simple, almost childish in its logic — and, because of that, irritatingly practical:
"If attacking Ren with weapons means breaking them and ending up defenseless… then just bring many weapons."
And he did.
When the referee gave the signal, the boy advanced with a short spear. The strike, quick and direct, met Ren's golden skin with the same fate as any weapon against a well-built wall: it broke. The dry crack echoed through the arena, followed by the clatter of shattered metal falling onto the floor.
Without delay, Tie Xuan Luo dropped the broken shaft and pulled a second weapon — a broad-bladed sword. Two swings, two cracking sounds, and the blade split as if made of thick glass.
The crowd, of course, began to react. Stifled laughter, whispered bets remade, glances exchanged like people watching a stubborn child try to move a boulder with a twig.
When the third weapon appeared — a pair of hatchets that seemed bought from the same cheap forge as the previous ones — I realized my patience was being tested. And, from what I saw on Ren's face, so was his.
Until then, Ren had remained in the same posture: feet steady, hands behind his back, receiving each blow as if he were a polite host enduring the conversation of an inconvenient guest. But the moment I tilted my head slightly, he understood the signal.
Ren moved.
It was not a sudden or flamboyant change; it was simply the abandonment of stillness. His left foot advanced half a step, his shoulder turned, and his entire body ceased to be a target to become an aggressor. The sudden inversion of roles froze the boy for an instant — perhaps surprised to discover that Ren could, in fact, move.
The first punch needed no embellishments. It was not even a full strike; just enough to sink his fist into Tie Xuan Luo's improvised guard and shift his body backward as if someone had pulled an invisible rug from under his feet. The impact echoed dryly, without the crash of breaking weapons — only the sound of flesh and bone learning a quick lesson about prudence.
The boy fell sitting, hands clutching his stomach, and the fourth weapon — which he had barely begun to draw — was forgotten on the arena floor.
The third fight was, to be honest, a true affront to the definition of "combat."
The herald announced with his usual pomp:
— Han Qian!
The name reverberated like the strike of a gong. The "spiritual refining specialist," the city's uncontested favorite, descended into the arena with the confidence of one already measuring space on the podium. Each step of his was a silent reminder that his cultivation was at a level few there could even dream of reaching.
And then came the second name:
— Zhuge Tao!
My eyes, automatically, sought the corner where he was. Tao… did not move.
Since the break, he had been sprawled on the bench, his body half-sunk into the backrest, arms crossed behind his head, in a slumber so indifferent it made the tournament itself seem nothing more than background noise to his rest. He only bothered to open his eyes when Zhuge Fen, with a less-than-gentle slap on his shoulder, woke him.
He yawned. Looked at the herald, then at Han Qian in the arena… and finally, at me.
The smile came — that same silly, lazy smile, which expressed neither challenge nor nervousness, only the purest unwillingness to be there. He did not utter a word, but his eyes spoke loudly enough:
"This fight is complete madness. Can I go back to sleep, please?"
I seriously considered ordering him to step into the arena just to prevent him from returning to the vegetative state in which he seemed to live. But… the fact is, as much as it irritated me to admit, he was right about one thing: this fight would be absurd. Tao, at the seventh level of body refinement, against Han Qian, elite spiritual refiner — the result was not merely predictable, it was inevitable.
I sighed. Raised my hand and made a small gesture, indicating he could do as he pleased.
He understood immediately. He did not even bother to stand up and pretend to begin a fight. He just waved lazily at the referee, announced his surrender, and with the same motion, turned to lie back down on the bench.
Minutes later, he was once again breathing in the heavy, calm rhythm of one who had returned to sleep.
The arena, of course, reacted with murmurs and a few muffled laughs. Han Qian, in turn, seemed to have just walked through a corridor without obstacles — and continued advancing toward the podium with the same impeccable expression as before.
And so, with three matches concluded, the tournament moved toward the point where the masks would truly fall.