From the perspective of Zhuge Su Yeon
The dust had settled, yet the weight of the air still hung suspended over the arena.
Ren had already been carried away by the elders of the clan, his body marked but his dignity intact. The silence that had accompanied his fall still reverberated in the eyes of the crowd — a memory that not even the shouts of the Han could erase.
Now, only two names remained on the stone of destiny: Han Qian and Yu Jin.
The referee, with a grave and unshakable voice, announced the mandatory pause:
— Han Qian will have one hour to recover his Qi before the final.
The declaration echoed like an inevitable seal.
My eyes remained fixed on the young Han.
He stood tall, his sword embedded in the ground like a mast holding up his posture. Sweat still slid down his temple, and his breathing, though controlled, was slightly deeper than he would have liked to admit. The final blow against Ren — that solar slash which had nearly split the arena in two — had consumed more than just spiritual energy. It had demanded his very essence.
And yet…
Within the rigidity of his stance, I saw hesitation.
For a moment, I almost believed he wished to continue fighting immediately.
His eyes sparked, like a beast who, though wounded, still wished to prove its supremacy. The pride of the Han pulsed through every fiber of his being.
But pride alone does not regenerate meridians.
Pride does not purify spent Qi.
Pride does not hold the blade when the arm begins to tremble.
He knew.
I knew.
And in the end, he yielded to reason. He accepted the rest that was offered to him.
— … Hm.
A discreet sound slipped from my lips, almost a sigh. Not laughter, nor approval. Merely the acknowledgment of an irony.
A true protagonist never accepts rest; but a prudent cultivator always does.
The elders escorted him to the seat prepared at the side of the arena. A spiritual stone, carved with runes of recovery, already awaited him. He sat with the calculated calm of one who could not afford to show weakness. His eyes closed, and the sword was placed across his knees like an altar.
At that moment, the crowd understood.
The victory over Ren had not been easy.
And the next fight would not be mere spectacle — it would be an inevitable clash.
The arena plunged into silence.
Not the scattered silence of distraction, nor the void that follows a shout. It was full silence, almost reverent.
The same silence that precedes a storm.
My gaze swept the space. Rivals shifted uneasily, but none dared to speak. The Zhuge clan, by contrast, held their bearing upright, as if all shared the same breath. Even the children, who before had fidgeted in the stands, now stared intently at the arena, feeling without understanding.
It was the oldest calm in the world.
The calm even the heavens respect before unleashing thunder.
And I, seated in the front row, hands clasped behind my back, allowed myself a single dry thought:
"If fate insists on writing this play, may it at least do so slowly… so that I may take note of every detail."
Time seemed to slow. Each second dripped like thick oil on cold stone. The crowd still held its silence, but in their eyes there was more noise than in any storm.
Then my gaze shifted, almost instinctively.
Yu Jin stood there, at the edge of the arena.
He remained upright, arms loose at his sides, as if no weight rested upon his shoulders. His eyes, however, were not on Han Qian — who was already immersed in meditation upon the spiritual stone, sword across his knees.
No.
Yu Jin's gaze lingered on the arena itself, on the freshly cracked earth, on the displaced blocks from the previous duel's impact. He studied the empty space as though it too were an opponent, as though he was already fighting against the air, anticipating the inevitable dance of flesh and blood.
I found myself moving toward him.
Not as Patriarch Zhuge.
Not as the transmigrator coldly analyzing the spectacle like a poorly written book.
But as a brother.
A brother who, soon, would watch another throw himself against the sharpened blade of destiny.
I stopped at his side. I remained silent.
He did not turn his eyes toward me. But I knew — of course I knew — that he had noticed my presence. His body relaxed slightly, as if accepting that there was now a familiar shadow within reach of his peripheral vision.
We stayed that way for a while.
Two presences motionless before the emptiness of the arena, while servants adjusted broken stones and redrew shattered runes.
Then, as if inevitable, it was I who broke the silence.
— So… nervous?
The question came out low, unassuming, almost an intimate irony.
Yu Jin delayed. He did not look at me. But he answered, his voice as calm as the steady breath he kept:
— Not really. If it's just a Han, it'll be fine.
The confidence rang authentic, but it was not pure arrogance.
There was something beneath the words — and I caught it at once.
My eyes turned toward the Han pavilion.
There sat, as if a mere guest at an afternoon tea, the elder of the Dark Sun Sect.
He rested with an erect posture, hands hidden within his sleeves, his expression far too serene to be mere courtesy.
"Ah… so that's it."
Yu Jin could exude confidence, could carry that insufferable fire that drove him toward protagonism… but he was not a complete fool.
He knew where the true threat lay.
He knew that, behind Han Qian, there was a master ready to move the pieces when it suited him.
I remained silent beside him.
A fraternal silence, the kind rarely granted.
Time dripped by. The invisible hourglass of the heavens let its last grains fall. Han Qian's rest was nearing its end.
It was then that I turned.
I let my feet guide me back to my seat. But before leaving, I dropped one last phrase, heavy with memories that only the two of us shared:
— Do you remember the rule you hated most from our mother? Let's follow it today, alright?
I didn't need to look back to know his reaction.
Still, I felt when he finally turned his face toward me.
I caught him only from the corner of my eye: his lips curved, the slow smile, like a flame accepting the wood offered to it.
A smile that said everything.
I did not answer. I kept walking.
He saw only my back, but that was enough.
As for my mother's rule… it was simple.
Simple, and therefore unforgettable.
Whenever she made dumplings, she repeated the same order:
"Eat the small ones. Leave the big ones for your brother."
A foolish privilege, almost childish.
But today, in that arena drenched in silence, the memory became an instruction of war.
Yu Jin needed to worry only about Han Qian.
As for the Dark Sun Sect elder… well, if he dared to move a finger, he would not be so lucky on this trip to the quiet City of Sky Grey.
And so, at the exact instant the last grain of sand fell, the arena breathed deeply.
The storm was ready to begin.
I left Yu Jin's gaze behind and walked to my chair.
The seat was where it had always been — a simple yet comfortable structure, dark polished wood covered by discreet cushions. No exaggerated thrones, no ostentation. Just enough for a patriarch to sit without looking like a beggar.
I settled calmly, my body fitting into the backrest as if returning to an old habit.
My hand rested on the arm of the chair, and soon, as if part of a silent choreography, Mei Lan approached.
The tray slid in her hands with the precision of someone who already knew my gestures before I made them.
The pale porcelain was set before me, and the delicate aroma of spiritual herbs rose into the air.
I took the cup, feeling the subtle warmth seep into my fingers.
I sipped. Slowly.
The sweet yet faintly bitter taste spread through my mouth, anchoring my senses in the present.
And yet, the mind… was pulled away.
"Popcorn…"
The memory came as a private irony.
On Earth, a good spectacle always came with grains popping in oil, salt, and butter. It was a ritual: the movie could be terrible, but popcorn salvaged the experience.
Here, however, there was only tea.
Refined, perfumed, calming.
But still tea.
I sighed, though my face betrayed nothing.
It was true what I had thought: I was about to watch a good show.
And perhaps it was better that way.
Fate had already chosen its stage, its actors, its audience.
And I, as always, kept the role that pleased me most: the attentive spectator, seated comfortably, taking invisible notes while the plot unfolded on its own.
My eyes returned to the arena.
The stones repaired, the stage clean, the silence ever denser.
Soon, flesh and blood would give continuity to the play.
I smiled inwardly, but only inwardly.
After all, no good spectator applauds before the time.