First Week: Wrestling with the Lotus
Every night, Shen Lian secluded himself in the abandoned storehouse. He lit no lamp. Darkness was his ally, for in darkness the whispers were loudest, and if he could endure them here, he could endure them anywhere.
The four petals churned in his dantian, their voices a constant storm.
Lu Chen: Be bold—take, strike, laugh as they fall.
The dagger-boy: They're watching, they're waiting, they'll kill you first.
The wolf: Hunt. Kill. Drink.
Zhao Kun: Thief! Pretender! I'll take you down with me!
Shen Lian learned to weave them together, not silencing them but bending them. He forced Lu Chen's arrogance into courage, the boy's fear into caution, the wolf's hunger into instinct, Zhao Kun's rage into fuel.
Each night he ended drenched in sweat, lips bitten bloody. Sometimes he succeeded. Sometimes the voices broke him and he woke sprawled on the floor, claw marks gouged into the stone by his own hands.
But each time, he rose stronger.
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Second Week: Hybrid Arts
He began to shape his stolen techniques.
Lu Chen's Venom Palm was crude but effective. Zhao Kun's Serpent Coil strike was precise but predictable. Shen Lian combined them, feeding the palm strike with twisting qi that moved like a coiled serpent—venom and constriction at once.
He tested it on boulders. The stone cracked, black veins spreading outward before crumbling to ash.
Then he began shaping roots of black qi from his arms—lotus tendrils, spectral and hungry, that lashed out to drain anything they touched. Controlling them was agony. At times they refused his command, writhing toward anything alive, even Su Rou when she lingered nearby.
But each night, the tendrils grew sharper, stronger.
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Third Week: The Assassins
Not everyone wanted Shen Lian alive long enough to step into the tournament.
One night, three disciples cornered him in the forest. All inner disciples, their robes marked with green sashes. Their eyes gleamed with fear disguised as hatred.
"The sect cannot tolerate demons," one spat. "Better you die in the shadows than shame us in the arena."
They struck together, venomous palms glowing, blades shimmering with qi.
Shen Lian's body moved like flowing water. His tendrils lashed out, catching one by the throat, draining him mid-scream. The second tried to strike his back, but Shen Lian twisted, the wolf's instinct guiding him—fangs against prey. His palm shattered the disciple's ribs with a venomous pulse.
The third fled, shrieking into the night. Shen Lian almost chased him, tendrils writhing hungrily. But Su Rou's voice echoed in his mind again, anchoring him: Remember yourself.
He let the boy run. For now.
The two bodies at his feet were drained husks, their qi feeding his lotus. The petals inside him pulsed, the voices louder, stronger.
More. More. More.
Shen Lian clenched his fists until his nails drew blood. "You'll have enough soon," he whispered.
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Fourth Week: A Quiet Resolve
By the last week, Shen Lian had achieved a strange balance. The four petals still whispered, but now they whispered like soldiers waiting for orders.
His qi flowed smoother, sharper. His body moved with a predator's grace. Even his aura, once weak and fractured, now rippled outward, heavy and oppressive. Disciples stepped aside when he passed, whispering of the Devourer in black robes.
Su Rou watched from a distance, her heart torn. She had seen him fight, had seen him resist, had seen him come back from the edge again and again. But each time he returned, his smile was colder.
The boy she had pitied was gone. What stood in his place was something else—something no longer prey, but not yet predator enough to be safe.
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The Night Before the Tournament
On the final night, Shen Lian stood alone on the cliff overlooking the serpent pits. The mist curled around him, the Red Wound moon rising above.
The Abyssal Serpent stirred below, its blind eyes glowing faintly, as though it too felt the change in him.
Shen Lian pressed his hand over his chest. The lotus pulsed, its petals trembling.
"One month," he whispered. "And I am still myself."
The whispers inside him chuckled.
Are you?
He smiled faintly, his eyes glinting. "Tomorrow, we'll see."
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Cliffhanger
At dawn, the bells rang. Disciples gathered in the grand courtyard, banners snapping in the wind, the poison-scented air sharp with anticipation.
The Poison Fang Tournament had begun.
And Shen Lian stepped forward, his shadow long and heavy, the whispers of the lotus laughing softly inside him.