The Arena
The courtyard had transformed into a killing ground. A stone platform, blackened with old bloodstains, stretched beneath the serpent banners. Iron braziers burned with green fire, their smoke heavy with herbs that sharpened qi circulation but also stung the lungs.
Beneath the platform, faint hisses echoed from the pits, as though the serpents below tasted the air for death.
Disciples crowded the terraces, eyes sharp with bloodlust and fear. Elders watched from carved seats above, faces hidden behind the shadows of their hoods.
And at the highest seat, Sect Master Hei Zong raised his hand.
"The Poison Fang Tournament," he intoned, "begins."
The drums thundered, rattling through bone and stone alike.
⸻
First Match: Venom Fang vs. Venom Fang
Two outer disciples were called first: Qiu Ren and Ma Dong, both in late Poison Fang Stage.
They circled warily, their palms glowing faintly with qi. Then, without warning, Qiu Ren spat a mouthful of black blood, spraying it into the air. The droplets hissed as they landed, burning holes in the stone.
"Blood Venom Spit!" someone gasped.
Ma Dong's eyes widened, but he struck forward with a Serpent Fang Palm, qi condensing into fangs at his fingertips. They clashed—black blood sizzling against qi fangs—both screaming as venom seared their flesh.
The fight devolved into a frenzy, both men clawing, spitting, striking with desperate fury. Finally, Qiu Ren slammed his forehead into Ma Dong's nose, then shoved both venom-filled palms into his opponent's chest.
A muffled pop, and Ma Dong collapsed, his veins blackened, smoke rising from his mouth.
The crowd roared approval.
Qiu Ren swayed, bleeding from the nose, half his arm eaten away by his own venom. But he grinned, staggering from the platform as the victor.
⸻
Second Match: Wei Jing's Touch
The next fight was quieter, but far more terrifying.
Wei Jing stepped gracefully into the arena, her gloves glimmering faintly green. Her opponent, Chen Hui, carried twin daggers coated in serpent oil.
"Begin!"
Chen Hui darted forward, daggers flashing. Wei Jing only raised her hand, her fingers brushing the air.
A faint mist spread.
Chen Hui's speed faltered. His daggers slowed, his eyes widened. He dropped one blade, stumbling, clawing at his throat.
The crowd leaned forward.
Wei Jing's lips curved in a faint smile. She hadn't touched him—only released a powder hidden in her sleeves. Invisible, scentless, but deadly.
Chen Hui convulsed, blood foaming at his lips. He collapsed, twitching once before going still.
Wei Jing didn't even look at him. She simply turned and walked off the stage, her green mist trailing behind her.
The silence of the crowd was heavier than the cheers before. Everyone knew: facing Wei Jing meant death before you ever felt her hand.
⸻
Third Match: Zhao Yunhai's Wrath
The drums pounded as Zhao Yunhai stepped into the arena. His presence alone made weaker disciples step back. His muscles rippled beneath his robe, venom qi coiling visibly around his fists like snakes.
His opponent was Huo Shan, a heavyset disciple wielding a chain whip tipped with barbed hooks.
"Begin!"
Huo Shan lashed the chain forward, its hooks slicing through the air. Zhao Yunhai didn't move until the last instant—then his fist shot out, qi flaring. The chain shattered mid-strike, shards flying.
Huo Shan recoiled, eyes wide, but Zhao Yunhai was already upon him.
"Serpent Constriction!"
His qi coiled around his fists, striking like twin pythons. He hammered into Huo Shan's chest again and again, each blow crushing ribs, each impact sending venom spiraling into bone.
The crowd heard bones snap. They saw blood spray. They smelled poison sizzling in flesh.
When Huo Shan fell, his chest was a caved ruin, his body twitching faintly.
Zhao Yunhai spat to the side, his eyes sweeping the crowd.
"Shen Lian," he growled, his voice carrying. "I'll grind your bones next."
The crowd roared approval, stamping feet and clapping.
⸻
Fourth Match: Jiang Fei's Spear
When Jiang Fei entered, the air shifted. He carried his serpent-bone spear as if it were an extension of his arm, spinning it with lazy confidence.
His opponent, Liang Peng, raised a heavy axe, his qi surging strong.
"Begin!"
Liang Peng charged with a roar, axe raised high. Jiang Fei only smirked.
The spear blurred.
Once. Twice.
The axe split clean in half. Liang Peng froze, staring at the broken haft in his hands—before a thin line of blood traced across his throat.
He collapsed, dead before his body hit the stone.
Jiang Fei twirled his spear and bowed mockingly to the Sect Master. "Too easy."
The elders murmured approval.
And from the terraces, disciples whispered: Jiang Fei will win. No one can stop him.
⸻
Shadows of Fear
The crowd buzzed with energy. Qiu Ren's brutality, Wei Jing's invisible poisons, Zhao Yunhai's raw strength, Jiang Fei's ruthless precision—these were the sect's champions.
But always, whispers circled back to one name.
"Shen Lian."
"The devourer."
"Will he drain them all, or will they kill him first?"
⸻
Cliffhanger
As the sun rose higher, the drums thundered again. The elder in charge of the roster unrolled the scroll, his voice sharp:
"Next match—Shen Lian!"
The crowd surged with noise, half in excitement, half in dread.
Shen Lian rose slowly, his gray eyes calm, though inside his chest the lotus trembled, its whispers roaring louder than the crowd.
Now. Drink. Take. Bloom.
He stepped onto the bloodstained stone, his shadow long, his lips curling faintly.
"Finally."