The Arena Thickens
Blood stained the black stone platform in dark streaks, already half-soaked into grooves carved by years of slaughter. Green smoke coiled from the braziers, the venom-laced air so heavy that weaker disciples in the crowd swayed with dizziness.
Shen Lian had won his first fight, but he sat apart, his robe dark with blood, his body trembling faintly. His gray eyes remained steady, but inside, the lotus pulsed hungrily, whispering with laughter.
The next names were called.
⸻
Zhao Yunhai's Wrath (Second Match)
Opponent: Lin Tao, a mid-Coiling Serpent Stage disciple, known for his agility and whiplike strikes.
Lin Tao dashed forward, his body low, movements serpentine. His strikes were rapid, venom qi flowing in unpredictable coils, seeking to bind Zhao Yunhai's arms and throat.
The crowd leaned forward. Could even Zhao Yunhai be outmaneuvered?
But Zhao Yunhai only sneered. His qi coiled thick around him, visible as black-green serpents twining his fists.
"Serpent Breaker Fist!"
He slammed his palms together, shattering Lin Tao's qi coils as if snapping fragile twigs. Before his opponent could react, Zhao Yunhai seized him by the throat with one hand, lifting him high.
Lin Tao clawed at his arm, eyes bulging, venom qi crackling at his fingertips. Zhao Yunhai did not flinch.
With his free hand, he drove fist after fist into Lin Tao's ribs. Each strike resounded like a hammer on iron, venom spreading with every blow. The crowd winced as Lin Tao's ribs collapsed inward, his body twitching.
Finally, Zhao Yunhai slammed him into the stone platform, cracking it. Lin Tao lay still, blood leaking from his mouth, his chest a ruin.
Zhao Yunhai spat on the body, his gaze sweeping the terraces. His eyes lingered only briefly on Shen Lian.
"You'll break the same way," he growled.
The crowd roared, stamping their feet, the sound echoing like thunder.
⸻
Wei Jing's Silent Death (Second Match)
Opponent: Yuan Shi, a burly disciple carrying a massive guandao spear-axe, his qi surging strong.
The match began with a roar of metal. Yuan Shi swung his weapon in wide arcs, venom qi coating the blade, each strike splitting the air like a thunderclap. The sheer force kept Wei Jing at bay.
"She won't last," whispered disciples. "She's too fragile!"
But Wei Jing only stood at the edge of the platform, calm, her gloved hands raised delicately, as if she were conducting a silent song.
Every swing Yuan Shi made grew slower. His breath turned ragged. Sweat poured down his face.
The crowd frowned. Something was wrong.
Yuan Shi froze mid-strike, his eyes wide. He dropped his weapon with a clang, hands clawing at his own throat.
Wei Jing smiled faintly. The green mist that seeped from her gloves was nearly invisible, but by now, it had saturated the air around her opponent.
"Silent Death Powder," an elder murmured in the stands. "She refined it herself."
Yuan Shi convulsed, blood foaming from his mouth. His veins bulged black beneath his skin. He dropped to his knees, staring at Wei Jing with horror, as if pleading silently for mercy.
She gave none.
A flick of her wrist, and his body collapsed, lifeless.
The crowd fell silent, a chill running through them.
Wei Jing walked calmly off the stage, her steps measured, her expression serene. Only her eyes gleamed—sharp, hungry, ambitious.
⸻
Jiang Fei's Spear Dance (Second Match)
Opponent: Meng Hui, a swift and cunning disciple wielding twin short swords, his qi honed razor-sharp.
The fight began explosively. Meng Hui darted in and out, his blades flashing like silver serpents. Sparks of qi lit the air with each clash, the sound sharp and grating.
Jiang Fei spun his serpent-bone spear in wide arcs, deflecting, weaving, striking. His movements were smooth, fluid, elegant.
The crowd gasped as Meng Hui actually managed to cut Jiang Fei's arm, blood spraying. Jiang Fei glanced at the wound, then laughed coldly.
"You're not worth the stain."
His qi surged, the spear blurring with speed. He unleashed the Nine Coils Serpent Dance, a technique said to strike nine times in a single breath.
The spear lashed out—thrust, sweep, hook, jab—each strike faster than the last. Meng Hui blocked three, dodged two, but the rest tore into him.
His body was lifted from the ground, blood spraying in nine arcs before he crashed down.
Jiang Fei planted the spear tip beside the corpse, bowing mockingly to the Sect Master.
"Another waste removed," he said loudly, smirking.
The crowd cheered wildly, though some shivered at his arrogance.
⸻
The Weight of Rivals
As the blood was cleared from the stage, whispers spread like wildfire through the terraces.
"Zhao Yunhai's strength is monstrous."
"Wei Jing doesn't even need to touch you to kill you."
"Jiang Fei moves like a spear immortal already."
"Even if Shen Lian devours qi, can he stand against them?"
Shen Lian sat quietly, his eyes half-closed, as if he hadn't been watching. But inside, the lotus pulsed harder, its whispers sharper.
They are strong. Stronger than you. Take them. Drink them. Make them yours.
His fingers twitched. His jaw clenched. He drew a slow breath, forcing the petals down. Not yet.
But the hunger in him sharpened with every rival's victory.
⸻
Cliffhanger
The drums thundered again. Another elder unrolled the scroll for the next match.
The crowd hushed, their eyes flicking between Shen Lian and the champions who had already claimed their bloody victories.
The tournament was no longer just a contest. It was a stage for monsters to devour each other.
And Shen Lian knew: sooner or later, he would have to face them all.
The lotus trembled inside him, its whispers eager.
Yes. One by one. Petal by petal. Feast.