The Stage
The braziers hissed louder than ever, smoke curling green and thick. The platform was scrubbed of blood, but the cracks still showed, scars of battles past.
On one side, Wei Jing stepped forward, serene, her jade vials glimmering faintly at her waist. She slipped her gloves tighter, her posture graceful, elegant—like a courtesan about to play an instrument.
On the other, Shen Lian walked in silence. His robe was torn from earlier battles, his veins faintly black beneath pale skin. His eyes were calm, unreadable.
The announcer raised his hand. "Begin."
⸻
First Poison
Wei Jing moved first—but not with fists. She raised her hand delicately, fingers flicking. A faint mist spread outward, nearly invisible.
The crowd leaned forward, straining to see. Some disciples covered their noses instinctively.
Shen Lian's eyes narrowed. He felt it in his lungs instantly—his breath growing sharp, heavy. His chest burned.
"Silent Death Powder," whispered an elder above. "One breath too deep, and his meridians will rot."
Wei Jing's lips curved faintly as she glided forward, her palm glowing with venom qi.
⸻
First Clash
Shen Lian exhaled sharply, forcing qi through his lungs to slow the poison's spread. His palm lashed out, serpent-fast.
Wei Jing twisted gracefully, her movements fluid, her palm brushing his sleeve. A faint smear of powder clung to the cloth.
Shen Lian's veins burned instantly, his arm going numb.
The crowd gasped. "She touched him! It's over!"
But Shen Lian ripped the sleeve free, qi flaring black along his veins, forcing the powder to boil away. His palm struck toward her ribs—
Only to strike empty air. Wei Jing had already glided back, serene, untouched.
"You breathe too easily," she murmured.
⸻
The Grinding Pressure
Mist spread thicker, coating the arena. Shen Lian's body grew heavier, his breaths shorter. Each strike he launched was precise, sharp, but Wei Jing moved like silk, slipping just out of reach.
Each brush of her sleeve left powder clinging faintly—on his shoulder, his leg, his chest. Each time, he burned it away with the lotus's hunger, but the toll grew.
Inside, the petals trembled, whispering.
Yes. Drink her poisons. Feed us her death.
Shen Lian's veins bulged black. His hands trembled.
Wei Jing's serene smile never faltered. "You cannot fight poison. It seeps. It lingers. It kills even after you think you've escaped."
⸻
The Hidden Strike
She flicked her wrist. A jade vial shattered against the stone, releasing a burst of violet mist. The crowd gasped and pulled back, even the elders covering their mouths.
"This is it!" shouted a disciple. "Even if he lives, he'll be crippled!"
Shen Lian staggered back, the lotus pulsing violently. His vision blurred, his breath ragged.
Let us bloom. Drink her mist. Devour her now.
His hand rose, trembling, petals flickering behind him.
Wei Jing's eyes glinted. She stepped into the mist, serene, reaching for his throat.
⸻
Cliffhanger
The platform vanished into a swirl of violet and black.
From the terraces, disciples saw only shadows—the faint outline of petals blooming, the faint shimmer of Wei Jing's form moving like silk through the poison.
Gasps, screams, shouts filled the air.
"Who's winning?!"
"I can't see—!"
"Did the devourer fall, or has she already poisoned him through?!"
And in the Hall of Green Flames, Mo Xuan's faint smile widened.
"Beautiful," he whispered. "Poison against hunger. Which shall last longer?"
The smoke churned. Two silhouettes clashed within.