The streets of the capital buzzed like a hive before the storm. Inns overflowed, tea shops brimmed, and even dusty roadside stalls were crowded with travelers who had come for one reason—the grand tournament known as the Clash of Might and Mind. To the common folk, it was simply the Tournament of Brilliance, where the geniuses of a generation fought not just with their fists and blades, but with their wits, spirit, and will.
"Did you hear? The final's been decided!" a young scholar exclaimed as he squeezed through the crowd outside a tea house.
"Of course! Who hasn't? It's him—the Golden Crow himself," another replied, eyes shining.
"Golden Crow?" asked a farmer's boy.
"You fool! That's the title of the youngest genius of our era—Liang Feng, the prodigy swordsman! They say his blade burns like the rising sun, and not even masters twice his age dare to take him lightly."
Murmurs rose higher, weaving tales of awe. But alongside his name, another spread like a soft wind over snow.
"And his opponent," whispered an old pilgrim, voice low as though reciting scripture, "is the white-haired girl from the high plateau… Tara."
"Tara? The goddess?" gasped a merchant.
"Not a goddess," the pilgrim corrected, shaking his head. "But close. They call her the Lotus of the Plateau. Like the divine Tara herself, she walks with grace beyond her years. Her sword… it does not cut like steel. It flows like the Milky Way across a night sky—clear, beautiful, endless. Each strike carries the weight of sorrow, joy, and longing, weaving emotion into every arc. To face her is not to fight a blade, but to be swept into a river of stars."
The students of the martial academies, gathered in their uniforms, buzzed with excitement and rivalry.
"Golden Crow Liang Feng against the Lotus Tara," one muttered, clenching his fists. "What kind of duel will that be? Sunfire against starlight?"
"Whoever wins," another laughed, "this tournament will be carved into history."
And so the drums of anticipation thundered across the city, heralding a final clash that would test not only skill, but destiny itself.
The crowd roared as Liang Feng and Tara surged forward, blades raised, their clash poised to shake the heavens.
But then—
Boom!
A sword hurtled through the air like a thunderbolt, slamming into the stone platform between them. The impact split the ground, sending a tremor across the arena. Dust and shards of stone exploded outward, breaking the spell of the moment.
Gasps erupted from the stands.
"What—what's happening?!"
"An ambush?!"
Through the swirling haze, a figure emerged.
He was shirtless, his chest crisscrossed with old scars, his forearms wrapped in ragged bandages. Draped over his shoulders was a torn hanbaori, once bearing the proud inscription "Hero"—now slashed through with heavy strokes of black ink, as though even fate had denied him the title. His presence reeked of defiance, of a man who had spat on the world's order.
A hush fell. Some whispered in confusion.
"Who is he…?"
"Why is he interfering…?"
But the veterans in the stands narrowed their eyes, recognizing the aura that rolled off him like storm winds.
This was no nameless vagabond.
This was Shen Hanyu, the disgraced disciple once hailed as a prodigy of the sword—cast out after he turned his blade against his own sect. Neither hero nor villain, he was a man stripped of place, a wandering wound upon the martial world.
And now, he stood between the Golden Crow and tara
Shen Hanyu sneered, his hand tightening around the hilt of the blade buried in the stone. With a sudden twist, he pulled free and thrust his palm outward.
Boom!
A surge of force erupted, spiraling like a storm. The very air rippled. Those closest clutched their chests as if the breath had been stolen from them.
Gasps tore through the stands.
"That… that was not martial qi!"
"It's cultivation essence!"
"He—he's a cultivator now?!"
High seats shook with murmurs. Elders from great sects frowned, their faces pale with fury. From the government pavilion, a man in ceremonial robes leapt to his feet, his voice thunderous:
"Outrageous! Cultivators interfering in the common world? This defiles the sacred pact!"
Before Shen Hanyu could laugh, before his second strike could fall—
Whssshhh!
A gleam of rose light split the air.
From the western pavilion descended a woman unlike any other. Her figure was tall and commanding, yet graceful as a falling blossom. Her hair cascaded like silk the color of dusk, her features sculpted in serene beauty, as if carved from living jade. Her eyes, clear as polished crystal, blazed with unwavering justice.
Across her back rested a greatsword, its base shaped like the bloom of a rose, its hue shimmering in soft pink that caught the sunlight like petals drenched in morning dew.
She was Rose, famed protector of the southern provinces, a warrior whose presence was both gentle and unshakable.
"Step away from the innocent," she declared, her voice ringing like bronze bells.
Shen Hanyu spat, his lips curling. "A flower dares block the storm?"
With a roar, his palm surged with blackened qi, a torrent of corrupted force aimed to devour her. Yet when her sword descended, it was like the dawn answering night. Her strike cleaved through the attack as though it were mist, her power undeniable.
The arena shook with their clash. Liang Feng, stunned by the sudden chaos, had barely moved—his eyes wide as light and shadow battled before him. Shen Hanyu, desperate, lunged and seized him by the collar, dragging the young prodigy toward him.
But before his grip could tighten, starlight bloomed.
Tara's sword flashed, arcs of silver weaving like the Milky Way, her movements clear, fluid, and infinite. With a motion as soft as snow, she slipped between Shen Hanyu's grasp and Liang Feng, severing the hold without so much as nicking his flesh. Liang Feng stumbled back, freed, breathless at her grace.
Rose's eyes narrowed. The time had come.
Her sword rose high, light cascading across its rose-colored edge, suffused with both strength and compassion. Her qi swirled into the strike, radiant, majestic—like a world that could bear no more injustice.
Blissful Sword Slash!
The attack fell with brilliance.
Shen Hanyu screamed as both his hands were severed clean, his blade clattering uselessly to the ground. Blood hissed on the stone, but the strike had been measured—his life spared, his power sealed. Guards surged forward, binding him as his body crumpled, captured at last.
The crowd erupted into cheers, the uproar of thousands washing over the arena.
On the stage, Liang Feng stood trembling, still shaken. Tara sheathed her sword with quiet grace, eyes soft as starlight. Rose rested her great blade against her shoulder, her beauty gleaming beneath the sun, justice unshaken.