As if on cue, one of the remaining elders stepped forward.
He was shorter than the bronze-robed man from the Black Widow Pavilion, broad-shouldered and wrapped in layered grey-black robes stitched with faint bone-colored thread. His hair was tied back simply, streaked with white that didn't look like age so much as… exposure.
The Graveweaver Court's elder.
If the others carried presence like sharpened blades, this one felt like standing near an open grave—quiet, patient, inevitable.
"As the previous victor, I will host," the elder said, his voice calm and dry, carrying easily across the platform.
No one objected.
"The rules are simple," the Graveweaver elder continued. "Each faction fields four disciples. You will fight as teams."
He lifted one finger.
"No killing."
Riven blinked.
"No permanent crippling," the elder added. "Not because I care about your futures—"
A thin smile tugged at his lips.
"—but because we are a family in a way."
Did I hear that right?
Riven looked around.
Family? In their demonic sects?
"You will be removed from the match in one of two ways," he said. "First—excessive damage."
He gestured toward the ground beneath them.
"I will infuse each of you with a protective array. If the damage you take exceeds its tolerance, the array will break instead of your body. When that happens, you are out."
Simple. Brutal. Efficient.
Riven frowned slightly.
Arrays again.
He'd run into them more and more lately.
But he still didn't really understand what they were.
As far as he knew, arrays were patterns—designs drawn with qi, sometimes carved, sometimes etched, sometimes woven so subtly into the environment that you only noticed them when they activated. A kind of formula made physical. Give qi a shape, a rule, and it would obey.
At least that's what he'd gathered.
It was intriguing but he didn't really want to learn anything new, with the auction coming up in six months.
He'd rather focus on his cultivation.
"Second—"
The elder continued, unaware of Riven's thoughts.
He raised his hand, and something small was revealed above his palm.
A pearl.
Smooth. Pale. Almost translucent, with faint lines moving beneath its surface like trapped breath.
"Each disciple will wear one," he said. "If an opponent takes it from you—by force, trickery, or negligence—you are eliminated immediately."
Riven's eyes narrowed.
This wasn't just a test of strength anymore.
"Use your heads," the elder finished. "Not just your fists."
He let his hand fall.
"The first match," he said evenly, "will be between the Venomthread Sect and the Silk Dominion."
The disciples stirred.
Both groups stepped forward into the small clearing in the middle of the four table groups.
Riven, Ziren, Lara and Talia on one side.
And.
Riven's gaze slid to the opposing disciples as they entered the central space.
Four of them—composed, controlled, their movements smooth and economical. Silk-thread gloves. Calm eyes. No visible hostility. No eagerness either.
Out of everyone present, they looked the most well dressed.
It wasn't like Riven and them looked badly dressed.
But the people from the Silk Dominion all had some kind of golden almost kingly attire.
They didn't look like fighters.
They looked like rich people.
They were two guys and two girls.
One of the guys was tall and slender, his posture straight and composed — a stark contrast to the other, who was shorter and plumper, his movements relaxed and almost lazy.
The two girls were similar in stature, similarly built, but easy to tell apart. One wore her jet-black hair in neat pigtails, her expression sharp and attentive. The other's long blonde hair flowed freely down her back, catching the lantern light with every step.
The Graveweaver elder stepped into the center of the clearing.
"We'll begin with the arrays," he said.
He turned toward the Silk Dominion's first disciple.
The tall slender guy.
He crouched down slightly, brought his palm down and struck the ground once.
The impact made no sound.
Instead, the earth beneath the tall disciple rippled.
Fine lines spread outward in a circular pattern, glowing briefly with a dull bone-white light. Then the ground cracked open—not physically, but visually, like a veil being peeled back.
Something crawled out.
A skeletal form dragged itself free from the array, vertebrae assembling mid-motion, ribs knitting together with eerie precision. It wasn't fully solid—more like a translucent echo of bone—but it moved with unsettling purpose. Empty eye sockets locked onto the disciple.
The tall man stiffened.
Not just him.
All the disciples did.
Even the spectating ones.
With the exception of the Graveweaver Court's disciples.
The skeleton rose to its full height, then stepped forward.
The tall guy wanted to step back, but it was as if he was frozen in fear.
Then the skeleton hit him.
Not with a punch or anything.
It hit him with its body as it walked into him.
But there was no impact.
Instead it slowly merged into the boy.
For a split second, the disciple gasped, fingers clawing at his chest. A ripple of pale light passed over his skin—then vanished.
He frantically moved his hands trying to understand what's going on.
That's when he realized.
Everything was normal.
He blinked.
Flexed his fingers. Rolled his shoulders.
"…I'm fine," he said slowly, surprise evident in his voice.
"As you should be," the Graveweaver elder replied calmly. "That array will rupture before your body does. When it breaks, you are out. Until then—fight freely."
He produced the small pearl, now threaded onto a thin cord.
"This," he said, placing it around the disciple's neck, "is your second condition. Lose it, and you are out. Steal another's, and you gain a point for your faction."
The tall disciple nodded once, jaw tight.
The elder moved on.
The shorter, plumper man went next. The same motion. The same skeletal apparition. This one laughed nervously when it merged into him, patting his chest afterward like he was checking for broken ribs.
Then the girl with the pigtails—who didn't flinch at all.
Then the blonde—whose breath hitched, but who steadied herself quickly.
Four pearls. Four arrays.
Then the elder turned.
His gaze shifted to Elder Syen's group.
Talia went first.
The skeleton rose for her too, but where the others had reacted with tension or surprise, Talia only narrowed her eyes, watching it approach with cold focus. When it merged into her, she didn't move at all.
Next was Lara.
She winced when the cold energy washed over her, lips pressing into a thin line—but she nodded once when it was done, expression firm.
Then—
The elder stopped in front of Riven.
Riven felt the weight of that gaze settle on him.
He knew it was gonna be fine.
The others had no issues afterwards.
But still.
Riven wasn't exactly charmed by the idea of having a skeletal apparition crawl into his body.
And yet—he had no choice.
The elder slammed his palm into the ground.
Cold seeped upward in front of him, sharp and invasive, as pale lines tore across the wood in a tight circle. The surface peeled open—like skin pulled back from bone.
Something emerged.
Just a step in front of him.
Long fingers clawed free first, each joint bending the wrong way before snapping into place. A ribcage followed, stretching as it rose, vertebrae clicking together with dry precision. The skull came last, lifting slowly, empty sockets fixed on Riven as if it knew him.
Bone-white qi clung to it like frost, its form flickering in and out of focus, as though reality itself hesitated to accept it. When it stood fully upright, it loomed just a little too close.
The skeleton looked like it tilted its head.
Then it took a step forward.