Its translucent bones shimmered faintly with pale qi as it closed the gap between them.
For a second, Riven forgot to breathe.
Then the impact came.
Or at least it would have.
If the skeleton was real.
Instead it phased through his skin and slowly entered his body.
It was like a cold shower beneath the skin.
And then—
It was over.
His body relaxed. The feeling faded. He moved his hands, flexed his fingers, rolled a shoulder. Everything was normal again.
The Graveweaver elder approached, slipped a thin cord around his neck. A pearl hung from it, cool against his skin.
"Try not to lose it," the man said mildly, then turned to the last.
Ziren.
The array rose again, same process. Ziren didn't react much.
The elder gave him his pearl and moved on.
He stepped out of the center and raised his voice.
"Let the first match begin."
A beat passed.
Then, without speaking, both groups of four stepped forward and slowly shifted apart — forming loose, mirrored spacing across the ring.
Or whatever you'd call the open space in the middle of the banquet tables.
There was no plan.
It wasn't agreed upon beforehand.
It just happened.
Like it was natural.
Riven's eyes flicked across the field.
His opponent wasthe short, plump disciple from the Silk Dominion — the one who looked like he'd rather be at a teahouse than a fight.
The man offered him a nod.
"Hey," he said lightly. "No hard feelings, alright? I'm not really a fighter, so I'll try not to hurt you too much."
He gestured toward Riven's shoulder. "One arm and all."
Riven's expression didn't shift.
What is that supposed to mean?
The plump guy reached into his robe.
And pulled out a knife.
Not a normal knife.
A throwing knife.
It gleamed faintly, etched with thin golden lines that pulsed once as qi flowed into it.
Then another appeared in his other hand.
And another.
Riven's brow twitched.
…Of course.
The plump disciple grinned sheepishly. "Sorry about this."
The knives flew.
Not fast — but many.
They came in staggered arcs, spinning end over end, each one guided by weak but persistent qi. Individually, none of them were impressive. Together, they filled space, forcing Riven to move.
He stepped aside, letting the first knife whistle past his chest. Twisted his torso to avoid the second. The third scraped his sleeve as he ducked.
The fourth embedded itself in the ground where his foot had been a moment ago.
Riven exhaled slowly.
If he saw correctly, each and every one of these knives was a low-grade artifact weapon.
Does this guy have too much money or what?
He mentally wiped the sweat of his brows.
Luckily this guy had not much skills besides weapons.
Riven dodged another few subpar thrown knives.
At some point the plumb boy had to grab new knives from his sleeves.
And Riven didn't miss that chance.
He dashed forward.
The plump disciple yelped, as Riven closed the distance in three quick steps.
He knew he won this.
There was no need to even use his needles.
A clean palm to the chest would end it.
Thump.
A weird sound rang out as his palm made contact with the boys chest.
But it didn't feel good.
The protective array didn't trigger.
Clearly he hadn't done enough damage to win.
The plump disciple staggered back, more surprised than hurt, blinking rapidly. A faint metallic sheen rippled beneath his robes, then faded.
"Oh," he said. "Right. That."
Riven stared.
Inner armor.
Of course there was inner armor.
"This guy seriously has too much money," Riven muttered under his breath.
The plump disciple laughed nervously. "Family business."
He reached for another knife—
Riven didn't let him.
He stayed close.
Didn't want a long-range fight against a walking arsenal.
He shifted his stance.
Qi flowed.
Not much.
Just a smudge.
After the last tournament, one of his major projects was this.
Riven had practiced Kael's basic martial forms every day. Morning. Night. Over and over. Footwork, flow, control. And after a week of drills, bruises, and repetition—he'd finally reached minor mastery.
Just enough to infuse.
Not fully. Not like the explosive arts he'd seen in books.
But enough to add a little qi into each strike.
And now… it was time to try it out in practice.
He stepped in.
Twisted.
Palm to chest.
A small pulse of qi discharged on impact.
It wasn't dramatic.
There was no sound. No light. No shattering impact.
But the plump disciple grunted this time, stumbling back a step.
Still upright.
Still armored.
Still no array trigger.
"Seriously?" Riven muttered.
But—he'd felt it.
A hit.
A real one.
The disciple's expression was tight now. His stance a little more cautious. That brief flash of discomfort in his eyes was all the confirmation Riven needed.
It worked.
Not by much.
But that was the point of this martial skill.
Not to overwhelm.
But to wear down.
Hit small. Hit often.
Riven pressed in.
Another strike — left side.
Another — shoulder.
Third — elbow.
He moved fluidly now, steps tight and controlled, every motion flowing into the next. His qi wasn't strong, but the rhythm of impact left no room for recovery.
Tap. Pulse. Tap. Pulse. Tap—
The disciple finally tried to retaliate, reaching for a small circular blade hidden in his sleeve—
Riven struck again, a sharp blow just above the ribs.
The blade slipped from his fingers.
Then—
Snap.
A faint crack of light split through the air as Riven's palm was about to land for what would've been the finishing strike.
Instead of the boy, he hit something else.
A translucent ribcage flashed into existence around the disciple's torso — bone-white and angular — and Riven's hand slammed into it with a dull, hollow impact. The force rebounded instantly, pushing him back half a step as if he'd struck a spring-loaded wall.
The skeletal ribs fractured outward in a spiderweb of light, then shattered completely. The illusion collapsed inward, dissolving into pale motes that sank into the ground.
"What are they feeding you over there?" the plump disciple muttered, staggering back with a cough as the array's light faded. "One arm… You were supposed to be the easy win…"
His voice trailed off into faint, disgruntled mumbling as he limped off the field.
Riven hadn't expected him to follow the rules so obediently — retreating the moment the array broke without so much as a glare.
But he did.
No complaints. No protest.
Just like that, one opponent down.
Are demonic sect disciples always so honorable?
Riven exhaled once, steadying himself.
Then turned—
—and his eyes widened.
He'd barely started to check on the others.
But already, things were shifting.
Ziren, who was fighting the blonde haired girl to his left, was being pushed back.
What the hell?