CHAPTER 1 — WHEN THE MOUNTAIN OPENS
The winds of Mount Raiken had a voice.
Some said it howled.
Some said it whispered.
But for Tentō Narukami, raised on this peak since age five, the wind had always spoke—sometimes like crackling thunder, sometimes like a soft reminder that the world below still existed.
Today, the wind shouted farewell.
The Mountain's Edge
All the villagers gathered at the cliff path leading down the mountain. Baskets of dried fruit, bundles of talismans, little charms—everything they could give to the boy they'd watched grow into a young man of lightning.
Tentō stood at the cliff's mouth, travel bag over one shoulder, sword strapped to his back.
Master Raiken thumped his thunder-wood staff on the ground.
A crisp snap of blue lightning danced from its tip.
Master Raiken: "Fifteen years… you've finally stopped swinging that sword like a drunk goat."
Villagers laughed. Tentō scratched the back of his head, grinning.
Kid Rano: "Big bro Tentō! If you meet monsters, punch them extra hard for me!"
Old Herda: "And don't forget to bathe! Your master raised you like a feral wolf!"
Master Raiken: "Hmph. He'll be fine. He might be an idiot, but he's my idiot."
Then he leaned closer, voice lowering just a bit.
"Tentō. You have completed the Lightning Dragon arts… but mastery comes from the world, not the peak. Seek battles. Seek danger. Seek the strong."
Tentō exhaled slowly.
Tentō: "I will. And… I'll be back. Just in a bit."
Raiken smirked.
Master Raiken: "A bit, he says. Go on then—before I change my mind."
Everyone watched as Tentō stepped forward—
—and vanished in a streak of lightning.
Elsewhere — The Hall of Ashen Incense
Deep in a valley shaded by dead pines, a stone hall glowed faintly with hundreds of incense sticks burning in a massive brazier. The air was thick. Heavy. Almost suffocating.
Inside, robed figures knelt in a circle.
Their leader sat on an elevated stone seat—thin, almost skeletal, masked in glossy black lacquer carved into a blank expressionless face.
The disciple closest to him bowed deeply.
Disciple A: "Master… preparations for the Dragon Phoenix Tournament are complete. Everything will go as planned."
Robed Disciple B: "The major orthodox sects have sent their young elites. All prodigies will gather. When chaos erupts, blame will fly in every direction."
Robed Disciple C: "Our agents within the arena staff are in place as well. Poisons, formations, traps—everything is ready."
The Master waved one hand lazily.
Masked Master: "Discuss the details. I am listening."
The disciples straightened, voices overlapping like snakes whispering.
Disciple A: "Once the fights begin, our men will provoke conflict between the Heaven Sword Sect and the Golden Shadow Monastery."
Disciple B: "The Fire Lotus Sect will assume the Storm Valley Clan started the disturbance."
Disciple C: "In the confusion, our hidden core fighters will cripple the prodigies. None will rise for decades."
Disciple D: "A perfect storm, Master. The orthodox world will tear itself apart."
The Master tapped his finger on the arm of his chair.
Masked Master: "Candidates?"
Disciple A quickly produced a parchment list.
Disciple A: "Yes, Master. A full list of participants. Ages, sects, cultivation levels."
Disciple B: "Nothing unusual. The major prodigies are predictable. Arrogant, sheltered, and easy to manipulate."
Disciple C: "There is one from… ah… some countryside sect—Lightning… Lightning something?"
The Master flicked his wrist, bored.
Masked Master: "Irrelevant."
Disciple C: "Yes, Master."
Masked Master: "If he is weak, he dies quickly. If he is strong, he dies later. Stop pointing out background noise."
A ripple of nervous laughter traveled through the robed figures.
Disciple D: "Of course, Master! There will be no unexpected variables!"
The Master leaned back, voice cold and uncaring.
Masked Master: "Good. Let the tournament begin. Let blood flow. And let the orthodox world choke on its own pride."
None of them noticed a faint crack of thunder echoing far, far in the distance.
A storm was already moving toward them.
Three Days Later — The City of Scarlet Feathers
The walls of the city rose high, decorated with banners of red and gold—symbols of the Dragon Phoenix Tournament. The streets bustled with merchants, martial artists, wandering swordsmen, scholars, and travelers.
Tentō strolled in, eyes wide with curiosity.
Tentō: "Wow… so many people. And so many weapons… I wanna punch something already."
He barely took five steps when the sound of breaking furniture exploded from an inn ahead.
"WHO DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TO, HUH?!"
"WE ARE FROM THE IRON TOAD SECT! WE DO WHAT WE WANT!"
Tentō's eyebrow twitched.
He peeked inside.
Four thugs in dull green robes threw chairs, spilled ale, and yelled at terrified customers.
Iron Toad Thug 1: "WHERE'S THE WINE?! YOU THINK WE PAY? WE ARE THE TOADS OF THE NORTH!"
Iron Toad Thug 2: "MOVE, OLD MAN! I WANT THIS TABLE!"
Iron Toad Thug 3: "HEY! SOMEONE BRING ME A PRETTY GIRL OR—"
A white blur cut through the air.
CRACK!
One thug flew across the room, crashing into a wall.
A girl in pristine white robes, embroidered with delicate plum blossoms, stood between them and the patrons. Her expression was calm, cold, and graceful.
Liang Xue: "The Plum Blossom Pavilion does not tolerate bullying. Leave."
The thugs snarled.
Thug 2: "WHAT'D YOU SAY?!"
Thug 3: "A little girl dares touch us?!"
Thug 1: "When our senior brother hears this—"
A heavy step echoed.
Iron Toad Senior Brother, a burly man with iron knuckles and a crooked grin, walked up behind her.
Senior Brother: "Heard you got a sharp tongue, girl."
He raised his fist.
"Let's see if your spine is sharp too—!"
WHAM.
He struck her in the back.
She staggered forward, breath catching.
The thugs cheered.
Thug 1: "HAHAHA! THAT'S WHAT YOU GET!"
Thug 3: "SO MUCH FOR PLUM BLOSSOM!"
Senior Brother laughed, towering over her.
Senior Brother: "Not so tough now, are you? You pretty types break so eas—"
Tentō stepped inside.
Tentō: "Hello there."
All eyes turned.
His fist crackled with lightning.
Tentō: "Thunder Fist."
BOOOOOOM.
The Senior Brother rocketed into the ceiling, then fell like a sack of bricks. The wooden floor shattered beneath him.
Silence.
Dust.
Electrified air.
Liang Xue blinked, stunned.
The thugs stared, mouths trembling.
Thug 2: "H-he… he just—"
Thug 3: "MAMA—!!"
They sprinted out of the inn screaming.
Liang Xue steadied herself, one hand on her injured back.
Liang Xue: "…You moved faster than lightning."
She bowed politely.
"I am Liang Xue of the Plum Blossom Pavilion. Thank you, sir."
Tentō waved casually.
Tentō: "Tentō. Tentō Narukami. Nice to meet you."
Her eyes softened—curious, intrigued.
Liang Xue: "Are you here for the Dragon Phoenix Tournament as well? Many strong young cultivators are gathering this year."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"Though I doubt any will enter an inn and shatter a man with one punch."
Tentō grinned.
Tentō: "I'm here to fight. I'm looking for strong people."
Outside, the city was loud with excitement—drums, cheers, vendors calling out, the world alive with possibility.
Inside, Liang Xue regarded the boy whose arrival sounded like thunder.
Liang Xue: "Then… Tentō Narukami, I wish you luck."
She paused, eyes bright.
Liang Xue: "You might just find exactly what you're looking for."
CHAPTER 2 — THE STORM ANNOUNCED
Liang Xue dusts her robes, still composed despite the bruise forming on her back.
Liang Xue: "Tentō Narukami… you have my thanks again. But you should sit. That punch drew every eye in the street."
A couple of onlookers peek through the broken doorway.
Onlooker #1: "D-did that kid just send Iron Toad's Senior Brother into orbit?!"
Onlooker #2: "He didn't even draw a weapon…"
Liang Xue steps a little closer, lowering her voice.
Liang Xue: "Are you heading straight to the tournament grounds? Or do you need to rest first?"
Tentō laughed, the sound too light for the settled dust and the staring faces.
"I'll be going to the tournament. I had plenty of rest already. Won't you be co—ah, I forgot. You're one of the Ten Great Sects, aren't you? Plum Blossom Pavilion… Mount Hua's line, right? You lot go straight to the main event. Lucky." He paused, the smile half-boyish, half-breeze. "Well. I'll be off."
He turned and walked away before more thanks could be offered, before plumblossom disciples could insist on escorting him. His cloak whispered over splintered wood; his footsteps did not hurry. The inn's patrons craned their necks after him, then muttered among themselves.
Two Plum Blossom disciples hurried in, breathless.
Disciple 1: "Senior Sister Xue! Are you harmed?"
Liang Xue waved them off with the same quiet reserve that marked her. "I'm fine. Just — escorted by an unexpected storm."
Outside, in the street, a dozen voices chased Tentō in whispers and comments, some incredulous, some scornful.
Bun Vendor: "That kid's going to warp the whole bracket if he keeps that up."
Young Cultivator #1 (mocking): "Country bumpkin with a flashy punch. Watch him vanish in round one."
Tentō's path split: the left road leading to the preliminaries, the right to the official entrances reserved for recognized sects. He chose left. The arena's banners—scarlet and gold, phoenix and dragon embroidered bold—flapped like an answering drum.
At the tournament gate a sleepy official in a bamboo hat gestured without looking up. "Name. Sect. Age. Rank. Fee," he recited, as if listing an old prayer. "Don't fib. Our formation will scorch liars."
Tentō blinked at the word "rank" as though it were the name of a foreign animal. "What's a cultivation realm?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.
The official looked up as if the boy had asked whether rain tastes like iron. Laughter rose behind Tentō, cruel and easy.
Mocker #1: "What? He doesn't even know what a realm is? How did he get off the mountain?"
Mocker #2: "Maybe in his school you get good at playing dead."
Tentō softened his voice, half to the official and half to himself: "Tentō Narukami. Lightning Dragon School. Age — twenty."
The official's expression folded into confusion, then irritation. He pointed at a glowing stone pillar set to read martial rank. "Place your hand on the tester. Lightly. Don't break it."
Tentō obeyed. He set his palm on the cool stone.
Nothing.
Not a ripple, not the faintest glow. The pillar, which had registered a dozen contestants that morning, stared blankly back.
The official smacked it once. "Maybe you're too soft. Try again."
Tentō tried again, thinking only to humor the bureaucratic ritual, and still the pillar remained mute.
The crowd snickered, a chorus of delight for the arrogant and the cruel. "Below third-rate!" someone sang. Someone else suggested mockingly he might be a mortal in a costume.
When Tentō muttered under his breath — embarrassed, the few words for himself — the field did not know what the pillar could not read: the Lightning Dragon School did not cultivate the same even, placid ki the device was designed to sense. Their energy ran in living currents — quicksilver lightning always moving, never settling. A stone that listens for rivers cannot sing of a storm.
The official scrawled "3rd RATE" anyway, shoved the slip into Tentō's hand like a hot coal, and waved him forward. "Next! Move along!"
Tentō tucked the slip into his belt and walked on. A man near the wall in the registration hall watched him with half-closed eyes and seemed to frown, as though uneasy at the silence the boy carried instead of a discernible realm.
A gong sounded: a deep, measured iron note that shivered through the wood and flesh of the building. "PRELIMINARY FIGHTERS — REPORT TO THE STAGING AREA!" boomed an announcer, his voice braided with excitement and routine.
The staging area throbbed with nervous energy. New fighters cracked their knuckles; veteran prelim winners told silent, practiced lies to steady themselves; parents and minor sect members priced bets on their favorites. Tentō stood outside the ring, arms folded, a simple cloth bag at his feet filled with a few personal effects and a stack of steamed buns. The slip in his hand was paper-thin and stupidly official; the name it bore did not match the pounding in his chest.
They brought him opponents in turn.
The Five FightsRound One — The Braggart
A swaggering second-rate cultivator stepped forward in copper-colored armor, voice thick with showmanship.
Braggart: "Third-rate? You'll give the rest of us a good laugh."
Tentō smirked, then moved. Not with the full violent step that chewed at the mountain air, only with a flash-step — softer, a ripple that bent sight for an instant. His fist came; the world answered with a single thunderous boom. The braggart crumpled against the stone and did not get to lie about it afterward.
A second of stunned silence, then the ref lifted a hand. "Winner: Tentō Narukami."
Round Two — The Spearman
A spear flashed like a reed, long and practiced. The spearman assumed distance would keep him safe; distance made him predictable. He lunged. Tentō's hand found the spear between the shafts, the wood biting into his palm as sparks ran along his skin. A single push — not even a violent one — and the spearman flew. His chest collapsed against the arena wall.
The crowd murmured, part fear, part fascination. How did a "third-rate" boy take a spear like a staff in hand?
Round Three — The Twin Blades
Two sisters moved like mirrored storms: their blades sang in a twin harmony. Their choreography was precise; their confidence, complete. They closed in. Tentō stepped through, a rotating heel, a tangent kick to the rhythm of their blades. The ground whined with static; the sisters lost their tempo and, unbalanced, were flung in opposite directions, landing at the same time and staring with identical expressions of dismay.
Round Four — The Iron Body
A mountain of a man declared his iron-body cultivation and invited the boy to test his fists. Iron hardened skin, he boasted, could shrug off anything mortal. He grinned when Tentō agreed.
Tentō struck once. The sound felt like it hollowed the air; the iron hide spiderwebbed, then shattered. The iron man's eyes widened, then dimmed. The crowd exhaled as a single body.
Round Five — The Favored Prodigy
By now the stands were a different ocean. Whispers had turned to chatter, chatter to urgent conversation. The favored prodigy — a cultivated youth backed by half a sect in the stands — swaggered out expecting applause and surrender.
Prodigy: "You're a lucky street rat. This will be the end of your little tale."
He unleashed a practiced, showy technique: a roaring ki-tiger that ripped the air and pushed back on the world itself. The tiger's roar seemed to ask the arena whether it were prepared. It did not expect the boy to reach through a thing like that with a single palm and erase it. The prodigy's signature attack vanished into a soundless bloom. He smelled of fear before his jaw met the floor.
When the announcer's voice finally returned, it could not contain the tremor: "WINNER—TENTŌ NARUKAMI! ADVANCING TO THE MAIN TOURNAMENT!"
Aftermath — The Name Grows Loud
Tentō stepped from the ring as if leaving practice; others flowed out with bandages and pride lessened. The crowd around the arena clenched their fists over new feelings: those who had laughed now watched with teeth drawn, and those who had never heard the name Lightning Dragon whispered it like a new curse or a promise.
Liang Xue watched from her pavilion, fingers white on the edge of her seat. Her expression had not been shock. It had been calculation — a mind measuring the wind, not the blow. She rose when Tentō reappeared, and for a breath the Plum Blossom Pavilion seemed to hush as if waiting for her to speak.
Across the arena, the elders rubbed their temples and pretended to sip tea with hands that did not stop shaking. "Lightning essence," murmured one thin man, a scholar of rare arts. "Not ordinary circulation... elemental. Difficult to read, harder to weigh."
Behind a thin silk curtain in the VIP section, a masked figure nodded once, small and almost imperceptible. Far beyond the city's rose-colored banners, the hall of ash-black incense felt colder. The masked master had received news — reliable, short, and unsettling.
Masked Master (to himself): "Lightning Dragon… a storm with no measured heart. Find the origin. If it grows teeth, remove it."
He handed the order away like a command to be carved in bone.
The Eyes That Came Forward
As the main tournament bracket would soon be arranged, certain shapes moved nearer. A tall figure in jade-trimmed black robes cleared his path through the crowd with the easy authority of those who had never had to ask permission. He stopped where the prelim winners passed.
Young men in the crowd pointed him out in half-awed whispers: Ashen Blade Shen. Known for cold cuts and quicker judgement, Shen had risen as a name in the younger generation — a first-rate fighter with a reputation for reading opponents in a glance. When he looked at Tentō, the air seemed to compress.
Ashen Blade Shen: "So you're the 'third-rate' lightning brat."
His voice was even, not mocking, merely interested. Tentō shrugged and offered no retort beyond a simple, "I'm warmed up." Shen's eyes sharpened for a second, then slid away like a blade sheathed with no blood.
The Plum Blossom Pavilion's elders exhaled together. Liang Xue's lips curved in the slight half-smile of someone who had placed a bet on a new, unpredictable variable.
Liang Xue (softly): "The storm arrives at the main stage."
The city hummed with that new name. People tried to place him: a prodigy in disguise, a lucky novice, a dangerous anomaly. Bets were adjusted. Sects rearranged their plans. Merchants sold trinkets stamped with lightning for those who wanted a talisman of luck.
And in a dim hall filled with masked figures and burnt offerings, a profile of a lacquered mask tightened. Plans had been drawn around expected players; now the board had a new piece the conspirators had not foreseen. It upset balance simply by existing.
The night before the main tournament, the city brightened with lanterns and rumors. The Dragon Phoenix banners seemed to ripple as if in the boy's wake. Tentō sat by the arena's outer wall and nibbled the last of his buns, eyes on the moon and fingers still smelling faintly of ozone. He had won, simply and bluntly, but he did not know what the win would ask of him.
The world below the mountain now knew his name. That knowledge was like a first thunderclap: it announced him and woke others.
Above it all, where the powerful whispered, plans shifted. Some prepared for a storm they thought they could channel; others prepared to break it.
Tentō grinned at the quiet thought that had arrived without warning: he had come to find the strong. The strong were beginning to look back.
CHAPTER 3 — THE RED VEIL AND THE PALE MOON
The morning sun glints off the tiled roofs of the Dragon Phoenix Arena, and the plaza outside the main hall swells with noise—shouts, clashing practice weapons, elders barking orders. The winners of East, West, North, and South stand apart like four small storms waiting to collide.
Today is the last test before the Dragon Phoenix Tournament's true main bracket.
Today determines the top seed, the one name that will shake the martial world.
And the first clash is you—
the Eastern Winner—
against the North's most infamous rising star.
I. Scarlet Veil — The Crimson Peak
The North winner steps forward—a tall, slim figure draped in red from head to toe. Crimson boots, crimson gloves, crimson braid. A polished mask hides her face, gleaming like a weapon.
She stops ten paces from you.
Her presence cuts.
Like unsheathed steel.
You bow.
Tentō: "Let's have a clean fight."
She tilts her head, the metal mask reflecting your lightning aura back at you.
Her voice is low, sharp as a winter blade.
Scarlet Veil:
"Clean… fights do not exist in the North."
A faint shimmering heat dances around her fingers—
a warning.
Referee:
"Match between Eastern Winner Tentō Narukami and Northern Winner 'Scarlet Veil' begins on my mark!"
The crowd surges.
"Scarlet Veil!"
"She killed her opponent in one strike yesterday!"
"Lightning kid's in trouble…"
Scarlet Veil raises her fans.
Scarlet Veil:
"I will not shame your bow.
I will strike cleanly."
Her stance lowers.
Red aura rises.
Referee: "BEGIN!"
II. Lightning and Crimson Collide
Scarlet Veil moves first—
a blur of red flame.
Her fans whistle with deadly grace.
You counter—
Lightning Palm Strike
CLANG!
metal meets lightning in a shower of sparks.
Her fan slices your arm.
A warm line of blood runs down your elbow.
Tentō: "Ouch. Been a while since I bled."
You grin.
She rockets forward for another cut—
you vanish sideways—
Lightning Step!
You descend:
Lightning Dragon Claw!
She crosses her fans just in time—
KRA-THOOM!
The blast sends you both sliding back.
She lifts her fans again, aura intensifying.
Her voice is soft—but thrilled.
Scarlet Veil:
"Good. Don't disappoint me."
The dance continues—
faster, sharper—
fans slicing—
lightning cracking—
platform breaking—
until she inhales sharply and unleashes it:
BLAZING VEIL DANCE
A storm of red petals and steel.
Cuts bloom on your arms, legs—
your lightning flickers.
She presses harder—
and you feel it instantly.
Your blood starts to feel heavy… thick… slow.
Tentō:
"…Blood art?! Damn it—wasn't expecting that…"
Your knees wobble.
Your muscles feel cold.
You grit your teeth.
Tentō:
"Well, gotta end it quick then."
You draw your sword.
Lightning gathers along your spine like a dragon waking.
Scarlet Veil:
"…Show me."
In the next instant—
you both vanish.
A single clean note rings through the arena.
Your blade glows.
You appear behind her.
She freezes—
a thin red line appearing across her torso.
Her fans fall.
She collapses silently.
You sheath your blade with a click.
Tentō:
"I didn't think I'd use my blade before the main tournament…
but thank you, Crimson Lady."
You laugh, exhilarated.
Tentō:
"Damn, that was fun."
The arena explodes in cheers.
III. The Western Boulder and the Southern Moon
The next match is called.
You watch from the side as:
WEST WINNER — Qing Rock
vs
SOUTH WINNER — Yeon of the Pale Moon
They clash—
Earth-shaking power vs. gentle, lethal elegance.
Qing Rock storms forward—
Yeon dissolves like mist.
A flick of Yeon's flute sends razor-thin phantoms slicing through stone fists.
And finally—
Yeon taps the giant's neck with his flute.
QING ROCK COLLAPSES LIKE A FALLING MOUNTAIN.
The crowd gasps.
Referee:
"Winner—Yeon of the Pale Moon!"
Yeon brushes dust from his sleeve, sighing.
Then he looks at you.
And smirks.
Yeon:
"Mmm~ Lightning one.
Let's not make this boring."
IV. The Pale Moon Phantom vs. The Lightning Dragon
You meet in the center of the arena the next morning.
The air is tense.
The crowd louder than ever.
Referee:
"Final Placement Match — TENTŌ NARUKAMI VS YEON OF THE PALE MOON!
BEGIN!"
You dash forward—
your fist flies—
Yeon dissolves.
Pain sears your back.
A slash.
Tentō:
"Well, if that's how you wanna play…"
You split—
STORM VEIL — Lightning Doubles
One explodes—
Yeon jerks out of the smoke—
you strike him with Thunder Fist.
He staggers.
But then the air drops.
A massive, pale phantom rises behind him—
moonlit and cold.
Your body freezes.
Your spine locks.
Yeon smirks.
Yeon:
"You still don't understand."
He hits you again—
you stumble—
vision swimming.
Another phantom.
Another lock.
Another hit.
Tentō:
"…NOT GOOD, NOT GOOD—"
Until—
It clicks.
Tentō:
"…Dammit. I'm stupid."
Yeon pauses mid-strike.
Yeon: "…What?"
You inhale.
Lightning floods your lungs.
THUNDER ROAR
BOOOOOOOOOOOM!!
The arena shakes.
The phantom flickers—
—and disappears entirely.
Yeon's face twists in shock.
You grin wide.
Tentō:
"I fell for the illusion of the eye.
But the phantom wasn't visual."
You tap your temple.
Tentō:
"It was SOUND.
A hypnotic pitch slipping into my nerves.
And guess what—
I can drown out sound."
RINSE AND REPEAT
THUNDER ROAR—BOOM!
Yeon stumbles.
THUNDER FIST—CRACK!
Blood sprays.
THUNDER ROAR—BOOM!!
He screams, ears bleeding.
THUNDER FIST—BOOM!
He collapses.
You stand over him.
Lightning dancing across your shoulders.
You smirk.
Tentō:
"A one-trick pony, aren't ya?"
Yeon doesn't get up.
The referee's hand shakes as he raises yours.
Referee:
"WINNER—TENTŌ NARUKAMI!!!
TOP SEED OF THE DRAGON PHOENIX MAIN TOURNAMENT!!"
The arena roars.
Lightning Dragon's Storm has arrived.
END OF CHAPTER 3Author's Note :
Thunder Roar did not stun Yeon earlier because Yeon is a sound-type martial artist. Sound cultivators naturally possess resistance to sonic disruption and resonance attacks, making it harder to disorient or stun them with pure noise.
CHAPTER 4 — THE ROAR THAT SHAKES THE SKIES
The platform trembles beneath your boots as the referee's voice booms across the valley-wide arena.
Referee:
"TOP SEED — TENTŌ NARUKAMI!!!"
A tidal wave of cheers erupts.
Thousands rise from their seats.
Banners whip in the wind like dragons twisting in the sky.
The stone arena shudders with stomping feet and pounding drums.
Your name—
a name no one had ever heard before this week—
echoes through the mountains.
"TENTŌ!!"
"LIGHTNING KID!!"
"MONSTER!!"
You raise a hand in acknowledgment.
Lightning sparks around your fingers, answering the crowd on instinct alone.
Some cheer.
Some shrink back.
Some glare, already plotting your downfall.
High above, behind latticed screens in the VIP hall, masked silhouettes lean forward.
One whispers:
"He rises too quickly."
Another:
"Unexpected variables are… troublesome."
The one seated at the center says nothing, eyes fixed on your back.
You feel it—
a cold, hunting gaze.
But then the announcer's voice cuts through everything:
Announcer:
"All winners, prepare for the Dragon Phoenix Main Tournament!
Opening ceremony in two hours!"
Another roar from the crowd shakes dust from the beams.
You step off the stage.
A Storm that Walks
Liang Xue is waiting at the base of the stairs, hands folded neatly, robes fluttering gently with the breeze. Her calm expression of yesterday is unchanged—
but there's something new in her eyes.
A spark of respect.
Maybe something warmer.
She walks beside you, matching your pace.
Liang Xue:
"You carry yourself lightly… even after a battle like that."
You shrug.
"Would be worse if my master were around."
She actually laughs—quiet, graceful.
Liang Xue:
"I'm beginning to understand what kind of teacher he must be."
As you pass through the competitors' corridor, the murmurs follow like ripples behind a boat.
"That's him…"
"Yeon didn't stand a chance…"
"What kind of school uses lightning like that?"
"His aura feels wrong… too sharp…"
Liang Xue clears her throat at the loudest group, and they scatter instantly.
You smirk.
She notices.
Liang Xue:
"…Don't encourage them."
The Gathering of Dragons
The resting hall for the main participants is far grander than the one for preliminaries.
Gold pillars.
Sandalwood floors.
Incense burning from jade burners carved into phoenixes.
You aren't alone.
The other sect heirs have already gathered.
The moment you enter, the quiet murmuring dies.
Yao Lingyin of the Verdant Medicine Sect lifts her head from a scroll, eyes brightening.
Lingyin:
"Oh—Tentō! Good morning!"
Lian Huoyan, sprawled across a chair like a lazy flame, sits up with a grin.
Huoyan:
"There he is! The lightning bastard. You made this boring tournament interesting."
A breeze stirs behind him—Yun Shoufeng of Storm Valley closes his eyes as if feeling the air.
Shoufeng:
"Mm. His speed is different today."
Brother Shan, the Azure Cloud monk, nods to you calmly.
Shan:
"Your heart is quieter.
Good. The storm within has rhythm."
Bai Hanjun rests his spear across his knees and bows.
Hanjun:
"Top seed.
Congratulations."
Even Black Willow—the masked unorthodox representative—lifts her chin a fraction.
Black Willow:
"…You arrived."
Liang Xue looks at them, then looks at you.
Liang Xue:
"They seem fond of you."
You raise a brow.
"Do they?"
Huoyan snorts.
Huoyan:
"We don't like you. We're just excited to beat you."
Lingyin quietly sips tea.
Lingyin:
"That is not true. I like him."
Shoufeng flicks his sleeve.
Shoufeng:
"…I like that he's fast."
Brother Shan smiles.
Shan:
"I like that his spirit is unclouded."
Black Willow tilts her head.
Black Willow:
"I like that he hasn't died yet."
Huoyan groans.
Huoyan:
"Can you all stop sounding weird for three seconds?"
The tension breaks.
The atmosphere shifts from cautious observation to a lively circle of rivals.
The Monsters from the Shadows
The doors rumble open.
Silence falls like a blade.
A presence enters—heavy, cold, sharp.
Ashen Blade Shen walks in, boots echoing against the stone.
His eyes sweep the room.
Somewhere behind you, Lingyin inhales sharply.
Shoufeng straightens.
Huoyan stops joking.
Shen stops when his gaze reaches you.
A long moment passes—
one assassin studying another storm.
Finally he speaks.
Shen:
"…Too much noise around you."
He walks past.
But that chill he brought stays lingering around your collarbone.
Liang Xue leans closer, whispering:
Liang Xue:
"…Be careful around him."
Before you can reply, another wave of heat fills the room.
A bright laugh echoes before the owner even appears.
"Hahaha! Make way!"
Prince Jinren enters in gold armor, halberd resting on his shoulder.
Every disciple in the hall bows except you and Black Willow.
He stops in front of you, eyes shining.
Jinren:
"You must be Tentō! Good.
I wanted to see the lightning monster up close."
He pats your shoulder—
hard enough that the table trembles.
Jinren:
"Don't die.
I want a real fight later."
He walks off toward the VIP elders as casually as if he were greeting old friends.
Huoyan whistles.
Huoyan:
"The prince acknowledges you?
Damn. You're really doing this whole 'main character' thing, huh?"
Liang Xue hides a smile behind her sleeve.
The Masked Threat Above
Up in the rafters of the VIP hall, hidden behind spiritual screens, the conspirators gather.
One kneels.
Follower:
"Master. We confirmed it.
The Lightning Dragon heir is far stronger than anticipated."
The masked master does not turn his head.
His aura is calm.
Too calm.
Masked Master:
"Storms burn out without guidance.
Let him rise.
Then break him."
He raises a finger, a faint spark of lightning jumping between it and his thumb.
Masked Master:
"…Begin during the opening ceremony.
Stage one."
The others bow deeply.
Below, you feel a cold shiver down your spine—
but dismiss it.
You've always lived with storms.
The Two Hours Before Destiny
You talk.
You eat.
You answer questions (badly).
You laugh at Huoyan's stories.
You endure Shoufeng analyzing your breathing.
You let Lingyin check your pulse.
You listen to Brother Shan's peaceful advice.
You survive Black Willow's deadpan comments.
Liang Xue stays at your side—quiet but always watching.
Time drifts by like a calm before a great wind.
Then—
A gong sounds.
The massive doors to the grand arena slide open.
Light pours in like a flood.
Elders from every sect gather.
Drums boom.
Fans wave.
Banners of the Ten Great Sects unfurl like wings across the sky.
Liang Xue touches your sleeve lightly.
Liang Xue:
"Tentō…
It's time."
You step forward.
Twelve prodigies walk beside you.
Ten banners rise.
The royal stage gleams ahead.
And one masked master sharpens his plan from above.
The Royal Dragon Phoenix Tournament—
begins now.
CHAPTER 5: Royal Dragon Phoenix Tournament Part-1THE OPENING CEREMONY
Drums pound like a heartbeat. Lanterns snap into bloom over the arena and every banner from the Ten Great Sects unfurls at once — a forest of color and sigils. The announcer's voice booms until the stones themselves seem to hum: "THE ROYAL DRAGON PHOENIX TOURNAMENT BEGINS!" Fireworks explode in phoenix-flowers of gold and crimson; petals of light fall over the crowd and the roar rises until it feels like the mountain itself is cheering. The twelve seeded candidates walk in procession: each step polished, each banner answered by shouts and the snap of a hundred practiced gazes. You sit in the VIP hall, lightning humming under your skin and the world buzzing like an instrument tuned for war.
Brother Shan shifts beside you, palms folded, eyes soft and steady. "Who do you think wins the first?" he asks. You glance down at the arena where Liang Xue stands already serene as a petal in wind, and reply, "Liang Xue might win." He nods, brows knitting at your calm. "I heard she was struck by the younger Iron Toads," he says, quietly curious. "She required aid — are you certain?" You let the corner of your mouth lift. "She missed a sneak attack because her ki-sense is not sharp. In an open fight like this? I doubt she'll lose. If she does, it'll be a close one."
The VIP hall buzzes with whispers: princes, sect elders, and masked observers trading bets and theories. Across the arena the crowd settles into a tense hush as the first match is announced. Below you, the fights of the young generation will begin in earnest — blood, pride, and reputation all on display for the empire and the conspirators in the rafters. The opening ceremony finishes not with ceremony but with an appetite — the world wants to see which of these rising stars will bend and which will break.
MATCH 1 — LIANG XUE (PLUM BLOSSOM) VS FU LONG (IRON TOAD) — CLOSE VICTORY FOR LIANG XUE
Fu Long barges out like an earthquake, every stride crushing gravel and rattling the front rows. He's all muscle and blunt force, gauntlets like iron bells, and he laughs at the idea of subtlety: "Stand still and take it!" he roars. Liang Xue is the opposite — a white smear, a calm center in a storm; she moves like borrowed silence, blade an idle breeze. The first exchange is thunder vs petal: Fu Long's staggered, bone-shaking slams send shockwaves across the platform; Liang Xue answers with deflections and tiny cuts that bloom across his forearm, each one surgical and perfectly timed.
Fu Long's strategy is pure pressure — a tidal compression pushing her toward the rim so she can't use her angles. Liang Xue takes hits, breathes, and answers in measured bursts. An elbow meets her ribs, but she returns a counter that grazes his side; a stomp cracks stone, but her footwork dissolves into a circle and leaves him baffled for a half-step. The crowd gasps as Liáng Xue suddenly blooms a ring of petal-qi — a scattering of blade-edges made of sharpened ki — and for a heartbeat the iron fists bite only air. Fu Long laughs through the pain; he respects the cut that leaves a shallow line on his chest, then charges again.
When the fight reaches the final turn, Fu Long commits to a killing leap, trying to collapse the match in raw force. Liang Xue steps into the circle, lets him smash through the petal-field, and then — with terrifying calm — draws the final petal into a single, sweeping arc that tears a clean line across his ribs. He stumbles, the weight of wounds finally telling on him; his arms lose the steady rhythm that made him dangerous. He collapses, not humiliated but breathing laughter into the dust: "Good fight!" Liang Xue sheaths, bows, and walks off like a petal that just weathered a storm.
You and Brother Shan exchange looks in the VIP hall; he nods, pleased. "Close, as you said," he murmurs. You grin. "She didn't need saving — she needed a theatre to bloom." The crowd roars, some for the brute, many for the quiet blade that refused to be crushed. In the rafters the masked conspirators file notes: "variable acknowledged." Below, the tournament presses on.
MATCH 2 — LIAN HUOYAN (FIRE LOTUS) VS BLACK WILLOW (UNORTHODOX) — BLACK WILLOW WINS
Huoyan explodes into the ring like a bonfire—flame-coils, screaming qi, a performance that bathes the arena in heat. He taunts and dances, throwing roaring flame arcs and trying to make the whole floor his instrument. The crowd loves it; children scream in delight. Black Willow does not play to the crowd. She appears like a shadow that chose to stay, minimal motion, maximum intent. Her first reaction is not to answer fire with fire but to thin the space between them to nothing and place a kill where the eye overlooked.
Huoyan conjures massive fire formations — a flaming ring, a burning field, a vortex of cinders — each meant to flush his opponent into a predictable lane. The assassin slips through that lane as if the flames are mere painted scenery: silent steps, a needle-thin blade, timing so perfect the cut arrives as an afterthought. Huoyan's showmanship becomes a liability; his movements are loud, and the assassin's blows are a whisper at the exact blindspot. The crowd goes from cheering to gasping when Huoyan's arm is grazed and his expression shifts from cocky to startled.
The killer final sequence is cruel in its simplicity: Huoyan throws his full, public technique to dominate the field, and Black Willow reappears at the center of the inferno, a single hair or blade in hand. A cut appears on Huoyan — vital, precise — and the flames die as if sensing the end. He staggers, falling into a heap of smoldering robes and bruised pride. The silence after her victory is a different kind of noise; whispers ripple like the aftermath of a storm. She does not celebrate. She walks straight off stage and offers you, from the corner of her masked face, the faintest nod — not a challenge, not a greeting, merely an acknowledgment that a dangerous new piece moves at the board.
Brother Shan watches, silent, fingers tightening in his lap. "Her method is fear without drama," he says later, voice flat. You watch her vanish into the corridors and feel the faint prickle where the assassin's eyes met yours. The tournament gains a shadow as well as a flame.
MATCH 3 — BAI HANJUN (WHITE SPEAR) VS YAO LINGYIN (VERDANT MEDICINE) — BAI HANJUN WINS
The scene is quieter: green banners, a scent of herbs drifting from Lingyin's robes. She moves like soft rain, deceptive and meticulous. Hanjun's spear is the opposite: rigid geometry, a straight line of clean purpose. The first exchange is a study in contrast — verdant motes and choking mist versus the white spear's simple arc. Hanjun refuses to breathe when Lingyin puffs medicinal clouds at him, holding posture and stance until the smoke must pass. The crowd leans in for each tiny needle of action.
Lingyin frustrates him with traps: tendon-freezing spores, tiny paralytic incenses. She tempts him to falter and then tries to close in with vine roots that erupt from the stone. Hanjun is disciplined: he plants the spear, roots his stance, and stops the vines by sheer force and precise leverage. Then he does something delicate. Instead of brute force, he channels all his balance into a single spear-thrust that shoves aside the last breath of her smoke and a tiny riposte to the mantle of her shoulder — a strike not meant to kill, but to break the flow of her technique.
As Lingyin tries to mount her Verdant Dream Incense — the smoke that causes visions and paralysis — Hanjun chooses the moment of her smallest exhale to make his move. He lets the spear do the work: a white-arc shot that disperses the incense and then a sweeping strike to a pressure point near her clavicle. She collapses, immobilized by clever timing rather than raw force. The crowd applauds the craft: not a flashy end, but a thoughtful one. Lingyin laughs weakly as she rights herself, promising to poison his tea next time; Hanjun bows and helps her up, sincere respect on both sides. Brother Shan murmurs a blessing for both—skill acknowledged by skill.
MATCH 4 — YUN SHOUFENG (STORM VALLEY) VS PRINCE JINREN (GOLDEN DRAGON) — SHOUFENG WINS
The entrance of the Imperial Prince brings a roar that eclipses everything; gold banners snap, royal heralds call, and the royal guard stands like a wall of living metal. Jinren moves with a swagger built on birthright — halberd blazing, aura amplified like a sun. Shoufeng steps out like a breeze, almost inconsequential. The first strike throws the floor into seismic splinters — Jinren's halberd technique is meant to obliterate. Shoufeng stands serene and unclenched, then slides away like water slipping across stone; the prince's blows meet empty air.
Jinren's strength is theatrical and unapologetic. He attempts to overwhelm with awakened dragon-blood pressure, each swing a potential arena-ender. Shoufeng's counters are an art of absence: he creates a dancing cyclone that seems to occupy space while never touching the prince until the exact, tiny moment the prince overreaches, and then he is upon him. The crowd's breath is a single held thing as Jinren's golden halberd spins into a miss, embedding into the wall with a clang that feels like a bell toll for royal pride.
In the decisive sequence Shoufeng gathers the wind and focuses it into a single Gale Palm — a touch that arrives with the weight of a tide though it looks featherlight. The prince, for all his armor and edicts, can't stop the subtle dismantling of balance. He falls, anger and embarrassment roaring through him as he slams the earth with gloved fist. The stadium fills with a sound like a thousand small storms whistling. Shoufeng bows politely, voice quiet: "Wind outruns force." Jinren's retinue mutters, guards glower, and the royal observers file their complaints.
You feel a thrill in the VIP hall. Brother Shan exhales, impressed: "He is wind turned into a blade." Shoufeng slips off as if leaving a whisper; the prince's halo cracks and the empire takes notice that birthright is not absolute in this ring.
MATCH 5 — ASHEN BLADE SHEN VS JIAN WUYING (HEAVENLY SWORD) — JIAN WUYING WINS (SHORT)
The assassin steps like a shadow; the Heavenly Sword prodigy steps like sudden dawn. Shen attacks with phantom steps and murderous angles, but Jian Wuying treats the fight as if polishing a sword: measured, radiant, the blade's arc a lesson in daylight. Shen's strikes seek to end it fast; Wuying answers with a single, brilliant counter that dispels the assassin's darkness like the sun through smoke. One clean flurry—faster than breath—and Shen yields in inked respect rather than ruin. The crowd stands in stunned reverence as Wuying bows and says gently, "I look forward to meeting you later, Tentō Narukami."
THE ANNOUNCER CALLS YOUR MATCH
The dust from Wuying's departure barely settles before the grand announcer's gavel-slap echoes across the hall: "FINAL MATCH OF ROUND ONE — BROTHER SHAN (AZURE CLOUD) VS TENTŌ NARUKAMI (LIGHTNING DRAGON)!" The VIP hall leans in. Brother Shan bows to you, palms together. "Show me whether lightning can strike the unbroken cloud," he says, serene. You roll your shoulders, lightning crackling overhead like a promise. "Let's see what happens when storm meets sky," you answer. The arena waits, breath held, as the two of you descend the stairs and the real chapter — your duel — opens.
CHAPTER 6 — Royal Dragon Phoenix Tournament Part- 2 -THE THUNDER FIST GOD RISES
The arena stills.
A hush sweeps across the coliseum as you step onto the cracked stone, your robe sliding from your shoulders in a single fluid motion. Lightning murmurs beneath your skin like a barely leashed beast. You kneel, wrap cloth around your hands with quiet precision, and let the crowd see your intent:
No blade.
No weapon.
Fists only.
Even the wind pauses.
Gasps ripple from the stands.
"Bare fists?!"
"He's provoking the Azure Monk!"
"Does he want to die?!"
Across the ring, Brother Shan steps forward, sunlight reflecting off the prayer beads at his wrist. His expression is a serene lake—calm enough to drown in. Yet when he hears your words, something gentle flickers in his gaze.
He bows.
Shan:
"Fists only…?
Very well."
He folds his outer robe neatly, honoring the match as though it were a sacred rite.
His torso reveals the truth of his training—
muscles honed like stone tools,
veins coursing with azure qi,
breath steady as a drifting cloud.
He takes his stance:
Open palms.
Relaxed arms.
Calm breath.
Still heart.
The epitome of Azure Cloud Monastery's philosophy.
Shan:
"I am ready."
The wind answers.
Lightning coils around your shoulders.
The referee swallows hard.
Referee:
"F-FINAL MATCH OF ROUND ONE…
TENTŌ NARUKAMI VS BROTHER SHAN!
FISTS ONLY—BEGIN!!"
Shan breathes, bows his head slightly—
Shan:
"Come, lightning."
THE STORM STRIKES FIRST
You vanish.
Lightning Step—!
The crowd gasps as your form blurs with a shrill crackle of electricity. One heartbeat later you reappear in Shan's guard, fist cocked back.
TENTŌ:
"THUNDER—FIST!"
Your punch descends like a falling meteor—
Shan meets it with a simple, unarmed strike.
Not a technique.
Not a named art.
Just a monk's fist, pure and refined.
BOOOOOM—!!
The collision sends a shockwave radiating out in a perfect circle. Dust blasts into the sky. Your bones scream. Shan doesn't budge.
His eyes open slightly.
Shan:
"Your fist carries joy… and chaos."
You grin wildly.
TENTŌ:
"GOOD!"
You unleash a barrage—
Lightning Dragon Claw!
Lightning Palm!
Thunder Punch!
Each hit slams against Shan with rising force, lightning sparking off his arms and twisting through his robes. The monk stumbles half a step—your strength cracking the serenity of his stance.
The crowd roars.
But peace shatters.
Shan's hand snaps out—
Azure Cloud—Calm Fall Break!
He grabs your leg—
And slams you into the ground.
CRACK—!!
The stone splits beneath your skull.
Before the shock fades—
He lifts you—
And slams you again.
A roar rips from the stands.
Shan pivots, dragging you across the arena floor, your back carving a crater in the stone. Dust explodes in your wake.
Then—
TWENTY-FOLD BUDDHA PALMS!
PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH!
Each palm crashes into your ribs, chest, stomach—
the blows multiply like falling hail.
Blood leaps from your mouth.
Your vision blurs.
You drop to one knee.
Lightning flickers weakly.
Shan:
"Defend yourself, Brother Tentō.
Your body cannot endure much more."
You snarl—lightning flaring in defiance.
TENTŌ:
"Don't…
tell me…
what my body can't take—!"
You raise your aura—
THUNDER DRAGON SCALES!!
Lightning armor snaps around your skin, forming crackling blue plates. The crowd gasps at the spectacle.
But—
It's incomplete.
Broken.
Unstable.
Shan sees.
He dashes.
His forearm glows azure.
WHACK—!!
His strike smashes into your neck.
The Thunder Dragon Scales shatter like glass.
You fly across the arena, bounce twice, skid across stone, and hit the wall with a sickening crunch.
Blood pours down your chin.
Darkness creeps into your vision.
You sway—
Then fall.
THE LIGHTNING DRAGON HALL
The world goes silent.
You rise—
not on the arena floor.
But in a world of storm.
A vast, endless hall of crackling sigils.
Thunder sleeps in distant clouds.
Ten silhouettes stand motionless.
One steps forward.
Barefoot.
Hair like stormfire.
Lightning crawling across his skin like loyal serpents.
The previous Lightning Dragon Master—
Ikazuchiken.
He lifts his hand.
A smile—
dangerous and proud.
Ikazuchiken:
"You.
I like you."
He extends his hand.
Ikazuchiken:
"You're not done yet, boy."
You grasp his palm.
Thunder explodes.
THE OLD MASTER ON THE MOUNTAIN
Far away atop Lightning Dragon Peak, your master stirs from meditation. The sky above him crackles with sudden, violent stormlight.
He chuckles.
Old Master:
"Hoh…
Ikazuchiken accepted him."
He rises slowly.
Old Master:
"Good.
The brat has grown."
THE DESCENT OF THE THUNDER GOD
Back in the arena—
The sky darkens.
Clouds swirl unnaturally.
A divine beam of lightning descends—
KRAAAAAA-THOOOOOOOOOM—!!!
It hits your fallen body—
the explosion blasting dust across the stadium.
For a moment, no one sees you.
Then—
A silhouette rises from the smoke.
Lightning surges around your body like living armor.
Muscles tighten, enlarge.
Electric gauntlets form on your arms.
Jagged horn-like arcs of lightning crown your head.
Your aura devours the air.
Your voice echoes, layered and thunderous:
**"LIGHTNING DRAGON SACRED ART—
THUNDER FIST GOD!"**
The crowd screams—
Some flee.
Some kneel.
Even elders stand in shock.
THE FINAL EXCHANGE
Brother Shan blinks once.
His eyes widen—
Then sharpen.
He dashes forward with everything he has left, azure qi flaring violently.
Shan:
"EMPTY SKY—SOUL BREAK!!"
His strongest punch.
Enough to kill normal men instantly.
You simply raise your hand—
And catch it.
Lightning envelops your arm, sparks dancing along your fingers.
Shan's entire body convulses as you hold his punch effortlessly.
TENTŌ (echoing):
"Too slow."
You pull your fist back—
a crater forming under your feet from the force gathering inside your arm.
The sky answers with thunder.
"STORM FIST!!"
Your fist slams into Shan's torso—
He vanishes.
A split-second later—
DOOOOOOOOOOM—!!!!
He crashes through the arena wall.
Then another.
Then another—
finally skidding into a street outside the stadium, leaving a smoking crater.
Silence.
You stand alone, lightning fading, muscles relaxing as the transformation dissolves.
You raise your fist.
And roar.
"RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!"
The heavens roar back.
END OF CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7 — Royal Dragon Phoenix Tournament Part- 3 -THE WEEK BEFORE THE STORMTHE AFTERSHOCK OF THE THUNDER GOD
Even minutes after your transformation ended, the arena still shook.
Smoke curled from broken stone.
Lightning scars crawled across the floor.
Three walls remained shattered from Brother Shan's flight.
Your roar still echoed faintly in the clouds.
The crowd erupted into madness.
"WHAT IS HE?!"
"THE LIGHTNING DRAGON… THE OLD SCHOOL IS REAL?!"
"HE'S A MONSTER—A DIVINE MONSTER!!"
Some cheered.
Some fainted.
Some prayed.
One guy threw his shoe in excitement.
You walked off the stage yawning.
Lightning flickered around you lazily, like a cat stretching.
THE GATHERING OF THE VICTORS (AND DEFEATED)
The other fighters approached in awe.
Liang Xue
Quiet smile.
Eyes still shaking from your display.
Liang Xue:
"You… shattered half the arena."
Tentō:
"I was holding back."
She almost choked on air.
Yun Shoufeng
Hands behind his back, amused.
Shoufeng:
"Storm and lightning… this tournament just became interesting."
Bai Hanjun
Straight posture, spear at his side.
Hanjun:
"I train with iron pillars… and I still felt your shockwave from here. Terrifying."
Fu Long (loss)
Bruised everywhere.
Fu Long:
"You took a monk and made him a meteor. Amazing."
Huoyan (loss)
Singed eyebrows.
Huoyan:
"Hey, at least I didn't get electrocuted!"
Lingyin (loss)
Holding herbs.
Lingyin:
"You IDIOT! Drink this! Or your liver will explode!"
Prince Jinren (loss)
Wrapped like a mummy.
Jinren:
"…You. I'll… come back."
He passed out mid-sentence.
Brother Shan (loss)
Walking with difficulty, still serene.
Shan:
"Your fist was… enlightening."
You approached Jian Wuying with a grin.
Tentō:
"Hey! Nice fight earlier."
Wuying:
"…Thanks."
Silence.
Lightning crackled awkwardly.
Tentō:
"So, uh, semifinals. Looking forward to it?"
Wuying:
"…Yes."
More silence.
Huoyan leans over and whispers:
"He's the human version of a period at the end of sentences."
You stare helplessly at Wuying.
He stares back, calm, unreadable.
ONE WEEK LATER
Everyone healed.
You sparred with Shoufeng, ate with Liang Xue, and tried (failed) to talk to Jian Wuying.
Finally—
GONG—!!!
The Quarterfinals begin.
The arena roars as the first two fighters ascend the platform.
QUARTERFINAL MATCH 1 — THE PETAL AND THE SHADOW (FULL ACTION)
Two figures enter:
Liang Xue — robes flowing like a drifting flower.
Black Willow — silent as a stalking ghost.
The crowd goes silent.
Referee:
"Begin!"
THE OPENING — PETAL BLOOM
Liang Xue steps forward—
Light.
Graceful.
Each movement paints soft spirals in the air.
Pink qi blossoms around her like drifting petals, each one humming with cutting intent.
Black Willow doesn't walk.
She simply appears behind Liang, needle blade already slicing for the spine.
Liang bends like a willow branch in wind—
the blade misses by a hair.
A floating petal splits in two.
The dance begins.
THE DUEL — PETALS AND SHADOW BLADES
Black Willow slips under Liang's sword arc, twisting unnaturally low—
Her blade darts upward, jagged and hungry.
Liang pivots mid-air, her free sleeve flicking aside the strike.
Petal qi explodes outward, forming a brief halo of razor-thin blossoms.
Willow blurs—
Each step a killing angle.
Each angle a fatal threat.
Steel taps steel—
CHINK-CHINK-CHINK—!!
Not clashing.
Not smashing.
A rhythm.
A dance.
Two assassins of elegance and death.
Willow's blade cuts through five petals—
Liang's sword carving seven shadows.
The arena gasps.
Even you lean forward.
THE FINAL STEP OF THE DANCE
Willow fades—
Her form sinking into Liang's shadow.
Liang's eyes widen.
She closes her eyes.
One exhale.
Her blade sweeps in a slow, gentle arc—
SHHHHK—!!
Both freeze.
A single moment.
A single breath.
Then—
A line of red appears across Liang Xue's cheek.
Black Willow's mask cracks diagonally—
A thin cut across her abdomen.
Willow falls to her knees.
Willow (quiet):
"…Beautiful."
She collapses peacefully.
Liang Xue stands, breathing steadily, sword lowered.
Referee:
"WINNER — LIANG XUE!!!"
The stadium explodes with awe.
You nod proudly.
Behind you—
Wuying:
"…Expected."
You turn slowly.
Tentō:
"…Do you ever talk like a normal human?"
Wuying:
"…No."
Silence.
QUARTERFINAL MATCH 2 — THE SPEAR AND THE HEAVENS (FULL ACTION)
The arena brightens as Bai Hanjun enters, spear shining like a polished pillar of white iron.
Across from him drifts Jian Wuying—
calm, soft, graceful, terrifying.
Referee:
"BEGIN!"
THE SPEAR LAUNCHES — PIERCING TEMPO
Hanjun attacks instantly.
"WHITE SPEAR — PIERCING CLOUD!!"
The spear rips through the air—
fast enough to break sound.
Wuying moves only his wrist.
TING—
The spearhead is redirected effortlessly.
Hanjun frowns.
He advances—
"WHITE SPEAR — SPLITTING WIND!!"
A heavier, faster lunge.
Wuying raises one finger.
Tap.
The spear is diverted again.
The crowd gasps.
THE SPEAR STORMS — TEMPEST TEMPO
Hanjun roars.
White qi explodes around him.
Dust spirals.
Stone cracks.
His footwork accelerates, becoming a blur.
"WHITE SPEAR ARTS — TWELVE-LANCE TEMPEST!!!"
Twelve thrusts from twelve angles—
High.
Low.
Left.
Right.
Backstep.
Advance.
The arena becomes a white storm of spear shadows.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM—!!
Each thrust sharper than the last.
But Wuying—
Deflects them all.
Calm.
Effortless.
Like brushing dust from silk.
Tap.
Brush.
Slide.
Tilt.
The spear never touches him.
Not once.
THE FINAL TEMPO — BREAKING THE SKY
Hanjun's eyes burn.
His spear spins behind him.
He lunges for the kill—
"WHITE SPEAR—
HEAVEN-SPLITT—!!"
The instant before the spear hits him—
Wuying draws.
Only once.
One clean arc.
One breath.
SHING—!!!
Light flashes.
Hanjun's spear shatters.
A small line of blood appears on his chest.
He falls to his knees.
Wuying sheaths his saber before Hanjun even touches the ground.
Silence.
Then—
Referee:
"WINNER — JIAN WUYING!!"
The arena erupts.
The Heavenly Sword merely bows.
Then he looks at you.
His eyes say:
"Soon."
You grin.
Your lightning answers.
END OF CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8 — Royal Dragon Phoenix Tournament Part- 4 - LIGHTNING AND WIND, THE RACE TO THE HEAVENS
— rebuilt completely with the pun scene included —
The stone platform rings with anticipation.
The crowd murmurs, the elders whisper, and the sky itself seems to lean in as two storms take their places.
Wind gathers before it even has a reason.
Lightning crackles though nothing has struck yet.
Yun Shoufeng steps forward first—calm, unrushed, as if the arena were simply a walk through the morning breeze. His robe flutters in a wind that answers only to him.
He smirks when you step onto the platform.
Yun Shoufeng:
"Heh… Tentō Narukami.
The lightning brat who turned a monk into a shooting star."
Lightning hums up your arms.
You roll your neck.
Tentō:
"Then let's see if Wind Boy can fly farther."
He chuckles, wind curling around his ankles.
Yun Shoufeng:
"Faster, huh? I've been waiting to see that."
He raises two fingers like a drawn blade.
Yun Shoufeng:
"Storm Valley doesn't lose in speed.
Wind is freedom…
Lightning is recklessness."
You raise your sword, lightning crawling up the blade.
Tentō:
"Let's see if freedom can outrun a storm."
The referee steps forward.
Referee:
"SEMIFINALS—
TENTŌ NARUKAMI VS YUN SHOUFENG—
BEGIN ON MY MARK!"
Lightning surges beneath your feet.
Wind spirals under his.
Two forces of nature sharpen their killing edges.
Shoufeng smirks.
Yun Shoufeng:
"Try to keep up."
You straighten, sword flashing.
Tentō:
"'Try to keep up,' he says…
Hahahaha—can you track a star?"
Shoufeng raises an eyebrow.
Wind curls tighter around him.
Yun Shoufeng:
"Oh?
So you can talk like a protagonist."
You grin sharp as lightning.
Tentō:
"Not bad for a guy who's just an air head."
THE WORLD FREEZES
Shoufeng blinks.
Yun Shoufeng:
"…What?"
In the VIP room—
EVERY. SINGLE. PERSON.
SLAPS THEIR FOREHEAD.
Liang Xue:
"…That pun… that was so bad…"
Bai Hanjun:
"My spear aches from the pain…"
Lingyin:
"WHY IS HE LIKE THIS—?!"
Lian Huoyan:
"My soul is leaving my body."
Even elders flinch.
Black Willow curls up in a corner.
Black Willow:
"…I'm terrified."
But then—
A laugh.
A clear, bright, genuine laugh.
Everyone stares.
Heavenly Sword Jian Wuying is… laughing.
Jian Wuying:
"Ha… haha…
air head… because wind…"
Silence.
Liang Xue:
"H-He LAUGHED?!"
Bai Hanjun:
"The Heavenly Sword… made sound longer than one syllable…"
Lingyin:
"I–I thought he was mute…"
Black Willow:
"…We're doomed."
Jian Wuying wipes a tear.
Jian Wuying:
"…Good one."
The VIP room collapses.
Back in the arena, Shoufeng points at you, betrayal on his face.
Yun Shoufeng:
"You made a WIND PUN… in a speed duel?!"
You shrug.
Lightning pops.
Tentō:
"You walked right into it."
Referee:
"BEGIN!!"
Wind screams.
Lightning detonates.
Both of you vanish.
FIRST CLASH — LIGHTNING RUSHING STEP VS WIND PHANTOM STEP
The center of the arena explodes as your two forms collide.
BOOOOOOM—!!
A wall of dust erupts outward.
Your blade meets his wind-forged edge.
CLANG—!!
You grin.
Tentō:
"Good! Fast enough to warm up!"
Shoufeng's laugh echoes through wind.
Yun Shoufeng:
"Warm up?
I haven't even started!"
He vanishes.
Wind cuts your sleeve.
SHHK.
You snarl.
DRAGON FANG — TEN FOLD
Lightning spirals up your sword.
Your voice cracks through the arena:
Tentō:
"LIGHTNING DRAGON FANG—TEN-FOLD!!"
Ten thunderclaps.
Ten slashes.
Ten arcs of destruction.
KRAK—KRAK—KRAK—!!!
Shoufeng parries every single one with wind.
He laughs wildly.
Yun Shoufeng:
"TRY HARDER!!"
Your grin widens.
Tentō:
"Oh I will."
The arena walls crumble under stray attacks.
WIND'S TRUE SPEED — YOU CAN'T KEEP UP
Shoufeng disappears.
Not fast.
Not blurred.
Gone.
A whisper—
SHHK.
Your chest.
Another—
SHHK.
Your cheek.
Shoufeng's voice trembles through the wind:
Yun Shoufeng:
"Too slow."
Your breath catches.
Tentō:
"I—
I can't SEE him…?!"
Wind howls.
Yun Shoufeng:
"Lightning reacts.
Wind anticipates."
Another cut.
Your pride shatters.
You shout:
Tentō:
"I CAN'T BE SLOWER!! I REFUSE IT!!"
Lightning erupts uncontrollably.
THE AWAKENING — LIGHTNING DRAGON'S ALL-SEEING EYES
Wind slashes again—
But something inside you breaks open.
Your irises glow.
Lightning halos spin inside your pupils.
Your gaze sharpens to inhuman clarity.
You whisper:
Tentō:
"Lightning Dragon's…
ALL-SEEING EYES."
Shoufeng FLINCHES.
Yun Shoufeng:
"W-What?!
You can SEE me?!"
You nod.
Lightning boiling.
Tentō:
"Try running now."
BLESSING OF LIGHTNING BEFORE THUNDER
Shoufeng prepares a wind-draw slash—
You appear at his sword.
You press your palm gently on his hilt.
He freezes.
Yun Shoufeng:
"…Impossible."
A deep cut erupts across his torso.
You appear behind him as lightning rings orbit your legs.
Tentō:
"Lightning Dragon's Sacred Movement Art—
Blessing of Lightning Before the Thunder."
Deep cuts burst along his body.
SHHK—SHHK—SHHK—!!
He staggers.
You smirk.
Tentō:
"Too slow now."
THUNDER FURY
Lightning detonates.
Dozens of cuts strike faster than sound.
CRACK—CRACK—CRACK—BOOM—!!!
Shoufeng collapses to one knee, gasping.
Yun Shoufeng:
"H-How…
How fast ARE YOU?!"
You raise your sword.
Lightning aura engulfs it like a second sun.
Tentō:
"You wanted my fastest?"
You swing downward.
Ten paces away.
Reality itself splits.
A lightning arc opens—
SHHHHK—!!!
A deep diagonal cut blossoms across Shoufeng's chest.
He falls backward.
Unconscious.
Referee:
"W-WINNER—
TENTŌ NARUKAMI!!!"
You turn.
Lift your hands.
And roar:
Tentō:
"STILL THE FASTEST, BABY!!!"
The arena erupts.
Jian Wuying quietly whispers—
Jian Wuying:
"…Fast.
But can he cut the heavens?"
Your next storm approaches.
The Heavenly Sword awaits you.
CHAPTER 9 — Royal Dragon Phoenix Tournament Part- 5 - THE HEAVENLY SWORD, THE FALL OF THE PETAL
The arena roared your name long after the referee announced the result.
Lightning still crackled faintly around your blade as you sheathed it.
And then—
A hand tapped your shoulder.
You turned.
It was Jian Wuying.
The Heavenly Sword.
The silent one.
The man known for speaking in single words—if he spoke at all.
But now?
He was smiling.
Actually smiling.
Jian Wuying:
"…Good fight."
A beat.
"…And good joke."
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Your brain stalled.
Tentō:
"Joke?
What joke?"
Liang Xue buried her face in her hands.
Lingyin started choking on her own spit.
Even Black Willow muttered:
Black Willow:
"…He forgot the pun…"
Jian Wuying nodded with a serene warmth that did NOT match the panic of everyone else.
Jian Wuying:
"Air head.
Very clever."
You stared at him as if he'd just told you he was your father.
Tentō:
"…Thanks…
I… guess?"
You genuinely had no idea what he was talking about.
Everyone in the VIP room died again on the spot.
A WEEK LATER — SEMIFINALS
The tournament grounds transformed.
Banners flew.
Crowds doubled.
Merchants screamed.
Young disciples fought in side arenas.
Elders argued about "youth these days destroying everything."
And you?
You just wanted to fight again.
A tournament official held a box of slips for the semifinal matchups.
Official:
"All semifinalists, draw lots to determine match order!"
You stepped forward, confident.
Lightning danced around your fingers.
You reached into the box…
Pulled the slip…
And froze.
Tentō:
"...huh?"
The official read aloud:
Official:
"Tentō Narukami—
automatically advances to the finals."
The crowd gasped.
You made a face like you'd eaten a lemon.
Tentō:
"Whyyyyyyy?!
I wanted to fight!!
I trained for this!!
What do you MEAN 'finals'?!
WHERE'S MY FIGHT?!"
The official flinched back.
Official:
"W-Well, one contestant always gets a bye in this round—"
Tentō:
"BUT WHY ME?!
I HAVE SO MUCH ENERGY LEFT!!
LET ME PUNCH SOMEONE!!"
Liang Xue placed a calm hand on your shoulder.
Liang Xue:
"Tentō… Tentō.
Breathe.
Please."
You slumped.
Lightning fizzled sadly around you.
Tentō:
"…This sucks."
Liang Xue smiled gently.
Liang Xue:
"Just watch the match.
It will be worth it."
You crossed your arms grumpily.
THE SEMIFINAL MATCH — FLOWER VS HEAVENS
Liang Xue stepped into the arena, pink petals swirling softly around her.
Opposite her—
Jian Wuying, Heavenly Sword, stepped forward with serenity so sharp it could cut.
The referee raised his arm.
Referee:
"SEMI-FINAL MATCH—BEGIN!"
But what happened wasn't a match.
It was an execution.
Round 1 — Opening Movement
Liang Xue rushed in with Plum Blossom footwork—
petals shimmering, sword flowing beautifully.
Jian Wuying took one step.
One.
She struck—
He wasn't there.
The wind didn't even ripple.
A faint line of blood appeared on her shoulder.
Your eyes widened.
Tentō:
"…Already…?"
Round 2 — Petal Storm
Liang Xue unleashed her petal storm technique—
the elegant rain of qi that even Black Willow respected.
It filled the air with killing blossoms.
The crowd gasped.
Jian Wuying simply drew half his blade.
SHING—
Every petal fell dead in the air.
Split perfectly in half.
Liang Xue staggered, stunned.
You muttered:
Tentō:
"Okay that… that's not normal."
Even Shoufeng—bandaged heavily from your fight—winced.
Yun Shoufeng:
"…That guy's a monster."
Round 3 — Final Exchange
Liang Xue gathered all her qi.
Her hair lifted.
Her blade shone.
A full-power Plum Blossom strike.
She dashed—
Heavenly Sword Jian Wuying closed his eyes.
Just one blink.
He opened them—
And she froze mid-step.
A sudden line of blood ran across her waist.
Her knees buckled.
She fell.
The arena went silent.
No applause.
No shock.
Just breathless horror.
Referee (shaking):
"W-Winner…
J-Jian Wuying…"
Jian Wuying sheathed his sword, not even looking winded.
His eyes lifted—
and locked onto you.
Serene.
Calm.
Sharp.
You felt it.
A challenge.
A promise.
A blade aimed at your throat.
You swallowed once.
Lightning flickered nervously.
Tentō:
"…Yeah.
This one's gonna be annoying."
Jian Wuying nodded slightly—
As if agreeing.