Chapter 28 – Bows Before Blades
Word of Lin Xuan's first match spread faster than wind over water.
By the time he returned to the waiting platform, whispers were already nipping at his heels.
"Did you see that sweep?"
"Zhao Renkai's a slab of iron—he got tossed like driftwood."
"Danfeng's disciple? Since when does an alchemy elder raise a spear-wielding monster?"
Lin Xuan ignored the chatter, hands folded behind his back, aura sunk beneath the Veil of the Hidden Moon to an unremarkable calm.
The gong sounded.
"Next match—Lin Xuan versus Han Kui!"
A wiry inner disciple hopped onto the stage, jaw tight, knuckles white on his sword hilt. He looked at Lin Xuan, swallowed, and cupped his fists.
"I… concede."
A breathless ripple rolled through the stands.
The officiating elder blinked. "Confirmed. Winner—Lin Xuan."
Lin stepped down, expression unchanged.
---
Why They Bowed: Cultivation Norms
Between bouts, Elder Mu took the chance to remind the crowd—mostly new outer disciples—how this all should work.
"In ordinary progression," his voice carried, "a promising disciple spends months pushing through early Qi Condensation. The mid-stages can take half a year per level even with support. Reaching peak—level nine—often swallows years. Foundation Establishment is a gate; without fortune and guidance, some never step through."
He raised a brow toward the lower stands. "Our Lin Xuan entered the sect not long ago. By norms, he should be Qi Condensation level one or two. Instead, he stands in Foundation Establishment—and fights like he's been there."
That put steel into the surrenders. It wasn't just fear—it was arithmetic.
---
The gong again.
"Lin Xuan versus Ma Chen!"
A broad-shouldered spear-user took the stage, met Lin's eyes… and slowly shook his head.
"I forfeit."
Murmurs swelled into debate.
"Cowardice."
"Wisdom. Why break your bones for pride?"
"He's saving strength for the losers' bracket."
"There isn't a losers' bracket."
Up on the elders' dais, Danfeng watched with a small, satisfied smile he didn't bother to hide. He hadn't lifted a finger to arrange anything; Lin's reputation was doing the work. Beside him, Elder Heng's jaw twitched as his disciples slogged through bruising wars of attrition while Lin drifted round to round untouched.
Farther down the row, Qiu Wansheng leaned forward, fingers templed. He didn't bother masking the irritation in his eyes. "Convenient," he said lightly to no one in particular.
---
Highlights Without Lin
To keep the crowd's blood hot, the overseers staggered Lin's matches with crowd-pleasers.
Senior Brother Wen split a stone talisman barrage with a single sword arc, runes blowing apart like sparks.
Junior Sister Mu danced across the tiles, her movement art turning enemy strikes into empty air before her palm sent shockwaves through a shielded opponent.
A dark horse core disciple, Xu Tian, revealed a brutal earth-heaviness fist that cratered the platform's wards twice.
But the strangest moment of the round was the quietest: each time Lin's name rang out, a new opponent stepped forward, weighed the memory of Zhao Renkai hitting the ground, and chose breath over bravado.
Concede. Concede. Concede.
By late afternoon, Lin had advanced through the remainder of the first round with barely a scuff on his boots.
---
Ripples on the Surface
"Your boy's path looks awfully smooth," Elder Heng drawled, trying for casual and missing by half a wince.
Danfeng's smile was all tea steam and hidden steel. "Ah? I suppose fear is a kind of strategy."
Heng's nostrils flared.
Qiu's gaze never left Lin. He flicked a glance to an attendant, the tiniest tilt of his head sending instructions rippling outward. If the first round wouldn't test Danfeng's disciple, the second would. Pairings could be nudged. Tempers could be fanned. A certain core disciple with a grudge could be promised a favor.
Let the boy meet a wall before the finals.
---
Old Faces, Old Opinions
On the lower tier, a familiar voice scoffed loud enough for several rows to hear. A former dorm-mate from Lin's first week in the outer sect pointed with his chin.
"Don't be fooled. He just got lucky. First real fight in round two and he'll fold."
"Like Zhao Renkai folded?" someone shot back.
The scoffer reddened and shut his mouth.
Lin heard none of it; or rather, he let none of it touch him. His breathing stayed even, his focus narrow—cataloging the rhythms of other finalists, the footwork tells, the time it took various techniques to wind. He sketched counters in his mind, corrections to his own angles, when to compress, when to explode.
---
End of Round One
As dusk gilded the arena's stone, the final gong brought the round to a close. Names flared on the skyward array in silver script—the thirty-two who would enter Round Two.
Lin Xuan's name pulsed among them like a calm star.
The crowd's tone had shifted. Curiosity had supplanted dismissal; uncertainty had replaced mockery. Even those still sneering kept their voices soft.
Down on the sanded steps, Danfeng rose, smoothed his sleeve, and allowed himself one last look at Heng's pinched profile. Small victories had their savor.
High on the edge of the dais, Qiu Wansheng's eyes were cold coins. Somewhere beyond the arena, a messenger sprinted toward the pairings hall.
Tomorrow, the games would stop bowing and start biting.