The day was beautiful.
Or perhaps it was already night. Distance and the usual caution between territories had stretched the journey of the neighboring clans far longer than anyone expected. Even if some of them had stumbled into the pitfall traps I had left scattered along the outer routes, they should not have taken this much time. I still did not know that the traps had actually worked. I had overestimated the average cultivator and never bothered to walk back and check the sites myself.
Jack found me near the outer path leading to the main venue. His face carried the quiet excitement of someone who had watched several favorable things fall into place. He began talking about the successful trades, the improved relationship with certain outer elders, and the fact that our names had not yet been linked to any trouble. In the middle of his words he casually mentioned that quite a few members of the visiting groups had fallen victim to pitfall traps along the way.
I kept my expression calm while a cold prayer rose unbidden in my heart.
I cleaned every trace that could point back to me. I only killed a small number this time because I will need to kill far more in the future. If there is any god or goddess watching this world, please do not let me be caught for these crimes and end up as a cooling corpse.
Far away, in a place no mortal cultivator could reach, the god who ruled over the Judgment Hall shivered for no clear reason.
"Must be the wind," the god muttered, rubbing his arms, and returned to his endless work.
We entered the venue of the celebration party together.
The central courtyard of the Wen clan's outer territory had been transformed. Long tables of polished spirit wood stretched in careful rows. Spirit lanterns of soft gold and pale blue hung from every beam and high branch, casting overlapping circles of light across the flagstones. The air already carried the mixed scents of roasting spirit beast meat, sweet rice wine, and the sharp green smell of crushed silent-grass. Disciples in neat robes moved back and forth carrying trays and jars. Laughter and conversation rose and fell like waves.
At the far end of the courtyard an arena had been prepared for the first entertainment of the night: Mandrake Pull-up.
The arena itself was a perfect circle roughly thirty paces across, marked by a low ring of white stones. The ground inside had been freshly turned and then thickly scattered with the grey ashes of silent-grass. Those ashes formed a barrier that swallowed sound; once a mandrake began to scream, the noise would remain trapped inside the circle and would not disturb the rest of the banquet. Several wooden racks stood at the edge of the arena, each holding a row of freshly dug mandrakes still half-buried in pots of dark soil. The creatures looked like fat, pale radishes with tiny wrinkled human faces twisted in permanent distress. Even while still in the soil they gave occasional soft whimpers that made the nearby disciples shift uncomfortably.
Candidates would step forward according to the order in which their clans had joined the gathering. Each would pull a living mandrake free from the earth at the same moment. The one who endured the longest would be declared the winner. Protective spells or skills were considered necessary for anyone who valued their sanity.
The real purpose of the contest was obvious to anyone who had spent time among clan politics. The event existed to let the young masters and heirs of the four clans shine in front of the guests. External members like me, who received far fewer resources and far less private instruction, were expected to serve as convenient stepping stones.
I was placed dead last in the order.
One by one the earlier candidates climbed the low stone steps into the arena. Most of them lasted no longer than seventeen seconds. Their faces twisted, their hands shook, and they released the screaming root as if it had burned them. I watched from the sidelines with mild boredom, yet I still picked up one or two useful observations. A thin layer of sand created by earth magic could muffle the volume of the cry. Placing the mandrake in deeper shadow lowered the sound even further. Several people in the crowd noticed the same methods; some had probably known them already.
My turn finally arrived.
I stepped into the circle of white stones. The silent-grass ashes whispered under my boots. I crouched, wrapped both hands around the pale neck of the mandrake, and pulled it free of the soil.
Five seconds.
I thought that length of time would already be enough to crack ordinary glass.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Thirty.
The scream of the mandrake was a physical pressure against the skin, a high, endless wail that tried to crawl inside the ears and nest behind the eyes. Forty seconds. Forty-five. Forty-eight.
The number was far beyond what anyone in the courtyard had expected. Even the previous second-place result had only reached forty-two seconds. No one watching knew the truth of how I managed it. I had woven several of my spells and skills together with careful timing.
First I activated Sense Transfer, closing my sense of hearing completely and sharpening every other sense in compensation.
Next came Ember, the spell I had taken from one of the richer corpses inside the Rank 6 inheritance, providing a steady, controlled heat that never spiked.
Then I layered Sand Soil, a spell I had purchased earlier on credit from a discreet outer-market stall, keeping the temperature soft and warm rather than sharp enough to create glass-like fragments of force.
Finally Illusion Hand wrapped the entire process in a thin veil so that no observer could see the exact techniques until my karma nearly ran dry.
I released the mandrake at last, set it carefully back into its pot, and stepped out of the arena. My ears still rang faintly even though I had closed them. I was already looking forward to the next part.
"Hehe."
Exactly as I had predicted, the heirs and young masters of the four clans entered the arena next. Two were female, two were male, and the final one was the newly chosen inheritance heir. They looked at me as they passed, their expressions ranging from mild irritation to open offense, as if my result had somehow insulted them personally.
One after another they announced their names and clans while stepping into the light of the spirit lanterns.
Sleeve Tod of the Tod clan—sharp fox-like face, narrow grey eyes, thin scar running from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, short black hair longer on top.
Marie May of the May clan—soft features, large amber eyes, a light scatter of freckles across her nose, chestnut-brown hair tied in a loose braid, small mole beneath her left eye.
Jane Wen of the Wen clan—cool blue-grey eyes, high black ponytail, refined oval face, robes so neat they looked freshly pressed.
Rover Jin of the Jin clan—broad-shouldered and tanned, short dark-brown hair, sharp brown eyes that carried a constant challenge, small silver earring glinting on his left ear.
Ruthra Args of the Wen clan, Inheritance Heir—soft black hair falling neatly to his collar, calm brown eyes, gentle scholarly face, slightly loose robes that made him look more like a quiet student than a newly chosen successor.
The contest began again.
Ruthra was the first to give up. He had only just received the Rank 6 inheritance and had not been given enough time to convert its power into real physical strength or refined protective techniques. He lasted only fourteen seconds before his face went pale and he released the root with a choked gasp.
Seconds crawled past. Sweat poured down the remaining faces. Their eyes turned bloodshot from the continuous, trapped scream that the silent-grass ashes refused to let escape.
Sleeve Tod's illusion skill failed first. Without any defensive magic to shield his mind, he collapsed sideways and lay unconscious on the ashes.
Jane Wen forced her fire magic outward in an attempt to dominate the mandrake's emotional fluctuations. The effort held for a while. She reached forty-eight seconds, then forty-nine, before her control broke and she too fell unconscious.
Rover Jin finally pushed the mandrake back into the soil with shaking hands and sat down heavily to recover. All of them were clearly injured from the strain of protecting themselves against the creature's cry.
The external members of the various clans burst into sudden cheers for me. An outer disciple had lasted as long as the young masters themselves. Most of the higher-ranked guests, however, looked openly displeased. The young masters had been injured in front of visiting clans. I was injured even more heavily—my hands still trembled slightly and a thin line of blood had run from one ear—yet I could still walk under my own power. It was an embarrassing result for the internal disciples who were supposed to stand above people like me.
The medic on duty moved from one fallen candidate to the next, his hands glowing with soft green light as he healed ruptured eardrums and frayed nerves. Under his breath he cursed without stopping.
"Are you people masochists…? Who designed this stupid game…?"
I stood at the edge of the white-stone circle, feeling the residual sluggishness of the Wealth Burning Smoke still floating in my limbs, and allowed myself a small, private smile that no one else noticed.
The real celebration had only just begun.