Silence fell with ceremonial precision.
He stepped forward, boots echoing once, twice, then settling into stillness at the center of the hall. Eyes followed him from every tier. Elders leaned forward. Young disciples whispered behind their sleeves.
Across the polished floor, another heir stood waiting.
Their gazes collided.
Not with curiosity.Not with caution.
With sparks.
"So," the other said, voice carrying effortlessly, lips curved in something that was not quite a smile. "The Azure Sect sends you this year. Either they're confident… or deeply bored."
A ripple of muted laughter passed through the hall.
He did not look away. "And the Crimson Sect still mistakes noise for presence. How reassuring."
That earned a sharper reaction. A few elders frowned. A few smiled despite themselves.
The host elder cleared his throat, but the tension had already slipped the leash.
"Formal spar," the elder announced. "First exchange only. No grievous intent."
They moved into position.
The distance between them was exact. Measured. Ritualized.
Yet something about the way they stood felt wrong, like two blades forged to the same length but tempered in different fires.
The gong sounded.
Steel flashed.
The exchange was swift, precise, brutal in its restraint. A step, a parry, a twist of the wrist that forced distance rather than blood. Their movements mirrored and countered each other with uncanny familiarity.
Too familiar.
A murmur spread through the audience.
"Strange," someone whispered. "It's like they know—"
The clash ended as abruptly as it began.
They stood facing one another, breathing steady, expressions unreadable.
"Well played," the Crimson heir said lightly. "I almost thought you'd forgotten how to keep up."
He leaned closer, just enough for the words to slip past the audience.
"You still hesitate on the third step."
The Azure heir's eyes narrowed. "And you still talk when you should move."
They stepped back.
Applause erupted.
To the hall, it was rivalry.To the elders, political theater.
To neither of them was it new.