Rong, breathing heavily from both pain and fury, let his anger override his discipline. He saw an opening—Ning's calm posture seemed too relaxed. With a guttural shout, he committed to a massive, overhand reinforced punch, a hammer-blow meant to shatter stone. It was powerful, but it was slow. His shoulder dipped, his balance shifted too far forward. It was a mistake.
Ning, who had been evading, now stood his ground. He didn't brace. He simply arched his body, a subtle curve like a drawn bow. The faint dew-mist of his Jingdao reinforcement vanished. In its place, a different energy coalesced—not from within, but from the air around him. It was the Second Wheel: Shidow. Manipulation.
Ambient energy, the leftover heat from bodies, the vibration of sound, the very light in the grove, was pulled and woven. It didn't form a shield or a blast. It wrapped around his right arm, compressing, sharpening, until it held the form of a long, slender blade of shimmering, distorted air. There was no name announced, but the intent was clear, a signature technique given form: Silent Departure.
Ning disappeared.
It wasn't a speed blurs. One moment he was before Rong, the next he was three paces behind him, his back to his opponent, the shimmering air-blade dissolving from his arm. The movement made no sound. It didn't displace air. It was as if the space between the two points had simply been deleted.
Rong, his punch hitting empty air, stumbled. He caught himself, whirling around with a snarling, mocking grin. "What was that? A fancy—ghk."
A thin, perfect red line appeared across his throat. Not deep enough to kill, but precise, a masterful stroke that severed the flow of energy and consciousness without touching the major arteries. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the reinforced earth, out cold before he hit the ground.
A stunned silence blanketed the Ironwood Grove, broken only by the wind in the grey trees.
Then, chaos of whispers.
"What… what did he do?"
"I didn't see a thing!"
"He didn't even touch him!"
Lorel's twilight eyes were wide. She turned instinctively to her brother, the strongest person she knew. "Baili… did you see it?"
Baili's face was a sculpture of cold jade. He had seen the energy gather, the form take shape. He had not seen the movement itself. His Mastery Eyes had registered a discontinuity, a jump in reality. To admit he hadn't fully perceived it was unthinkable. He said nothing, his silence a fortress.
Even Chubbs was struck dumb, his mouth agape, all his clever commentary dried up.
Only Juxian reacted with sound, a soft, drawn-out "Oooooh…" of profound fascination. His earlier hopping excitement was gone, replaced by a terrifying, focused stillness. His eyes weren't wide with joy, but narrow with intense, hungry curiosity. He watched Ning walk calmly from the arena as if memorizing every atom of his being.
The Kang brothers, who had observed all previous matches with arrogant detachment, exchanged a single, fleeting glance. The younger one's fingers twitched slightly. It was the only sign that the calculation had changed.
The Third Wheel supervisor allowed a faint smile, as if the result had never been in doubt. "Winner, Ning. Next match. Baili. Versus Mei of the Doom College."
Baili stepped forward. Lorel, out of ingrained habit, spoke softly. "Good luck."
He didn't even glance at her. "Luck is for the weak. The strong create their own outcomes. As the Immortal did." His voice was loud enough to carry.
A ripple went through the crowd.
"Another one worshipping a dead man."
"Pity.The Immortal Jiang was powerful, though. If he were here…"
"Was.Keyword. He's not."
The words were like small stones hitting Lorel. She felt a pang, not for the disrespect to Jiang—that ignited a slow-burning anger in her chest—but for Baili, locking himself in that cold, lonely temple of memory. Her thoughts flickered, unbidden, to Gen. What would he think of this? Is he out there, hearing people say such things about his father? Is he… thinking of me at all? She shook her head slightly, dispelling the foolish thought.
Chubbs, misreading her pensive look, puffed up. "Worry not, my lady! Your brother is a cliff face! The tide may roar, but it cannot move the mountain!"
On the arena floor, Mei, the girl from the Doom College, was indeed beautiful in a sharp, polished way. But as her eyes flicked from Baili's imposing figure to Lorel's quiet grace on the sidelines, a spike of pure vexation twisted her features. She hadn't expected competition on that front either.
Mei raised her hands. With a fluid, practiced motion of Shidao, she didn't create an object, but used energy already around. She manipulated the dense mountain energy around her, twisting it into a coiling, formless serpent of violent grey and black force—the Doom Dragon. It thrashed in the air above her, jaws of condensed malice snapping soundlessly.
The crowd buzzed with recognition.
"The Doom College!From the Crimson Plateau Kingdom!"
"A top-tier school!Their manipulation arts are brutal!"
"That young master won't last a single exchange!"
Chubbs's ears perked up. His fear vanished, replaced by the gleam of opportunity. He sidled up to a group of loud detractors. "Is that so?" he chirped, his voice slick as oil. "Your eyes must be painted on. That 'young master' over there eats Doom Dragons for a light snack. I'd wager fifty Milky Stones he doesn't just win, he does it without moving from that spot."
"Fifty? You have fifty stones, fat man?" one laughed.
Chubbs's face fell with perfect,theatrical dismay. He turned to Lorel, his eyes wide pools of tragic pleading. "My lady, my pearl, my only hope! Lend your humble servant the means to teach these blind moles the nature of true light! I swear on my honor!"
"You have no honor," Lorel said flatly, but a tiny, exasperated smile touched her lips. She was learning his rhythms. With a sigh, she handed him a small pouch from her belt.
Chubbs whirled back, the pouch jingling. "The wager is set! Let the supervisor bear witness!"
The green-robed man gave a curt, amused nod.
In the ring, Mei sneered. "I'll allow you the first move. Don't say I wasn't gracious."
Baili didn't thank her. He simply raised a hand, palm open to the sky. This was not Shidow. This was Zhidow—Creation. From nothing, from his own will and the ambient energy, he summoned it. A cloud, not white and fluffy, but a deep, rolling grey shot through with veins of silver. It was dense, heavy, and it carried a palpable weight of presence. The Cloud Juggernaut. The air in the grove grew thicker, pressing down on everyone's shoulders.
Chubbs grinned like a fox in a henhouse.
"I warned you to give your all," Baili said, his voice cold. "You did not."
With a thought, he sent the Juggernaut forward. It didn't fly; it lumbered, an avalanche in slow motion.
Mei, confidence turning to alarm, sent her Doom Dragon coiling forward to meet it. The serpent of manipulated energy struck the cloud's front with a sound like tearing metal.
The Cloud Juggernaut did not slow. It did not break. The Doom Dragon didn't shatter; it was absorbed, smothered, its violent energy swallowed by the cloud's immense, silent mass. The Juggernaut reached Mei. There was no intricate duel. It was a tidal wave meeting a sandcastle. A silver-tendril flicked out, moving with deceptive speed. It wrapped around her hastily reinforced arms.
CRACK.
The sound was horribly clear. Mei screamed as both her forearms snapped. The cloud-tendril didn't cut, it crushed. Then it flung her, a ragdoll, out of the ring. She landed in a heap, spitting blood, her beautiful face contorted in agony and shock.
Lorel watched, unsurprised. She had learned this from her father's teachings, lessons Baili had absorbed like doctrine. Most cultivators used Creation to make shapes, empty shells powered by energy. True masters, like Baili, poured something of themselves into the shell—their will, their dao. For Baili, it was his absolute, unshakeable pride. The Cloud Juggernaut was not just a cloud. It was Pride given form, so dense and sure of its own dominance that a lesser, formless construct like the Doom Dragon stood no chance. It wasn't about power levels; it was about the essence within the creation.
The crowd was dead silent, then erupted into swears and groans.
Chubbs was a whirlwind of triumphant gloating, collecting pouches from stunned, furious cultivators. He returned, his arms full, beaming. "A fortune, my lady! A king's ran—"
Baili's hand extended. Wordlessly. Chubbs's face fell into such profound, comical despair it was almost art. With a whimper, he surrendered every last stone.
Baili took the heavy pouches, hefted them once, and then, without looking, held them out to Lorel. "Yours."
She took them, the weight surprising her. It was not a gift. It was a transaction. Her capital, returned with profit. His way of saying her judgement—backing Chubbs's absurd bet—had been correct, but he wanted no part of the messiness of it.
The supervisor's voice cut through the aftermath. "Winner, Baili. Next match. Lorel."
A murmur of interest. A new name.
"Versus," the man continued, "the Kang brothers."
The silence this time was absolute, then surged into loud disbelief. Two against one? The titans, already?
All eyes turned to Lorel, standing small and alone with the heavy pouch of stones in her hands, as the Kang brothers in their fine blue silks stepped into the ring together, their faces cold and identical.