Without hesitation, Rank 10 shot forward first, a blur of motion aimed straight for Lenna Jia's throat.
Riven's eyes snapped to Rank 7, anticipating something fast and brutal as well. But the boy didn't even glance at him. He locked onto Rank 10.
He aimed a strike to Rank 10's midsection, but the bigger boy twisted with unnatural speed and ducked under it, aborting his lunge toward Lenna.
That cost him.
She didn't waste the chance — her cracked gauntlet snapped up with a sharp jab, catching him clean in the side of the head. Rank 10 stumbled back, dazed.
Then chaos.
The three of them fell into a brutal knot of fists and elbows and qi-enhanced footwork. No elegance. No finesse. Just sheer, blood-soaked scrapping.
Riven didn't move.
He simply watched.
Still. Alert. Calm.
The crowd around the arena roared faintly, but even through that din, he could hear the sharp exhales, the pained grunts, the dull thuds of impact.
None of them spared a single glance at him.
Not even once.
What the hell is going on?
While Riven was confused, the others had no doubts about their decision.
That guy was a core disciple — and he had actually managed to kill a Lesser Feral.
If any of them had encountered a beast like that, they'd be thanking their lucky stars for the next week just for surviving.
They simply weren't on the same level.
It wasn't just reputation. It was reality.
One shouldn't assume that a middle-stage Inner Essence Realm cultivator could defeat a Lesser Feral.
Those beasts were often equivalent to mid- to late-stage cultivators — with natural weapons, heightened instincts, and reinforced hides that made them even harder to injure.
Most disciples at their level wouldn't stand a chance.
So, of course, they weren't going to fight someone who could kill a beast like that.
At least if they fought each other, they had a chance.
If they could be the last one standing alongside Riven, they'd make it into the top eight.
That was the goal.
The scuffle was still going — fast and savage. But it was starting to unravel.
Rank 10 was losing ground, breath coming in short gasps as he staggered back under a flurry of blows from the other two. His stance was all power, no precision — and against two opponents, that was a death sentence.
Lenna's gauntleted hand cracked across his jaw.
A moment later, Rank 7 surged forward with a short blade — a small curved knife he'd drawn during the fight. He slashed low.
Blood hit the arena floor.
Rank 10 collapsed with a grunt, one hand clutching his thigh as the injury flared open. He didn't get back up.
A breath of hesitation.
Then Lenna turned — only to catch the handle of the knife with her forearm.
It skidded off her cracked gauntlet, but the impact left her off-balance.
Rank 7 didn't stop.
He followed with a shoulder slam and a wild hook. Lenna tried to brace, but she was already too worn down — too many hits, too much bruised muscle. The punch took her clean off her feet.
She hit the stone floor with a thud and didn't rise.
A shallow rise and fall of her chest was the only sign of consciousness.
The crowd murmured above. A few claps. Some whistles.
And just like that, the match was done.
Two still standing.
One of them was Riven — untouched.
The other was Rank 7 — panting, blood on his blade, face slick with sweat.
He looked up — and for the first time, met Riven's gaze.
There was no challenge there.
Just wariness.
And maybe the tiniest bit of fear.
Riven tilted his head slightly. Said nothing.
What a show.
He almost felt like clapping.
Then a gong rang faintly from the main stage.
The other matches had finished as well.
The top eight had been decided.
There was no pause. No chance to catch a breath.
Elder Syen's voice rang out again — steady, unrelenting.
"Winners of group one and group four — gather on Stage One.
Winners of group two and group three — gather on Stage Two."
Riven didn't move. He didn't need to.
He was already standing on Stage Two.
The others would come to him.
His gaze shifted slightly, thoughts ticking through as the crowd buzzed.
His group was referred to as Group Two due to his placement.
Which meant the other group had been named after the third-ranked contestant.
Lara.
So that's who he'd be fighting next.
Riven let out a breath through his nose, low and quiet.
He had a feeling things wouldn't go as smoothly this time.
Moments later, the other victors arrived — stepping onto the stage one by one.
Lara was first. Still calm. Still unreadable. Her gaze flicked over Riven for only a moment before returning to the center of the platform.
Following behind her was someone Riven didn't expect.
Durin Vel.
Rank 14.
It was the same guy who'd clapped him on the shoulder during the placement announcements. The smug one.
Rank 14 made it, but Rank 6 didn't?
Riven's brow twitched slightly.
Huh.
Either Durin had been underestimated — or extremely lucky.
When both stepped onto the stage, Elder Syen's voice rang out from the main stage without delay.
"Begin."
Riven didn't move.
Neither did Lara.
Not right away.
Instead, she turned to him — slow, deliberate.
Riven was sure she'd pounce on him any second now.
But instead she did something he'd never expected.
"Proposal" she said, blunt as a brick.
She flicked her eyes toward the other two — Durin and Rank 7, still half-winded from their last match.
"We clean up the trash together. Then I deal with you in the next round."
Riven stared at her.
Is this the same girl I know?
He had expected a big fight. Maybe some tough words. But not an alliance offer.
Still.
It was a smart call.
He only needed to get top four.
He gave a single, short nod.
"Sure."
It couldn't have gone better for him.
He only needed top four to be eligible for the trip to Verdance.
And if they beat down the other two, he'd be in the top four.
Besides he wasn't sure he could beat Lara in a fight anyway.
Not without Extreme Speed still being on cooldown.
Lara gave a noncommittal grunt and started walking toward the others.
Riven followed. Not quite side-by-side — more like two people coincidentally heading toward the same bar fight.
Except it wasn't a bar, but a stone stage surrounded by hundreds of people.
Slightly less ale. Significantly more judgment.
Durin stared as they approached — eyes narrowing like he was trying to do math in his head and realizing he couldn't find x.
Rank 7, eyes still wide from the last match, looked like he wanted to run.
They didn't bother attacking.
Durin let out a sharp sigh, raised his hand, and said flatly, "I yield."
Rank 7 hesitated a second longer. Then did the same.
Well this was anticlimatic.
The match was over.
Just like that.
Riven and Lara stood alone on the stage.
A wave of something low and quiet rolled through Riven's chest.
Relief.
Top four.
He'd made it.
That was it. The ticket. The opening.
Verdance wasn't just a distant hope anymore — it was real. A few days from now, he'd be walking its streets.
Finding answers. A map. A way back.
Lara turned slightly toward him — not fully, just enough that he caught the sharp line of her jaw, the glint in her eyes.
She looked… less like an enemy now.
Still sharp, still serious, but not someone trying to rip his throat out.
In fact, now that she wasn't opposite him but beside him, she was…
Kind of nice to look at.
Then she opened her mouth.
"Don't think this makes us allies," she said quietly. "I'll beat you up next round."
Riven blinked.
Oh. Right.
He'd almost forgotten he'd stolen her kill.
Not friends.
The two of them waited in silence, the wind brushing past as the crowd murmured faintly above them.
On another arena of the Fangcradle, a clash echoed out — a burst of qi, a sharp scream.
The fight on Stage One hadn't finished yet.
But it was close.
Riven narrowed his eyes, looking across the field — toward the blur of shapes still locked in combat under the high sun.
Someone was about to fall.