The sun hung high over the Fangcradle, shadows drawn short across the stone.
Riven, Lara, Ziren, and Talia stood in a wide square — each spaced evenly on the central platform.
And for the first time since the tournament began, Riven became fully aware of the crowd.
There had always been noise. Always eyes.
But now?
It was a wall of gazes. Rows upon rows of spectators filled every ledge and cut-stone seat above, outer and inner disciples alike. Some were leaning forward so far they might tumble off the ledge. Some sat frozen, hands clenched. Others whispered predictions and wagers behind gloved hands.
It should've been overwhelming.
But strangely, it wasn't.
He didn't feel exposed. Or nervous. Or even irritated.
Just… aware.
The moment felt clean. Centered. The kind of quiet you only got before a storm.
Elder Syen raised one hand. His robes flared slightly in the wind. And then—
"Begin."
Silence.
No charge. No roar. No blur of movement.
Riven looked around.
This is not how I expected it go.
The silence stretched thin.
Then a sound broke it — not steel, not impact.
A voice.
Talia took a small breath. Then quietly, clearly, she said, "I surrender."
Her words cut through the arena like a blade.
Riven turned slightly, eyebrows lifting as she took a step back. There was no shame in her expression — just exhaustion. Her temple was still bleeding. Her stance had a slight tilt from a bruised ankle.
She'd fought two brutal matches to get here. And she was smart enough to know that she couldn't win a third. Not when her opponents were all in prime condition.
Elder Syen gave a nod.
"Leave the stage,"
And then there were three.
Riven's eyes slid to Ziren.
Still unmoving. Still quiet.
But his gaze was locked on Lara.
She turned to him now, brushing a strand of hair from her face, a grin forming on her face.
"Time for revenge."
But unlike expected she didn't instantly charge towards him.
Instead she turned to Ziren.
Her voice cut through the air.
"I've wanted to punch him since the trial."
Ziren didn't answer. But his weight shifted — not forward, but backward. A half-step. Just enough to say "go ahead".
Riven sighed.
He didn't remember signing up for this particular grudge match.
Then Lara moved.
Her glaive was in her hands before Riven even blinked — drawnfrom he didn't even know where, the head of the weapon catching sunlight as she spun it once through the air and came at him in a straight, explosive burst.
He ducked.
Barely.
The glaive's blade hissed through the air where his neck had just been.
Okay.
She wasn't playing around.
Riven dropped low, boots scraping the stone, and rolled left. The second swing came on the heels of the first, a downward arc that slammed into the stage floor and sent stone chips flying. Dust flared around them in a circle, clouding the arena for a heartbeat.
No greetings. No conversation.
The previous partnership seemed like a dream.
She was still mad.
"Still upset about the mantis?" he called, backpedaling fast as her next strike came low.
"I'll cut your only arm off and ask again," she snapped.
Yup.
Still mad.
Riven narrowly avoided a sweep that would've shattered his ankle. He kicked off the ground, using the momentum to circle her and reset the distance.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
He really wanted to hit her back.
But he didn't have the range.
Once again he felt the pain of not having a weapon with him.
He was sure that if he managed to hit he'd be able to end the fight in one hit.
He had faith in his physical strength.
"I didn't know it would piss you off this much," Riven said, his voice dry.
She didn't answer.
But her next lunge came faster.
She clearly didn't feel like granting mercy.
The glaive lashed out — low then high — carving through the dusty air like a scythe through grain.
Riven barely got his arm up to block. The haft slammed against his forearm, a sharp crack of impact jolting up to his shoulder.
He hissed through his teeth.
Even blocked, it burned.
Qi.
She was infusing every strike with a technique — a spiral pattern that ran through the length of her glaive like braided steel. Each swing left a faint streak of light in its wake, the edge gleaming with razor-thin wisps of condensed qi.
Spiral Edge Qi.
Riven recognized it a moment too late to feel smart. A mid-tier martial skill for polearms — one he'd skimmed in the Martial Skill Hall and immediately skipped, since he didn't use a weapon. But it came to mind now, watching it in action.
Efficient. Sharp. Heavy.
It wasn't just for show.
The technique let her channel qi through the entire weapon, turning each movement into a perfect balance of reach and force. When combined with her cultivation — late-stage Inner Essence Realm — the result was brutal. Her swings weren't just powerful. They were overwhelming.
He could feel it in every clash. Even with his absurd physical strength, he wasn't dominating the way he usually did. She was pushing back. Matching him. Sometimes winning the exchange outright.
But the most damning part of all wasn't her cultivation, or her reach, or even her glaive technique.
It was her drive.
Lara wanted this.
He could feel it.
She wasn't holding back, wasn't treating this like a spar. She wanted to win — for pride, for vengeance, for whatever goals lay behind her sharp, focused eyes.
She kept pushing him backward, always pressuring from one side.
And him?
Well.
He had his ticket already.
Riven ducked a heavy sweep, boots sliding over dust-slick stone. He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes flicking left, then right. The fight pressed on, but he moved a little slower now. A little sloppier.
Why was he even still going?
He'd already reached the top four. That had been his whole goal — to get into Verdance. First place wouldn't change that. And he wasn't interested in getting injured before he even got to the city.
Yes he had quite a decent pain tolerance.
But that didn't mean it doesn't hurt.
So why risk it?
He stumbled back from a hard strike, chest heaving. Lara didn't let up — she advanced smoothly, pushing ever forward, waiting for an opening.
And in that moment, from the corner of his eyes.
He saw something.
Or rather someone.
In the crowd.
Long hair trailing like windblown silk.
Robes untouched by dust.
A single jade tassel swinging gently from their waist.
Lumi.
For a second, he thought he was seeing things. The sun, the sweat, the exhaustion — it had to be playing tricks on him.
But no.
She was there.
Sitting near the middle rows, arms crossed, eyes amused.
She hadn't been there before. She must've shown up later — maybe curious to see how things ended.
Riven's eye twitched.
He could see the joke forming on her lips already.
Losing to third place? As second place?
He grit his teeth.
Gods.
He really didn't want to hear that.
He inhaled once, sharp and full, and straightened. Shoulders squared. Stance lowered. His fingers curled again, and this time — there was intent behind it.
Fine.
One more push.
An artifact weapon wouldn't be too bad to have.
His gaze snapped back to Lara.
Focus sharpened.
But even as clarity returned to his mind, a cold realization hit him.
That moment — just a second of distraction — it might've already been too much.
A single heartbeat in a fight like this could mean everything.
A shift in rhythm. A missed tell. An opening, unseen.
It might already be too late.
He adjusted his stance.
Still. He wanted to try.
Right foot sliding back, heel scraping across stone.
Muscles tensed. Qi pulsed faintly beneath his skin, coiling in his leg.
His palm opened — steady, waiting.
One counter. Even if he broke his bones. That was all he needed. Space to land a Falconburst Kick.
His breath slowed.
And then—
His eyes widened.
Shock rippled through him.