The morning sun hung pale above the Xuan Clan's arena, its light veiled by drifting clouds of dust and Ki.
It was meant to be a day of glory — yet the air itself felt heavy, as though the heavens were warning all below that only the worthy would remain standing by dusk.
At the center of the vast coliseum stood a single man, poised and composed — a Profound Concept Master whose mere presence bent the atmosphere around him.
His robes fluttered softly though no wind stirred. Every breath he took seemed synchronized with the pulse of the earth beneath his feet. The faint hum of Ki around his body wasn't loud, but deep — like a river hidden beneath stone, ancient and endless.
His name was Xuan Zhe, elder of the Xuan Clan and examiner of the first trial.
Yet even as he stood still, the mood of the arena was far from calm.
Whispers had died hours ago. The crowd — family members, clan supporters, curious wanderers — sat with tension etched into their faces. Contestants fidgeted in silence, their eyes darting from the stage to the Profound Master who awaited them. The difference between them was so vast that it felt wrong for them to even share the same ground.
Everyone knew why.
The gulf between a martial artist of the Body Refining Stage and one of Ki Manifestation was like the distance between clay and steel — but the gulf between Ki Manifestation and Profound Concept was like Heaven and Earth.
A Profound Concept Master was not merely controlling Ki; he had merged it with the laws of his Meridian Gates. Every attack carried the property of those gates — flame, frost, gravity, shadow, thunder, or something far deeper and more mysterious. When such power was unleashed, even if suppressed, it still pressed upon the heart like the weight of a mountain.
And so, the silence in the air was not fear of battle — it was the instinctive dread of small creatures facing a higher existence.
From above, the announcer's voice broke through, resonating with controlled Ki to reach every ear.
"The first stage of the Tournament will now begin!"
He spoke with professional calm, though even his voice carried a trace of strain. "The rules remain unchanged — numbers will be called randomly. Step forward when summoned. Failure to appear within ten seconds will result in disqualification. There will be no second chances."
He paused, eyes sweeping across the trembling faces below.
"The tournament… begins now!"
A wave of light spread from the jade pillar beside him, shimmering symbols spinning in the air as random numbers flickered into existence.
The first name was called.
A young man stumbled forward. His Ki flickered nervously around him, barely stable. He clasped his fists and bowed to Xuan Zhe, who gave only a brief nod.
Then it began.
At first, the Profound Master restrained his strength — his Ki output finely tuned, almost delicate.
He attacked not with visible movement, but with intent.
The air shimmered, and the youth's knees buckled before the strike even reached him. His body collapsed backward, eyes rolling white, foam at his lips. He was carried out before the echoes of his failure faded.
One second participant.
Then a third.
Then a fifth.
Then ten.
Each fell faster than the last.
The crowd began to murmur, and those waiting next in line turned pale.
Some clenched their fists until blood dripped from their palms; others simply accepted their fate, eyes blank.
Xuan Zhe did not gloat.
He did not even look impressed. His face remained calm — perhaps too calm — but disappointment slowly began to bleed into his eyes.
By the time fifty participants had stepped forward, none had passed.
A faint sigh escaped him. His sharp gaze swept across the trembling crowd like a blade of wind.
"So this," he murmured to himself, "is the talent of the new generation…"
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
"This was why I objected to this stage. A waste of effort."
Xuan Zhe was a man obsessed with progress — a perfectionist born from fire and discipline. To him, training was not simply effort, it was devotion. He could tell a martial artist's potential from a single glance — the steadiness of their posture, the rhythm of their breathing, the clarity of their Ki flow.
The moment these participants walked up the stage, he already knew how long they would last.
And so they fell — one after another, like leaves before a storm.
The difference between them and him was not technique. It was realm — a distance that could not be crossed by will alone. For every participant that fell, the audience's silence grew heavier, as if even breathing loudly would insult the power standing at the center of the stage.
By the fiftieth failure, even the spectators began to feel their hearts tremble beneath the spiritual pressure that lingered in the air.
Some of the weaker cultivators in the stands coughed blood without understanding why.
It was as though the arena itself had become a living creature, rejecting the unworthy.
And still, Xuan Zhe stood unmoving — back straight, gaze sharp, his Ki perfectly restrained.
To him, this was not arrogance. This was mercy.
The rules did not change.
Withstood one strike from Martial Master Xuan Zhe, and you passed.
No secret formations.
No footwork, no profound arts — only a single slash of Ki.
And yet that single strike had already erased fifty lives' worth of dreams.
The crowd waited as the floating jade pillar spun again, numbers cascading in a stream of light until it stopped.
No. 157.
A hush swept the stands.
From the waiting platform stepped a young man with white hair, the color of frost under moonlight.
He wore a white martial robe trimmed with thin black lines, simple but precise, as though every thread had been measured to obey order.
His movements were calm — neither arrogance nor fear — only purpose.
He clasped his fists and bowed.
"Greetings to the Martial Master," he said, his tone steady, respectful but unbent. "This one is Tuo Hanyi, from Black Lake Village. It is an honor to stand before Senior Xuan Zhe."
For the first time since the trial began, the stern examiner's expression shifted.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — a fleeting curve that many thought he had forgotten how to make.
"Mn," he uttered softly. "Proceed."
Tuo Hanyi inhaled.
The air around him thickened.
He planted his feet, the ground cracking beneath his soles as Ki sank into the soil. His legs rooted like pillars; his frame broadened, the faint sheen of condensed energy coating his skin.
He raised both arms, crossing them in front of his chest to form an X, guarding his heart and core.
Every muscle tensed until his flesh gleamed faintly, veins pulsing with light.
His Ki flowed inward — not out — folding again and again into his body, tempering it to near-metal hardness.
The crowd could hear it: a low, thrumming vibration, the sound of Ki condensing into matter.
Whummm— thrum-thrum-thrum.
A murmur rippled through the arena.
"That stance…" someone whispered.
"It's self-created," another breathed. "That's not from any clan or sect."
Indeed, it was his own creation — the Nine Heaven Body Scripture.
A defensive art built not on deflection but rebound.
Every block returned a fragment of the attacker's power — a conversation of Ki, exchanging force for force.
Xuan Zhe's gaze sharpened. "Nice stance," he said, voice even — the first open compliment he had offered that day.
He adjusted his Ki, drawing it down from his natural mid-Profound Concept realm to early stage, suppressing his presence until the air steadied. Even then, the energy coiling around his sword-hand shimmered like liquid light.
"Prepare yourself."
Tuo Hanyi lowered his center of gravity. His breath synchronized with the pulse of the earth. For a heartbeat, the arena stilled.
Then Xuan Zhe moved.
"Phhoooowss—!"
The sound tore through the air — not a shout, not wind, but raw Ki displacement, a pressure wave that cracked the stone floor.
The invisible blade flashed forward faster than the eye could trace, cutting a silver arc through the dust.
"BOOM—!!"
Impact.
A violent shockwave erupted, rolling outward in concentric rings, scattering sand and Ki residue for two li around.
Spectators gasped as protective barriers flared to life, rippling under the pressure.
The smell of scorched stone filled the air.
When the light cleared, Tuo Hanyi still stood.
His stance had shifted half a step back, arms smoking faintly, sleeves shredded to the elbow.
A thin trickle of blood slipped from the corner of his mouth, dark against pale skin.
He exhaled once — a trembling breath — then bowed deeply.
"Thank you for your mercy, Martial Master."
A stunned silence followed. Then, murmurs cascaded through the stands like rain.
"He's still standing!"
"He withstood it!"
"Impossible— he's from Black Lake Village! How can a villager reach Profound Concept without a sect?"
Up above, elders leaned forward; even the seven clan leaders stirred.
In the center, Xuan Zhe's eyes gleamed with rare approval. He stepped closer, voice carrying clearly.
"Your technique is ingenious," he said. "But focus more on the rebound. Your defense is near perfect — yet your energy stagnates at the joints. When you flood Ki into your muscles, do not neglect the tendons. They are the bridges between power and motion."
Tuo Hanyi bowed again, voice steady despite the blood at his lips.
"Thank you for the guidance, Senior."
The Profound Master nodded once. "Good. You pass."
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the arena erupted.
"Monster!"
"He actually did it!"
"From a nameless village—!"
The noise swelled into chaos, the crowd's disbelief melting into awe.
Above them, laughter thundered — bold, unrestrained.
"Hahaha!"
The voice came from the upper pavilion, deep and booming. Bai Zhen of the Bai Clan leaned forward, grinning like a lion.
"Now this is interesting! Xuan Feng, this generation still hides a few gems after all!"
For the first time that morning, the tournament felt alive again.
And in the center of it all, Tuo Hanyi straightened, wiping the blood from his mouth.
Tuo Hanyi turned to descend the stage. Each step was heavy, each breath controlled, but the fire in his eyes did not fade. The world's noise dimmed behind him; only his own heartbeat remained.
Ba-dum… Ba-dum… Ba-dum…
He looked once at his own hands, faint tremors still there — not from fear, but from thrill. The feeling of true suppression. The realization of how far the heavens stretched above.
He smiled faintly.
"That was the power of a middle stage Profound Master…" he whispered. "Then I still have a long road ahead."