Above the coliseum that hummed with restless excitement, seven figures sat upon the high balcony, each representing a force that shaped the balance of the continent. Their seats were arranged in a perfect circle of carved blackstone, each etched with their clan's sigil, and the air around them shimmered faintly from the weight of their gathered Ki.
At the center of the right flank, Bai Zhen, patriarch of the Bai Clan, leaned back with an unrestrained grin tugging at his lips. His short white hair and full beard fluttered softly, his robe of silver and pale steel glimmering faintly as if woven with threads of moonlight. He was laughing—not mockingly, but with the delight of a warrior who had finally seen something interesting after days of mediocrity.
"Hahaha! Now this is something worth my time," he said, voice echoing faintly across the hall. "I wasn't expecting much from this year's tournament. The first rounds were dreadful—lacking in spirit and power. The so-called geniuses are nothing but polished stones pretending to be gems."
He glanced down at the vast arena below where disciples and independent martial artists prepared for the next phase of trials.
"I assumed the true talents would come from our own clans," Bai Zhen continued, his tone sharp yet filled with mirth. "After all, the rivers draw from the mountains. But this… this boy—Tuo Hanyi, was it? A dragon swimming in a lake, unassuming yet unyielding. Tell me, what kind of Meridian Gate does he possess? I must admit, I am quite curious."
He turned, eyes glinting with a mixture of intrigue and the hunger of a seasoned predator.
"If fate allows, I might just take him as my disciple. It would be a shame to let such raw power go to waste under mediocrity."
Across from him, Xuan Feng, patriarch of the Xuan Clan, exhaled softly, his calm presence diffusing the tension in the air. His expression remained unreadable, yet his words carried a steady authority that could quell storms.
"Calm yourself, Bai Zhen," he said in his measured tone. "The tournament has merely begun. The first ripple doesn't define the tide."
His words hung in the air like an invisible current—gentle but commanding. The other rulers exchanged subtle glances; Xuan Feng was always composed, his eyes serene yet concealing the depth of an ocean. He had the kind of demeanor that made even Bai Zhen's laughter soften for a moment.
Then came a melodic laugh—a voice as smooth as flowing starlight.
Han Suyin, the Star Weaver of the Heavenly Astral Palace, brushed a strand of black hair from her face, her eyes glimmering with faint amusement.
"Old Bai, you should listen to him," she said teasingly. "What Xuan Feng means is that you should brace yourself. You'll be shocked by how many dark horses are still hidden beneath the surface. The true storm has yet to arrive."
She rested her chin lightly on her knuckles, the corners of her lips curving into a knowing smile.
"And when it does, even your Bai Clan might need to hold its breath."
Bai Zhen scoffed but smiled, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
"Dark horses, you say? Hah. I've yet to see one that can truly run beside my clan's bloodline."
He turned then, his sharp eyes narrowing toward the man sitting two seats away—broad-shouldered, his presence heavy and grounded like a mountain.
"Speaking of bloodlines, Shan Guo," Bai Zhen said suddenly, his grin returning. "I heard your third son is participating this year, is that true?"
The air shifted subtly.
Every ruler except Xuan Feng turned their gaze toward Shan Guo, the Earth-Root Patriarch of the Shan Clan. His aura was thick and earthen, the type that crushed men with its steadiness rather than sharpness. Yet at that moment, his jaw tightened faintly—so small a change, yet everyone noticed.
He gave a dry chuckle, rubbing his chin.
"Yes… my third boy insisted on joining. I tried to dissuade him, but youth is blind to wisdom."
The faintest crease touched the corner of his eyes.
"Still, don't expect much. He's sturdy, but far from dazzling."
Sensing the curiosity lingering in the air, Shan Guo abruptly steered the conversation elsewhere, his deep voice warming as he spoke.
"Unlike your eldest, Bai Zhen. Now he's something else entirely. And Xuan Feng's second child—ah, the rumors don't do them justice. To think both possess the composure of battle-seasoned warriors before even touching the Unity Stage. Truly remarkable."
The subtle deflection wasn't lost on anyone. A few of the rulers exchanged knowing looks, and Mo Jiao of the Mo Clan gave a low laugh, swirling the wine in his cup.
Jian Shixin of the Profound Sword Pavilion merely smiled faintly, eyes half-closed as if disinterested, though his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword.
Zhuo Ran of the Blazing Sun Immortal Palace exhaled through his nose, his aura flickering like faint heatwaves.
For a brief moment, silence settled between them—seven forces, each with their own schemes, rivalries, and hidden expectations, watching the next generation clash below.
Only Xuan Feng remained still, his gaze distant, fixed not on the warriors below but on something beyond the horizon.
He spoke quietly, almost to himself.
"Every generation births its monsters… The question is whether they rise as guardians—or calamities."
The others fell silent at that.
Bai Zhen's grin faded slightly, replaced with a thoughtful look.
Han Suyin smiled still—but her eyes no longer glittered with teasing amusement.
And from below, the faint roar of the crowd echoed upward, like the heartbeat of an era on the verge of change.
The arena felt different now.
It wasn't just the roaring crowd or the whispers carried by the wind; the very air seemed to tremble with new emotion. After Tuo Hanyi shattered the expectations of the tournament's first stage, a surge of determination swept across the contestants waiting at the sidelines, igniting a fire in their eyes that had been missing before. Spirits that once dragged like dead weight were lifted. Hearts once drowning in doubt stirred awake.
The rules of the stage hadn't changed. They were painfully simple:
Withstand one attack from Martial Master Xuan Zhe, and you pass.
A single slash of Ki infused with the might of a martial master, yet reduced to match the abilities of whoever stood before him.
But simple rules did not mean simple survival.
Before Tuo Hanyi walked up, the arena felt like a graveyard for wasted talent. Dozens had fallen like wheat under a scythe. But now—
Now it felt like a storm was gathering.
Contestants still failed. Many in fact. Some were blown backward the moment Xuan Zhe flicked his arm, collapsing in a heap the instant the golden arc of Ki struck them. But the expressions of those watching did not sink into despair. Because unlike before, successes were beginning to emerge with meaningful frequency.
Zhuo Ren from the Blazing Sun Pavilion endured the attack with the stubborn resilience of flowing magma, his Ki flaring in shimmering waves as he dug his heels into the ground and held.
Zhao Nian from the Thunder Cloud sect let out a sharp cry as lightning cracked faintly across his arms. His Ki, infused with the nature of thunder itself, exploded outward in a violent flash as he forced the golden arc to disperse before it reached his chest.
Ye Fan, unaffiliated and alone, survived through ruthless precision—compressing his Ki at the last instant to hold the slash at bay.
Sun Liang from the Profound Sword Pavilion demonstrated uncanny balance, his Ki narrowing into a fine edge, hitting the golden slash just enough to avoid being overwhelmed.
But among those few, one name set the arena ablaze with anticipation the moment it flowered across the floating number board:
546 – Lei Hu.
The audience reacted instantly, waves of murmurs spreading through the coliseum like ripples in a lake struck by a falling star.
"Lei Hu is here?"
"The Frost Palace's princess?"
"Her Ki… they say even the breath around her freezes."
She walked toward the stage with unhurried steps, each movement light yet unmistakably firm. The closer she approached, the more the arena noticed what made her so mesmerizing. She was beautiful—undeniably so—but it wasn't the delicate beauty poets chased in their dreams. It was the clean, sharp beauty of winter: cold, pale, serene, and capable of killing.
Her hair carried the soft blue tint of clear morning skies.
Her skin resembled snow illuminated beneath the moon.
Her eyes mirrored the stillness of a frozen lake—deep, calm, unreadable.
But the true source of her presence was the Ki radiating faintly from her body, invisible yet felt like the whisper of frost.
On the high platform, the leaders of the Seven Clans noticed the shift immediately.
Zhuo Ran, Patriarch of the Blazing Sun Immortal Palace, leaned back slightly as if warding off the cold.
Han Suyin's lips curved upward with curiosity, starry eyes watching every step she took.
Mo Jiao folded his arms, calculating.
Jian Shixin's fingers tapped his seat lightly, an unspoken sign of intrigue.
Shan Guo nodded once, solid and grounded.
Bai Zhen stroked his beard, amusement and interest swirling in his gaze.
And Xuan Feng…
He watched calmly, expression unchanged, posture unbroken—yet something subtle flickered in his eyes. A faint light, a soft glimmer of approval. In his quiet, composed way, he too was impressed.
Lei Hu stepped onto the stage and came to a stop precisely three steps away from Xuan Zhe. Without hesitation, she bowed, her voice carrying the crisp, clear tone of icicles chiming in the wind.
"Disciple Lei Hu greets Senior Xuan."
Xuan Zhe stood tall, golden Ki wrapped faintly around his body like sunlight woven into air. When he looked at her, his stern face softened. Not out of favoritism, but respect—genuine respect for a martial prodigy standing before him.
"Rise," he said. "Prepare yourself."
Lei Hu lifted her head, emotionless and steady.
"I am ready."
Her voice held no tremor.
No uncertainty.
Only truth.
Xuan Zhe raised his arm.
Golden Ki gathered at his fingertips—subtle, refined. Not overwhelmingly bright, but glowing faintly, like the last touch of sun on a winter horizon. He adjusted the force meticulously to her level, ensuring it would test her, not crush her. Then, with the effortless motion of a master long familiar with his own power, he sent the slash forward.
It cut across the air in a straight line—clean, sharp, fast—its faint golden glow shimmering like a blade forged of light.
The crowd inhaled sharply.
But the Ki slash slowed.
It happened so subtly that many didn't notice at first. The arc of golden Ki, racing toward her with perfectly measured force, began to dim—not in brightness, but in speed. Its edge thickened, its movement softened, its momentum dragging as if trudging through deep snow.
Frost spread across the platform, blooming like living vines of ice.
The ground cracked faintly as temperatures fell violently.
Cold mist spiraled outward, snaking around the stage.
And Lei Hu didn't move.
She didn't sidestep.
She didn't raise a hand.
She didn't even change her breathing.
She simply released her Ki.
A breath.
A whisper of winter.
A presence that demanded the world slow down, freeze, and break.
The golden arc warped, its energy unraveling in shivers of light, until—
It shattered.
Golden fragments scattered like sparks of dying flame before vanishing completely.
Gasps exploded across the arena.
"She froze his attack!"
"She froze Ki itself—!"
"No… no, she didn't freeze it. She slowed the energy until it lost cohesion."
"She didn't use a technique! She didn't use a stance!"
"She just… existed."
Xuan Zhe blinked once.
That tiny movement alone sent shockwaves through the elders observing him. For the first time in the tournament, the martial master had shown visible surprise.
His breath came out as a faint puff of mist.
"Pass," he said, his voice carrying a rare warmth beneath its usual authority.
Lei Hu bowed once more, expression unchanging, and left the stage with the same calm grace she entered. Behind her, frost continued to cling to the ground, refusing to melt.
The arena was silent for a heartbeat.
Then it erupted.
And above them all, Xuan Feng watched… eyes calm, face serene, demeanor unchanged—yet clearly acknowledging the rise of another dark horse in this year's tournament.
The arena had been roaring since Lei Hu's astonishing display. Shouts rolled like thunder, excitement trembled in every breath, and countless eyes shone with fiery resolve.
But then—
The glowing jade tablet above the platform flickered once… twice… and cast a new string of numbers across the sky.
657
The uproar died instantly.
As though the heavens themselves commanded silence.
The crowd parted without realizing it, creating a narrow path from the contestants' area to the battle stage. From within that opening, a young man stepped forward.
He did not push.
He did not assert himself.
He merely walked—yet the tide of people moved aside before him, like water bowing before a hidden weight.
He wore a black martial robe, the fabric flowing like ink, etched with white intricate patterns that resembled the strokes of an ancient calligrapher.
Two swords rested at his sides—silent, sheathed, but undeniably present.
His hair was jet black, untouched by dust or light, dark enough to swallow the glimmer from the arena torches.
His face was calm, expressionless, almost too composed.
Not arrogance.
Not confidence.
Stillness.
A stillness so complete it disturbed the soul.
As he approached the stage, something else uneasy unfolded:
There was no Ki ripple around him.
Not a pulse.
Not a whisper.
Not even the gentle warmth of a mortal's life force.
Awareness rippled through the rulers' pavilion.
Bai Zhen's broad grin froze.
Jian Shixin's fingers moving around the hilt of the sworlaid horizontally across his knees.
Mo Jiao blinked once, his instincts flaring like a beast sensing a void.
Even Zhuo Ran's flaming temperament dimmed for a fraction of a breath.
And—
For the first time in two entire rounds of competition…
Xuan Feng's composed face changed.
A subtle frown.
Barely visible.
Yet enough to make the other rulers' hearts thump.
Han Suyin's starlit eyes widened, and she leaned forward, her voice slicing through the quiet like a gentle bell:
"Old Bai… what am I seeing? Why is there not even the breath of a mortal around him?"
Bai Zhen swallowed.
"…This brat… why does he feel wrong?"
But wrong was not the word.
Wrong was too small.
It was emptiness—an absence so complete it was suffocating.
The young man stepped onto the stage and bowed, cupping his fists respectfully:
"Junior Li Tie greets Master Xuan Zhe."
His voice was firm, steady, without tremor.
Just like every other contestant before him—only colder, quieter, deeper.
Xuan Zhe looked at him for a long moment.
He had adjusted his Ki output for dozens of challengers.
Strong ones.
Weak ones.
Clever ones.
Cowardly ones.
But this…
This was different.
His throat tightened before he finally spoke:
"Li Tie… I cannot sense even a strand of Ki from you. Not your breath, not your vitality, not even a mortal's flicker. Explain yourself."
The rulers leaned forward.
The audience held its breath.
Even the wind seemed to wait for his answer.
Li Tie lifted his head, his eyes dark and bottomless—like wells without reflection.
His reply came slow, steady, and disturbingly simple:
"There is nothing unusual, Senior.
It has been this way… for the past two years."
Silence.
A heavy, suffocating silence.
He continued, tone unchanged:
"I have Ki.
Do not trouble yourself
It exists within me… you simply cannot sense it."
A thin, sharp chill ran through the bodies of every ruler.
Han Suyin's eyes trembled.
"Impossible… even newborns have traces. Even mortals radiate life. To sense nothing is—"
She couldn't finish.
Jian Shixin exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.
"To conceal one's Ki so perfectly… not even ancient concealment arts reach such absurdity."
Bai Zhen muttered, beard trembling,
"Kid… what are you?"
Mo Jiao's voice was low and grim.
"Not sensing Ki is one thing.
But not sensing life… that is something else entirely."
Only Xuan Feng remained still.
His eyes locked onto Li Tie with a depth that made the other rulers shiver.
Finally, he spoke—his voice calm, yet carrying a pressure that whispered through the air:
"The absence of what should exist…
is far more terrifying than what exists too greatly."
Han Suyin turned sharply to him.
"Xuan Feng… what are you saying?"
Xuan Feng closed his eyes briefly, then opened them with a seriousness none had seen from him throughout the entire tournament.
"A storm," he murmured.
"A storm without clouds, without thunder…
one that leaves no trace until the moment it breaks."
The rulers exchanged uneasy glances.
Down below, Li Tie simply stood, hands behind his back, expression void of emotion, awaiting instructions like any ordinary contestant.
Yet nothing about him was ordinary.
Not his presence.
Not his silence.
Not his invisible Ki.
Not his untouched stillness.
The arena felt too small.
Too fragile.
Too mortal.
And so, one question spread across the arena like a quiet plague:
"Who is Li Tie?"