Chapter 242: The Tournament Begins

The two fingers Shaurya held aloft caught the blinding morning light, casting a sharp silhouette against the indigo sky.

High above the dark tiles of the Main Hall, the deep-orange banner snapped violently in the high-altitude wind, its golden Sudarshan Chakra glowing like embers. The silence across the stadium remained absolute—ten thousand spectators frozen in their stone seats, their eyes fixed on the Peacock Feather Throne.

Shaurya’s dark coat billowed against the crimson silk behind him. His golden pupils flickered, catching the glare of the rising sun, before his hand smoothly dropped back to the armrest.

On the floating Elders’ Platform to his left, Elder Wu stepped forward. His grey robes rustled softly as his boots met the edge of the marble balustrade. He lifted his right hand, pulling his wide sleeve back to reveal a weathered wrist, and flicked his thumb against his index finger.

CLICK!

The sharp, singular sound echoed down through the open sky.

A fraction of a second later, six thousand four hundred metallic snaps answered from the white stone floor below.

The blue-glowing inscriptions etched along the metallic surfaces of six thousand four hundred 9-Star Weight Bracelets died simultaneously. The faint, hum of compressed gravity vanished into the wind.

Below the floating platforms, the sea of disciples visibly expanded. Shoulders that had been held rigid against three months of invisible pressure surged upward. Lin Xiaobao’s chest heaved as air flooded his lungs, a deep, color returning to his cheeks as his left arm relaxed. Beside him, Meng Huo’s thick neck muscles uncoiled, his heavy leather boots barely touching the flags as the leaden weight disappeared from his frame. A low, collective exhale swept through the ranks, the raw, uninhibited density of thousands of unburdened meridians rippling the air above the courtyard like heat waves.

Shaurya, sitting comfortably with his chin resting against his knuckles, casually flicked his right wrist.

The sky above the central court fractured into lines of gold.

Directly above each floating pale-blue jade arena, the air did not fill with the usual drifting smoke or flickering light of traditional illusion scrolls. Instead, flat, razor-sharp rectangles of golden light materialized in the open air, perfectly still and crystalline.

On the ground-level gilded seats, a regional patriarch leaned so far forward his embroidered sleeves brushed his tea table, his jaw slacking as he stared upward. Beside him, Zia Bailey’s dark eyes narrowed, tracking the flawless, digital precision of the golden light-screens. The screens flickered, displaying razor-sharp characters that mapped the intricate bracket trees, alongside real-time, close-up feeds of the arena surfaces below without a single trace of spatial distortion or light blur.

"There is no spirit-focal mirror..." Meng Liyu murmured from her seat on the floating platform, her silver-threaded hair swaying as her violet eyes reflected the sharp, glowing numbers hovering fifty feet above the stone. "Not a single array driver in the sky..."

Elder Wu raised his voice, the mountain’s natural resonance carrying his words across every tier of the stone stadium.

"The Intra-Sect Tournament of the Sanatan Flame Sect begins. Rules are absolute: Victory by ring-out, knock-out, or yield. No lethal intent."

Elder Wu dropped his arm. "Take the platforms!"

BOOM!

The air above the white stone floor shattered into a flurry of movement.

Orange-and-white and crimson-and-white robes blurred into motion. Freed from the metallic bracelets, disciples launched off the stone, their bodies cutting through the air like released bowstrings. Heavy leather boots landed with light, practiced thuds across the thirty floating jade slabs, their dark ironwood edges trembling as thirty matches ignited at the exact same second.

The sky grid exploded into motion.

Ringing metal pierced the air alongside the low, thundering hum of displaced wind. Across the thirty floating blue jade slabs, ironwood borders shuddered under the sudden impact of boots. The heavy, hanging skirts of yellow marigolds, red roses, and saffron chunis billowed outward like golden flames under the force of expanding qi shockwaves. Up in the tiered stone stands, tens of thousands of spectators surged to their feet, their roaring voices vibrating off the surrounding mountain cliffs.

On Arena #3, Gao Zhen’s broad shoulders heaved as he hauled a massive iron-headed double-mace over his head. Brown, mud-colored earth qi surged along his forearms, crackling across the ironwood trim of the platform. He slammed the heavy weapon downward, aiming to shatter the floor beneath his target.

Lin Xiaobao didn’t reach for a steel blade. His left hand gripped the worn hilt of a chipped wooden sword, his right sleeve hanging flat and pinned at his waist. As the heavy mace whistled downward, Xiaobao’s left foot pivoted on the smooth jade. Without a second arm to balance his posture, his body tilted at an impossible angle, slipping right under the dead-zone of Gao Zhen’s arc.

The wooden tip flicked outward in a silent, blinding arc.

TAP.

The wooden tip struck the precise tendon on Gao Zhen’s inner wrist. The massive mace veered off course, crashing harmlessly into the jade floorboards with a deafening CRACK. Before Gao Zhen could recover his center of gravity, the flat of Xiaobao’s wooden sword pressed lightly against his breastplate. A subtle, concentrated ripple of kinetic force surged through the wood, knocking Gao Zhen off his feet and sending him tumbling over the edge of the floating platform.

High above the arena, the razor-sharp golden light-screen flickered, the crisp characters shifting instantly: [Arena 3 — Winner: Lin Xiaobao].

Over on Arena #7, twin daggers whistled through the pressurized air. Feng Mei’s crimson-and-white skirts fluttered as her boots tapped the stone in an erratic, four-step rhythm, her body splitting into four distinct afterimages that swarmed around Su Qing from every side.

Su Qing stood motionless at the center of the ring, her hand resting loosely against her sheath. Her pupils flared with a faint, crystalline ring as her Spatial Intuition Eyes tracked the subtle pressure waves rolling across the stone floorboards.

The cold steel of a dagger grazed the air an inch from her throat.

Without turning her head, Su Qing leaned her left shoulder back by two exact inches. The whistling blade cut nothing but empty wind. Extending her right index and middle fingers, two needle-like wisps of clear qi flared at her fingertips as she jabbed downward, tapping the joint behind Feng Mei’s rushing knee.

Feng Mei’s spatial momentum broke instantly. Her legs buckled under the sudden block in her meridian flow, and she slid helplessly across the smooth jade, tumbling straight past the ironwood border and into the open air below.

[Arena 7 — Winner: Su Qing].

On Arena #12, a broad-shouldered disciple bellowed, his right fist glowing with a harsh, golden light as he threw a full-power Golden Vein strike straight toward Meng Huo’s sternum.

CLANG!

The impact rang out like a sledgehammer striking solid iron. Meng Huo didn’t backpedal, nor did his posture sag. The skin over his chest barely reddened as his dense, heavy bone structure absorbed the entire shockwave, sending a recoil vibrating back through his opponent’s arm.

Meng Huo looked down at the trembling, numb fist still pressed against his white-and-orange robe. He reached down, clamped his thick fingers around the disciple’s leather belt, and effortlessly lifted the man six feet into the air with one hand. Walking three calm steps to the edge of the platform, Meng Huo casually set the wide-eyed disciple down onto the stone floor outside the border lines.

[Arena 12 — Winner: Meng Huo].

On Arena #1, a blade whistled as an Outer Disciple lunged forward with a heavy saber guard. Before the steel could fully extend, a sharp CLICK echoed across the platform.

Ye Chen stood three paces away, his hand already resting back on the pommel of his sheathed sword. Three razor-thin, crescent-shaped air arcs cut through the space between them in less than half a second. The opponent’s leather weapon strap snapped in half, his saber clattering onto the jade floorboards alongside three shallow, bloodless nicks across his shoulder armor. The disciple stared at his empty hand, lowered his head, and stepped back over the line.

[Arena 1 — Winner: Ye Chen].

On Arena #5, Shen Hang gripped the center of his long iron spear with both hands. His breathing slowed as the dormant energy of his Immortal Spear Body hummed beneath his skin. He didn’t execute a grand, flashy martial form; he simply stepped forward and thrust the spearhead straight out into the air.

A localized, piercing golden spear-light erupted from the tip. The opponent’s dense qi defensive barrier shattered into a shower of sparkling light particles upon contact, the violent wind pressure throwing the man backward through the air to land safely on the lower courtyard floor.

[Arena 5 — Winner: Shen Hang].

The afternoon sun began its slow descent, painting the mountain peaks in warm shades of amber and rose. Across the sky grid, the pale blue jade arenas cleared one by one, the heavy garlands of yellow marigolds and red roses swaying gently in the high-altitude wind as the initial round drew to a close.

Down on the eastern medical terrace, Elder Hua’s assistants wrapped clean linen bandages around scraped wrists and handed out soothing spirit-salves.

Gao Zhen, his broad chest still heaving from Lin Xiaobao’s wooden sword strike, stepped off the medical platform. He didn’t slouch, nor did his head hang in bitter defeat. Rolling his shoulder once, he walked straight over to a wooden supply crate, grabbed a broad tray loaded with warm, golden spirit-buns, and slung a leather pouch over his shoulder.

Within minutes, Gao Zhen was bounding up the wide stone steps of the south stadium, his deep voice booming over the crowd as he handed warm pastries down to a family of capital merchants. "Fresh spirit-buns! Courtesy of Auntie Muo’s kitchen! Keep your eyes on Arena Five, the real show is starting!"

A few aisles away, Feng Mei stood beside Su Quan, her crimson-and-white skirts fluttering as she handed cups of chilled, iced mountain tea to wide-eyed children sitting in the middle tiers. She laughed aloud as a young boy tried to imitate Su Qing’s quick two-finger tap, nudging Su Quan’s arm playfully while pointing up toward the remaining floating arenas.

Up on the highest floating platform, King Tian Long rested his forearm against the golden dragon armrest of his throne, his silver eyes tracking Gao Zhen as the broad-shouldered disciple handed a cup of iced tea to a young girl before roaring at the top of his lungs for a fellow sect brother. A dry, thoughtful chuckle escaped Tian Long’s lips.

"In every royal tournament from the capital to the northern borders," Tian Long said softly, his voice carrying over the wind to the seat beside him, "the defeated walk off with bowed heads or burning eyes, brooding over lost status. Yours step off the medical tables, pick up a tray of tea, and scream until their throats go dry for the man who just threw them off the stone."

Shaurya didn’t turn his head immediately. He picked up his tall, condensation-beaded glass from the jade table, the crushed ice clinking lightly against the crystal as he swirled the dark cold brew.

"If a sect is held together by personal pride, it fractures the moment an external force hits it," Shaurya said, taking a slow sip as his golden pupils reflected the glowing stadium below. "If it’s built on shared sweat, it doesn’t matter who holds the blade today. The mountain wins either way."

High above the central court, the massive, crystal-clear golden light-screens flared violently.

Thousands of named brackets began to cascade downward in a rapid, blinding waterfall of light, merging, shifting, and dissolving in real-time. The ten-thousand-man stadium fell into a sudden, expectant hush as the rapid digital stream slowed down, condensing until eight broad, glowing golden frames locked into place at the absolute apex of the sky displays.

The bold characters burned against the blue sky:

[THE SUPER EIGHT]

Lin Xiaobao

Su Qing

Meng Huo

Ye Chen

Shen Hang

Ba Tu

Ran Ji

Chen Guo

Down on the white stone flags of the central courtyard, beneath the geometric shadows cast by the floating arenas, eight figures stepped out from the main ranks.

Ba Tu walked forward, his thick, calloused hands swinging naturally at his sides, his broad shoulders and neck muscles bulging beneath his orange-and-white robe from months of dragging heavy stone slate. Beside him, Ran Ji rotated his wrists in light, fluid circles, his eyes calm and focused after adjusting the rune settings on his 9-Star Bracelet. Chen Guo stepped up with steady, unhurried boots, his posture carrying the quiet grit of a veteran who had trained through the earliest days of the peak.

They lined up side-by-side with Lin Xiaobao, Su Qing, Meng Huo, Ye Chen, and Shen Hang.

Together, the eight disciples turned their heads upward. Eight pairs of eyes—raw with months of physical labor, unyielding discipline, and quiet determination—locked directly onto the elevated northern platform above.

High above the world, Shaurya leaned forward on the Peacock Feather Throne, resting his chin against his knuckles. His dark coat billowed in the mountain wind as his golden pupils caught the bright amber sunlight, reflecting the eight forms standing in the center of the peak.

To Be Continued...