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The crowd had barely settled after Lin Tao's fierce victory when the referee's voice rang out once more, clear and commanding:
"Next bout—Liang Fei of the Liang Clan versus Yu Zhi of the Cold Stone Sect!"
A murmur surged through the arena. This was the first official appearance of Liang Fei—one of the three undisputed geniuses of Moonlight Town.
Liang Fei stepped onto the stage like a thundercloud taking human form. He wore dark silver robes trimmed with black thread, and his long hair was bound with a lightning-shaped clasp. Around him, the air crackled faintly, and arcs of electricity traced his fingertips, as if the heavens themselves were whispering to his soul.
Across from him, Yu Zhi of the Cold Stone Sect bowed politely. His aura was cold and reserved, ice Qi misting from his breath, forming frost patterns on the stone under his feet.
Xu Ming watched from the side, his body still humming faintly from his earlier battle. Though calm on the surface, he observed Liang Fei with keen eyes—he wanted to understand how the town's so-called geniuses moved, fought, thought.
The referee raised his arm.
"Begin!"
Yu Zhi moved first, palms raised in a gliding motion. Cold surged across the battlefield like an arctic tide. Spear-like icicles materialized and launched toward Liang Fei.
But Liang Fei didn't budge. He simply raised one hand.
Lightning exploded.
A pulse of thunder erupted from his body, vaporizing the ice in midair. The sound boomed across the arena like a war drum. Without warning, he vanished—reappearing beside Yu Zhi in a flash of light.
One palm. One strike.
"Thunderpulse Art: Sky-Judging Blow."
Yu Zhi didn't even cry out. His body was flung back like a puppet with cut strings, crashing against the barrier wall of the arena with a shuddering crack. He collapsed, unmoving.
Silence fell like a curtain.
Then—
"Winner—Liang Fei!"
Cheers broke out, but many carried a note of tension. That was no flashy show. It was raw power, executed with deadly efficiency.
Xu Ming narrowed his eyes slightly.
So fast. No wasted movement. But… heavy-handed. As if he's trying to send a message.
Back in the stands, Rong Yixuan remained seated, arms folded. She didn't applaud. Her expression was calm, but her gaze never left Liang Fei.
Qin Mo lazily spun his fan. "Ah… Still as arrogant as ever," he murmured, barely audible.
The matches continued.
"Next match—Rong Yixuan of the Rong Clan versus Du Han of the Iron Lance Sect!"
Another ripple passed through the crowd.
Rong Yixuan's entrance was quiet, composed. She wore pale blue robes threaded with silver, her long black hair tied back in a warrior's braid. The moment her feet touched the stage, a soft mist formed around her—gentle, graceful, and yet… dangerous.
Du Han entered like a boulder crashing downhill—massive, broad-shouldered, iron lance resting on his back. His Qi surged aggressively as he cracked his knuckles.
"Don't take it personally, miss," he grunted. "But I don't plan to lose."
Rong Yixuan gave a shallow bow. "You won't need to worry for long."
"Begin!"
Du Han charged like a battering ram, the arena trembling beneath his steps. His lance whistled through the air in a wide arc.
Rong Yixuan didn't move.
At the last possible instant, her hand flicked.
"Flowing Mist Palm."
Du Han's entire body shuddered. His blow slowed, then missed by a hair. Rong Yixuan glided past him like fog slipping around a mountain, her palm brushing his chest.
A blast of internal force surged from her touch. Du Han stumbled, then collapsed to one knee, coughing violently.
One strike.
"Winner—Rong Yixuan!"
She bowed to the referee and stepped down, face unreadable.
The cheers this time were quieter. It wasn't just respect—it was fear.
Xu Ming's gaze lingered on her as she returned to her seat. She glanced his way, just briefly.
Their eyes met.
There was no malice in hers, no arrogance—just calm calculation.
She's like still water hiding knives beneath.
The next few matches passed in a blur of flame, blades, and blood.
A sect outer disciple fell to a Yue Clan twin-wind technique.
A Black Ridge cultivator forfeited after suffering internal backlash mid-fight.
And then came another name that caught attention.
"Next fight—Qin Mo of the Qin Clan versus Bai Xiang of the Verdant Wave Pavilion!"
Qin Mo stepped into the arena with a yawn. He was dressed in robes far too elegant for a battle, white with gold trim, his long hair tied with a silk band. He looked like he'd wandered into the tournament by accident.
Bai Xiang, on the other hand, was a stern-faced martial artist with a powerful frame and twin sabers across his back.
"Let's have a good fight," Bai Xiang said respectfully.
Qin Mo blinked, then nodded. "Oh, sure. Just try not to make me sweat."
"Begin!"
Bai Xiang unleashed a twin-saber whirlwind, slashing in a flurry of circular movements. Each arc of his saber carried gusts of blade-wind.
Qin Mo… yawned again.
And disappeared.
A moment later, Bai Xiang staggered forward—his entire upper sleeve shredded.
Then his leg buckled.
A whisper of a breeze passed behind him. Qin Mo stood there, twirling his fan.
"Breeze Step. Whisper Fang."
Bai Xiang collapsed.
"Winner—Qin Mo!"
The crowd erupted again, not just in cheers but speculation.
Three matches. Three geniuses. None took more than a single real strike to win.
And yet, Xu Ming could sense it beneath the surface.
They're holding back.
They weren't showing everything. Just enough to dominate. Just enough to warn others.
Backstage, Lin Feng joined Xu Ming again. "Did you see that?" he asked, eyes wide. "Those guys aren't just strong… they're monsters."
Xu Ming gave a small nod. "Yes."
"You think you could take them?" Lin Feng grinned, half-joking.
Xu Ming didn't answer.
He was already watching the next fighters called to the arena.
His name had not been drawn again yet—but it would be soon. He could feel the pressure building. The eyes of the crowd were no longer just curious. They were expectant.
Each match raised the standard.
Each victory carved names deeper into the arena's memory.
And somewhere, in the seats above, hidden among the dignitaries, someone watched him again. Not with excitement.
But with hunger.
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