Zhao Feng stood on the stage, clad in Azure Cloud blue, confidence radiating from his core. A sword was in his grip, the blade gleaming in the sunlight. When he saluted the elders, the gesture was sharp, practiced—perfect.

  “Zhao Feng of the Azure Cloud Sect’s Outer Division!” announced the officiating elder. “Versus Han Rui!”

  Han Rui was a broad-shouldered youth, who was normally fierce and indomitable. But today, while he still appeared sturdy, there was a hint of nervousness in his demeanor.

  The bell rang.

  In the first exchange, Zhao Feng’s sword struck like lightning. One movement, one gleam of qi, and Han Rui’s weapon was flung from his grasp. The force of the blow sent him skidding across the platform, robes torn, breath knocked from his chest.

  The fight was over in three heartbeats.

  The crowd erupted.

  “Zhao Feng wins!”

  The second match began almost immediately. This time his opponent tried to circle, probing for weakness. Zhao Feng allowed it for a breath, perhaps two, before stepping inside the man’s guard. A flick of his wrist disarmed him; a backhand slash sliced cleanly through his sleeve and left a thin red line along his shoulder.

  The man yielded before he could lose more than pride.

  The third opponent roared and unleashed a flurry of heavy strikes, qi roaring around his blade. Zhao Feng met the storm with ease. He parried once, twice, then shifted his stance. A single thrust slipped through the barrage and stopped at the challenger’s throat. A bead of blood welled where the tip kissed skin.

  The second match ended.

  But Zhao Feng did not stop there. The next round, and the next—each duel ended in overwhelming dominance. Zhao Feng’s swordsmanship was brutal in its efficiency. Every parry punished, every strike intended to wound pride as much as flesh. His opponents fell one after another, gasping, bloodied, humiliated. Yet Zhao Feng’s face remained calm, even bored, as though none of them were worth the effort.

  High in the pavilion, Guo Liang laughed aloud. “Now that is what I call talent! Ruthless, efficient, precise. He knows that mercy is wasted in battle. This Zhao Feng—he could make something of himself under proper guidance.”

  The sect elders seated nearby heard Guo Liang's words and murmured quiet agreement, flattered by his praise. Meanwhile, Li Wei clenched his hands until his knuckles whitened. Every strike Zhao Feng made was a reminder of three years ago—of the moment his meridians shattered under that same ruthless blade. Only, the blade Zhao Feng was displaying now did not harbor that hidden chaotic energy. Obviously, Zhao Feng wasn’t planning to cripple these no-name opponents. He had more than enough skill to defeat them with ordinary means.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Victory was declared again… and again… and again.

  At the end of the final match, Zhao Feng turned toward the pavilion, raising his sword in a loose, almost mocking salute. His gaze drifted deliberately toward the section where the Heavenly Sword Pavilion guests sat.

  Guo Liang applauded lazily, smiling back as though recognizing a kindred spirit.

  The cheering swelled again.

  Li Wei forced himself to breathe, to stay calm. He had thought himself numb to hatred by now, yet the sight of Zhao Feng basking in adoration reopened wounds that no lotus could mend. Still, he stayed calm. When an elder asked for wine, he poured wine. He bowed when spoken to. He stayed invisible.

  As Zhao Feng exited the stage, Su Qingyue’s hands remained folded in her lap. She did not clap.

  Guo Liang noticed. “What? You can’t deny his strength.”

  “He is strong,” she said calmly. “But strength without restraint is like a sword without a sheath. It cuts everything, friend and foe alike.”

  Guo Liang scoffed. “Spare me your lectures, Junior Sister. In the real world, mercy is weakness.”

  She said nothing more, but her gaze drifted again toward the servants’ line. Li Wei stood there, still as stone, his eyes fixed on the arena.

  Guo Liang followed her gaze and frowned, but said nothing. Guo Liang had noticed very early on that amongst the servers in the Upper Pavilion, Li Wei was the most good-looking. His face was chiselled, clean, and his features were proportional. His hair flowed like a river of black silk. In fact, he was so handsome, it was hard to believe he was just a servant. In his heart, Guo Liang scoffed, thinking: had you been a cultivator, I might have felt a little threatened by you. But as a cripple, you're just a mortal; your good looks will fade faster than mine, and you will die before me too. Oh, junior sister, don't be enamored by some pretty face. I, your senior brother, am the only man for you.

  The duels continued through the afternoon. The heat of qi hung heavy in the air; dust and shouts filled the mountain. One by one, hopeful disciples fell, and the victors basked in fleeting glory.

  Li Wei worked steadily, bringing fresh tea, refilling cups, occasionally assisting the servants in the stands before returning up to the pavilion. He moved through the chaos like a ghost. He overheard disciples boasting of their victories, elders murmuring about Zhao Feng’s ‘undeniable talent,’ Guo Liang’s sneering laughter, Su Qingyue’s soft-spoken observations. And though his heart stirred at every clash of steel, he kept his head bowed.

  The matches continued unabated. But an interesting thing happened. Since Zhao Feng’s match, the succeeding matches grew more brutal—more spectacle than test. Disciples fought not only for promotion but for survival of pride, tearing into one another under the approving gazes of elders. Every scream that echoed through the arena reminded Li Wei how small a person became when others decided his worth. Still, he moved quietly among the servants, collecting empty cups and broken porcelain.

  The air in the arena had grown thick with the scent of dust, sweat, and burning qi.

  Afternoon light streamed down in molten ribbons, glinting off the polished tiles of the dueling stage.

  Cheers rolled across the mountain like thunder, rising and falling with every clash of steel.

  When the call came for more tea and wine, Li Wei realised they were about to run out and bowed and slipped away, weaving through the crowd until the roar of the spectators faded into the echoing corridors of the inner kitchens.

  Inside the kitchen, the heat hit him like a wave. Cauldrons simmered on wide stone stoves, sending fragrant steam curling into the air. Servants scurried about, carrying trays and jars, their chatter blending with the clatter of ladles and bowls.