The noise in the arena was no longer as sharp as it had been at the start of the day.
It had grown denser. Deeper. People had gotten used to the rhythm of fights. To the shouts. To short flashes of qi.
The next pairs came out one after another.
An earth practitioner against a water practitioner. The first bet on stability—heavy steps, dense defense, no wasted motion. The second tried to crush him with tempo, burning more qi than his stage could afford. After a few minutes the water user’s breathing turned ragged. Earth, slowly, took its due.
A blade at the throat. The barrier flared.
No cheers. No surprise.
The next fight was shorter.
A fire practitioner started aggressively. Bright bursts, a loud release, an attempt to overwhelm his opponent right away. His opponent—a metal practitioner—didn’t answer directly. He simply took the hits on his blade, retreated half a step, again and again.
The fire began to fade faster than its owner expected.
When the qi ran out, it was already too late.
A short twist of the torso. A shaft-strike to the wrist. A blade to the chest.
The arena hummed, but more and more that hum carried comparison.
The vassals exchanged looks.
The difference was becoming clearer by the minute.
The great clan’s fighters—even the side branch—moved cleaner. Their techniques weren’t flashier. But they were steadier. Their strikes more precise. Their releases more economical.
Arden sat calmly.
He wasn’t staring at raw power. He was watching execution.
Who spent too much.
Who held their breath.
Who lost their tempo after the second exchange.
His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his knee when one of the vassals tried to cast a spell without closing the cycle.
A misfire.
Immediate backlash.
Defeat.
In the stands, the dissatisfied whisper grew louder.
Little by little, the tournament stopped being a celebration.
It became a test.
The next pair’s name rang out clearly.
Among the vassals, someone straightened.
The whisper grew quieter.
It didn’t vanish—but it changed.
Arden lifted his gaze.
A girl stepped into the arena in light jade tones. The fabric moved softly, almost without sound. A veil hid part of her face, but her posture was calm. Too calm for someone about to fight.
Her opponent was already in the circle—a fire practitioner. Confident. With steps that were unnecessarily loud.
Someone in the stands snorted.
“It’ll be over fast.”
Arden didn’t answer.
He wasn’t watching the flame gathering in the opponent’s palms.
He was watching her.
And only then did he realize he’d seen that shoulder movement before.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
The signal sounded again.
The fire practitioner didn’t wait.
Flame flared in his hands—bright and loud, as if he wanted to impress the stands before he even landed a hit. He stepped forward confidently, almost swinging wide, and a crescent of fire cut through the air.
The girl stepped back.
Not sharply.
Not in panic.
Just half a step to the side.
The flame passed by, scorching the edge of the stone. The barrier rippled with a thin shimmer.
The fire practitioner smirked. He boosted the release, pouring in more qi than necessary. The second strike came wider, more aggressive, trying to herd her to the edge of the circle.
She shifted again.
The movement was soft, fluid. No sudden acceleration, no obvious boost of qi.
From the outside it looked like she was simply avoiding contact.
The third attack was even brighter.
Fire flared above his head, then crashed down in a hard sweep.
The girl stepped inside the arc—too close for the flame to fully open. The edge of her hand barely brushed his wrist.
No sparks.
No sound.
They separated.
The fire practitioner straightened, ready to keep pressing.
But his breathing faltered.
Barely.
He frowned.
Took a step.
The flame flared weaker.
One more step—and his movement grew less stable. His foot didn’t seem to find purchase.
The stands whispered.
“Did he trip?”
He tried to gather qi again.
Flame appeared—and immediately scattered.
The fire practitioner jerked, clenching his fingers as if he could hold it together, but his body failed him first.
A knee touched the stone.
At that moment the girl stepped in.
Without haste.
Her blade settled at his throat.
The barrier flared.
Silence hung for a single breath.
Someone didn’t understand what had happened.
There was no decisive strike.
No spectacular technique.
Only a light touch.
The fire practitioner breathed hard, not lifting his gaze.
She stepped back and bowed.
The noise didn’t return to the stands right away.
First—a confused whisper.
Then—tense interest.
Under the veil, her face stayed calm.
As if the fight had lasted longer than it had for everyone else.
The whisper in the stands wouldn’t die.
Some insisted the fire practitioner had simply overstrained himself. Others swore they’d seen a thin haze around his palms. Someone was already arguing about how much qi he’d spent before he fell.
Arden didn’t listen.
He watched her.
How she left the circle. How her steps stayed light. How her hand calmly adjusted the veil—no hurry, no desire to hide.
Something felt familiar.
Not the victory itself.
The movement.
She walked along the inner passage of the arena where the fighters split toward their sectors. For a moment she turned her head—simply to orient herself in the crowd.
Her profile.
And the memory assembled on its own.
The clan courtyard.
The bustle of merchant stalls.
A shoulder bump.
A quiet “Sorry.”
The same look—calm, attentive, without extra emotion.
Arden straightened almost imperceptibly.
He’d already seen that gaze.
Beside him, someone said softly:
“Nerival.”
Arden turned his head slightly.
“You know her?”
A side-branch member nodded.
“Hard not to. A small vassal clan. Poison is their foundation. They work quietly. Through breath, through blood. They don’t like open clashes.”
Arden looked back toward the arena.
“The heiress?”
“The only one. The clan head’s daughter. The clan is small, but they hold on because of her.”
A short pause.
“They say she has a dual high-grade root. Water and Wood. For a clan like that—it’s rare.”
“They say?” Arden asked evenly.
The other man snorted.
“If you judge by how fast he dropped… the rumors aren’t exaggerated.”
Arden didn’t reply.
Back in the courtyard she hadn’t looked flustered.
She’d looked the same.
Not embarrassed.
Not provocative.
Assessing.
As if she were measuring distance.
For a moment her gaze slid over his row.
No surprise.
No smile.
And it was gone.
Arden didn’t look away immediately.
A faint interest rose—not in her figure, not in the unexpected win.
In precision.
In how quietly she’d ended the fight.
The murmur around them shifted.
There was less doubt in it now.
And more caution.
On the platform, the reaction was quieter than in the arena.
Serael watched attentively. Approval flickered in her eyes—barely noticeable, but not hidden.
“Not a bad girl,” she said calmly. “For a vassal clan—almost too good.”
Selena didn’t turn her head.
Her gaze stayed directed downward. Calm. Even.
“Poison path,” Serael added. “Clean. No fuss. No wasted qi.”
Darion sat motionless.
His light-green eyes lingered on the arena for a moment—not on the girl, not on the defeated fire practitioner.
Just the fact.
He didn’t say anything.
And in that silence there was no indifference.
Only a mark made.
Serael smiled faintly, but didn’t develop the thought.
The tournament went on.
And now some fights were watched more closely than before.
Under the imperial banners, the air felt different.
Less tense.
More idle.
Lucaris leaned back in his chair, lazily watching the arena. He didn’t look at the defeated fire practitioner. He didn’t care how, exactly, he’d lost.
His gaze followed the figure leaving.
Light fabrics.
Jade shades.
A smooth, unhurried step.
He tipped his head slightly.
“Interesting,” he said quietly.
One of his attendants smiled, understanding.
“The technique is unusual,” the man noted.
Lucaris snorted.
“I don’t care what she used to drop him.”
He watched the girl move along the inner passage.
“But the walk…” He narrowed his eyes. “And she carries herself well.”
There was no admiration in his voice. No respect.
Only a light азарт.
As if he were judging not a fighter.
But a future toy.
He leaned back again.
“The tournament’s getting more fun.”
His gaze slid across the arena, then across the competitors’ row.
For a moment it stopped on Arden.
The corner of his lips lifted.
But the interest quickly returned to the jade tones disappearing into the passage.
He hadn’t noticed the technique.
Hadn’t noticed the calculation.
And hadn’t tried to.
To him, it was simply another way to amuse himself.
The next pair’s name was already sounding over the arena.
But Lucaris was still looking toward the participants’ exit.
The signal to start another fight sounded, but for a moment Arden’s attention remained off the arena.
She was walking along the passage for the competitors.
Steps light. Back straight. No quickening, no slowing—as if the fight had changed nothing.
When the distance between them closed to just a few steps, she turned her head slightly.
And their eyes met.
Not by accident.
Not in passing.
Arden looked calmly.
No challenge.
No smile.
Interest—yes.
But not a shallow one.
He already knew her name.
Knew her specialization.
Knew the win hadn’t been luck.
Her gaze was more complex.
Under the veil, her expression couldn’t be fully seen, but her eyes stayed clear. Not warm. Not cold.
Assessing.
For a heartbeat longer than politeness required.
As if she were comparing.
And noting something for herself.
Then she looked away first.
Unhurriedly.
And walked on.
Arden didn’t turn around.
But the feeling of precise calculation remained.
The name of a new pair was already ringing over the arena.
The tournament continued.
And now it had become more interesting.
