CHAPTER 57: SECT COMPETITION V

Xiao Rou responded with elegant, flowing movements—parrying, evading, redirecting the force of each blow like water against a cliff.

But in the end, stone endured. She was struck mid-spin by a seismic palm, her momentum shattered, and she was sent tumbling from the ring.

She landed hard but upright—bruised, not broken.

A respectable loss.

The crowd erupted into thunderous cheers, the kind that echoed through the sky-piercing spires of the sect grounds and rumbled the very bones of the mountain.

Though Xiao Rou had lost, she had earned the respect of everyone watching.

"She held her own against Wei Zhen’s brute force. That water chakra technique was no joke," one elder murmured, stroking his beard with approval.

"She may be from the healing division, but there’s a fighter in her," another disciple said with a nod.

Even Wei Zhen, the victor, offered a respectful fist-to-palm salute as Xiao Rou dusted herself off and gave a small bow in return before stepping off the stage.

Applause followed her.

Meanwhile, high above in the spectator pavilion, a few inner court instructors exchanged notes—several eyes following her retreating figure with renewed interest.

The cheers still echoed through the air as Xiao Rou left the stage, head held high. But the excitement didn’t fade—it only shifted, crackling through the stands like static before a storm.

The arena pulsed once more as the next formation locked into place.

The elder raised his hand again and called out:

"Next match—Meng Shen of Heaven Cloud Peak versus Gao Fei of Beast Spirit Peak!"

A new wave of shouts and whistles rolled over the crowd. This wasn’t just any match—it was a clash between two disciples who had both dominated their previous rounds with ruthless efficiency.

Meng Shen stepped onto the platform with the calm grace of a scholar and the silent confidence of a blade hidden in silk. His white and silver robes shimmered faintly, laced with cloud patterns that shifted with his steps. He carried no visible weapon.

Gao Fei, on the other hand, was a walking wall of muscle. Towering, bare-chested, with runic tattoos crawling across his arms and shoulders. Each step he took seemed to shake the platform. A beast core gleamed at his belt—bound proof of his contract with a spirit beast, currently hidden within his sea of consciousness.

The crowd leaned forward in anticipation.

"Oho... this is gonna be a clash of finesse versus raw power," someone muttered, eyes wide.

The signal flared.

And they moved.

Gao Fei roared forward like a thunderbolt, spirit energy erupting from his fists—heavy, earth-type Qi concentrated into crushing force.

But Meng Shen simply... vanished.

A flicker of mist. A breeze.

He reappeared behind Gao Fei, hands folded behind his back, as if he were simply out for a stroll.

Before the Beast Spirit disciple could even react, Meng Shen snapped his fingers.

A burst of pressure—like a mountain falling through clouds—slammed into Gao Fei’s back. He staggered forward, coughing, unable to locate the source.

"What was that technique?!" someone shouted.

"Cloud Step," a inner disciple said and then added. "And likely... Cloud Burst Palm. Both are Heaven Cloud Peak’s signature arts."

Gao Fei wasn’t done, though. He turned and unleashed a thunderous punch, summoning his spirit beast’s power—crimson veins lit up across his chest.

But Meng Shen was air.

He weaved around the blow, tapped Gao Fei’s shoulder, and whispered, "Too slow."

Then struck with an open palm, center chest.

Boom!

Gao Fei flew backward—lifted clean off his feet—and slammed into the edge of the arena.

The formation flared red.

Out of bounds.

The elder raised a hand. "Winner: Meng Shen of Heaven Cloud Peak!"

A mix of awe and disbelief ran through the crowd.

In the Beast Spirit Peak stands, a few disciples looked shaken. Gao Fei had been their best contender.

And he’d been dismantled in less than a minute.

Meng Shen smiled faintly, brushing a hand through his silvery-blue hair as the crowd burst into cheers. A few bold disciples from the Heaven Cloud Peak even rose to their feet, calling his name. He gave them a lazy wave, the picture of relaxed confidence.

Then, with the same unhurried grace, he stepped off the platform—only to pause near the edge of the seating area where Tian Lei sat.

Tian Lei, still leaning back with arms folded, cracked open one eye just as Meng Shen passed him.

Their gazes met.

Meng Shen smirked knowingly, the corner of his lip quirking as he mouthed silently:

"You’re next."

Tian Lei raised a brow.

Then chuckled—low, amused, like a wolf that had just seen a rabbit do a backflip.

’I guess he’s trying to provoke me,’ he mused. ’How bold.’

Still, he didn’t rise.

He just smiled back, slow and deliberate, radiating calm pressure as if to say:

Come prove it.

Meng Shen gave him a casual salute, as though they were old rivals meeting again after years apart, and made his way back to the Heaven Cloud seats.

Some disciples near Tian Lei whispered excitedly.

"They’re gonna clash."

"It’s gotta be them in the final."

"Did you see that stare-down?"

The atmosphere shifted—expectation rising like a tide.

The elder stepped forward once more, lifting a new pair of golden slips. The crowd immediately hushed.

"Now, for the final drawing," he announced. "To determine the first match of the top three."

Three names remained.

Tian Lei.

Meng Shen.

Wei Zhen.

The slips hovered in the air, shimmering faintly as the arena’s formation spun them gently.

Then—

One slip pulsed a brighter gold and floated into Wei Zhen’s waiting hand.

"...Wei Zhen receives a bye to the final round," the elder declared.

A ripple of surprise spread through the crowd.

Wei Zhen, ever-stoic, just bowed silently and stepped aside—arms still crossed, his stone-like presence looming by the edge of the platform like a boulder waiting for the tide.

Which meant...

All eyes turned.

Tian Lei.

Meng Shen.

"Match: Tian Lei of Sect Master Peak versus Meng Shen of Heavenly Cloud Peak!"

The arena erupted into thunderous cheers.

"Finally!"

"I knew it’d be those two!"

"The calm storm versus the dancing wind!"

Meng Shen twirled his sword with a flourish, already grinning like he was born for the stage. "Guess I’ll find out if the hype is real."

He stepped forward—red robe with green patterns flowing like mist-wrapped steel, his every movement loose, confident, alive with natural rhythm. A few disciples from Heavenly Cloud Peak clapped and whistled behind him.

Tian Lei, in contrast, stood from his seat like gravity bowed to him.

Silent. Straight-backed. Calm as still water.

The moment he moved, the pressure shifted—like the sky had noticed.

He didn’t even glance at Meng Shen. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the glowing platform ahead, where the arena was already reshaping—white lines forming intricate runes underfoot.

Meng Shen cracked his neck once, then called out, "Hope you don’t mind losing before the finals, Brother Lei."

No reply.

Tian Lei simply stepped onto the stage.

The elder looked between them, then nodded. "Combatants, ready."

The formation ignited. The platform lit up.

Wind howled faintly from Meng Shen’s side, twisting and circling around him. The air around his fists shimmered—a mark of Cloud Body Art mixed with Qi Vein Reversal Flow, signature techniques of Heavenly Cloud Peak.

He struck first.

A sudden surge—vanishing from sight in a spiraling flash of jade wind.

But—

Tian Lei didn’t move.

And then—

CLANG!

In the blink of an eye, Meng Shen appeared behind him... his blade frozen an inch from Tian Lei’s neck.

Sweat beaded on Meng Shen’s brow.

Everyone held their breath.

Because Tian Lei had raised two fingers—just two—and stopped the attack cold.

Meng Shen’s eyes widened. "Huh..."

A chuckle escaped him. "Guess it is real."

But before he could pull back—

BOOM—

A ripple of sword intent burst from Tian Lei like a pressure wave, blasting Meng Shen off his feet and sending him skidding across the platform.

He rolled once, landed on a knee, and exhaled hard.

"...Okay. Round two."

He vanished again.

Tian Lei’s fingers curled slightly at his side.

A sword hum vibrated faintly through the arena—his weapon still sheathed, but vibrating with restrained power.

Meng Shen exhaled slowly. His smile hadn’t faded—but the gleam in his eye had changed.

The playful glint was gone.

Now, it was pure focus.

He dashed forward again—but not alone.

Five afterimages peeled off his body mid-sprint, all weaving in different directions like dancers in a storm. The arena lit up with wind glyphs, his speed amplifying to the point where the spectators couldn’t tell which was the real him.

"Cloud-Splitting Mirage Step," someone gasped. "He’s going all out!"

From above, the stage looked like a flower blooming in motion—green petals flickering around the still figure of Tian Lei at the center.

But—

Tian Lei’s expression didn’t change.

He didn’t lift his blade.

Didn’t flinch.

He simply—walked.

One step forward.

Then another.

And with each step, an afterimage of Meng Shen disintegrated.

Not cut.

Not blocked.

Just—undone, as if the weight of Tian Lei’s presence collapsed their formation and drained the essence from the technique itself.

The real Meng Shen gritted his teeth. His figure flickered into view above Tian Lei—sword held overhead, spinning in a cyclone of refined Qi.

"Sky-Rending Cloud Fang!"

A massive arc of compressed wind descended—sharp enough to cut steel beams clean.

Everyone leaned forward.

Tian Lei finally moved.