The capital of Linhua did not sleep that night.
Lanterns burned along every avenue, their light reflected in polished stone and shallow canals that cut through the city like veins of gold. Inns filled to bursting, spirit beasts were stabled in long rows outside the eastern gates, and the air itself seemed to hum—charged with expectation, ambition, and the faint pressure of countless cultivators gathering under one sky.
Within the royal compound, the chosen ten were granted a secluded courtyard. No servants lingered nearby. No guards hovered too close. This was intentional. From this night onward, they were no longer merely disciples or heirs—they were representatives of Linhua , and they would be judged by how they carried themselves even in private.
Zhang Wei stood beneath a flowering pagoda tree, rolling the silver needles between his fingers. Each movement was careful, precise, the same way a physician tested a patient's pulse. The needles responded faintly, runes warming as his qi brushed against them.
"You're thinking again," Pan Qiang said, flopping down on the stone steps with a gourd in hand. "Every time you get that look, something troublesome happens."
Zhang Wei smiled faintly. "I'm thinking about how many eyes will be on us."
Han Yu, leaning against a pillar with arms crossed, snorted softly. "Let them look. If they underestimate us, that's their mistake." Lightning flickered briefly across his knuckles before he reined it in. "The Tianlong Dynasty doesn't invite weaklings. Anyone who steps onto that stage will be dangerous."
Nearby, Wu Jian practiced slow, deliberate spear forms, each movement crisp and grounded. He paused and spoke without turning. "Dangerous isn't what concerns me. It's intent. In a competition like this, not everyone fights for honor."
Lady Cang Lian, seated at a stone table with her jade fan resting against her palm, nodded in agreement. "Some fight to rise. Others fight to hide blades behind smiles." Her gaze drifted toward the capital walls, where distant silhouettes moved against torchlight. "And some are sent for reasons that have nothing to do with victory."
Elder Shen watched them all from beneath the eaves, his presence quiet but absolute. "Good," he said. "You're thinking like people who intend to survive."
Silence followed—not uncomfortable, but heavy with understanding.
At dawn, the palace bells rang.
The convoy assembled outside the southern gate: spirit carriages carved with protective arrays, mounted escorts clad in ceremonial armor, and banners bearing Linhua's crest snapping in the morning wind. Citizens gathered in orderly crowds, whispering names, pointing discreetly at familiar figures and unknown faces alike.
Zhang Wei felt it then—the weight of expectation. Not crushing, but real.
King Han Yunji appeared at the gate, flanked by General Wu and Master Yu Wenshan. The king did not speak at length. He did not need to.
"Remember," he said, voice carrying without effort, "you represent more than yourselves. Walk upright. Fight cleanly. And return alive."
Each of the ten bowed deeply.
The convoy moved.
As Shuiha's walls receded into the distance, the land began to change. Plains gave way to ancient roads etched with formation lines. Mountains rose, layered and vast, their peaks crowned with clouds that glowed faintly with spiritual light. The closer they drew to the Tianlong heartlands, the denser the qi became—rich, heavy, almost pressing against the skin.
On the fifth day of travel, they began to encounter other convoys.
A Frostwind procession passed them at a crossroads—white banners edged in ice-blue, their cultivators silent and sharp-eyed. At the center rode a young man wrapped in pale furs, a sword laid across his knees, breath fogging the air despite the mild weather. His gaze met Han Yu's for a brief instant—cold, assessing—before the convoy continued on without a word.
"That one's dangerous," Pan Qiang muttered.
Han Yu nodded. "Yes. And confident."
Two days later, a Yunzhou delegation shared the same mountain pass. Perfumed wind accompanied them, petals drifting unnaturally in the air. At their head walked a woman in crimson robes, posture relaxed, eyes observant. She glanced toward Zhang Wei—not lingering, but noting—and smiled faintly, as if amused by something only she could see.
Zhang Wei felt the jade pendant stir.
"She noticed you," Lady Cang Lian said quietly.
"I noticed her noticing," Zhang Wei replied. "Which might be worse."
By the ninth day, the Sacred Sky Plateau came into view.
It was not a city, but a realm unto itself—floating platforms anchored by colossal chains of light, grand arenas carved from celestial stone, and towers that rose so high they seemed to pierce the heavens. Above it all loomed the Tianlong Imperial Spire, vast and immovable, radiating authority that pressed upon the spirit.
The Tianlong Dynasty had not built this place to impress.
They had built it to remind the world who stood at the center.
As the convoys converged, names were recorded, seals verified, and participants guided to their assigned quarters. Elders and observers took their places upon elevated terraces. Somewhere among the arrivals, Zhang Wei sensed unfamiliar presences—qi that felt… wrong. It's Concealed, Disciplined and Watching.
Hei'an had arrived.
So had its shadows.
That night, as the stars wheeled slowly above the plateau, a single thought settled into Zhang Wei's mind with quiet certainty:
This competition would not end when a victor was declared.
It was the opening move.
That night, the Sacred Sky Plateau breathed.
Wind swept across the floating stone bridges, carrying scents of incense, spirit herbs, and cold metal. Above, constellations unfamiliar to most nations glimmered faintly—ancient formations woven into the sky itself, watching over the plateau like silent judges.
Within Linhua's assigned compound, Zhang Wei and the others gathered once more.
Wu Jian leaned his spear against the wall and broke the silence first. "We weren't escorted here just for protection," he said evenly. "Those Tianlong attendants… every one of them is measuring us."
Han Yu smirked. "Let them. I don't mind being measured."
Elder Shen opened his eyes slowly. "You should," he said. "Tianlong does not measure to admire. They measure to categorize."
That wiped the grin from Han Yu's face.
Lady Cang Lian folded her fan with a soft click. "Strength that is too sharp becomes a target," she said. "Strength that is hidden becomes leverage."
Pan Qiang scratched his head. "So… don't hit too hard?"
Zhang Wei shook his head slightly. "Hit clean. Hit decisively. But never show everything."
Pan Qiang grinned. "Got it. I'll only break half the arena."
A few chuckles escaped despite the tension.
Elder Shen allowed it—then raised a finger.
"There is something else," he said. "The roster."
Everyone straightened.
"The Tianlong Dynasty has finalized the preliminary lists," Elder Shen continued. "Some names are… unexpected."
Zhang Wei's gaze sharpened. "Unexpected how?"
"One of Linhua's original ten," Elder Shen said calmly, "will not be competing."
The courtyard fell silent.
Wu Jian frowned. "Disqualified?"
"No," Elder Shen replied. "Defeated."
Pan Qiang sat up. "What?"
Elder Shen's eyes shifted toward the far side of the compound, where another Linhua courtyard lay quiet and dark. "Last night, before the convoys fully settled, a challenge was issued."
Han Yu's jaw tightened. "A private duel?"
"A lawful one," Elder Shen said. "Witnessed by Tianlong arbiters. Clean terms and no interference."
Lady Cang Lian's fingers tightened slightly around her fan. "And the result?"
"The challenger won."
A pause—heavy, sharp.
Zhang Wei exhaled slowly. "So a slot was taken."
"Yes," Elder Shen confirmed. "By a cultivator who was not on any nation's public list."
Pan Qiang frowned. "That allowed?"
Elder Shen's gaze hardened. "In Tianlong territory, yes. If a challenger defeats a registered contender under Tianlong law, the slot transfers."
Han Yu laughed once, humorless. "So the games begin before the games."
Elder Shen nodded. "You will meet them tomorrow at the opening assembly."
"Who are they?" Wu Jian asked.
Elder Shen shook his head. "Unknown origin. Appears no older than all of you. Cultivation… deliberately concealed."
Zhang Wei felt the jade pendant pulse once, faint but unmistakable.
Another hidden piece, he thought.
At dawn, the Sacred Sky Plateau awoke in full.
Gongs thundered across the floating expanse, sound rolling like a tide. Tens of thousands gathered—cultivators, nobles, envoys, sect elders, and hidden observers masked behind formations and etiquette.
The main arena was vast enough to swallow a city square, its floor etched with ancient runes that drank qi greedily. Above it, suspended platforms held the seats of the great powers.
At the highest tier sat the Tianlong elders.
Gold and white robes. Dragon-thread embroidery. A pressure so profound that even seasoned cultivators felt their breath slow.
Grand Elder Chen rose.
"The Continental Spirit Competition," his voice boomed, "is hereby convened."
Cheers erupted—then stilled instantly as his gaze swept the crowd.
"You are here not merely to fight," he continued, "but to be seen. To be weighed. To be remembered."
The chosen youths were called forward—nation by nation.
Frostwind's Yan Bei stepped out first, frost forming beneath his boots with every step.
Yunzhou's Mei Ling followed, lotus-shaped qi blooming briefly before dissolving into nothing.
Hei'an's representatives emerged last—faces calm, auras restrained, too restrained.
Zhang Wei noted them carefully.
Disciplined. Trained to hide. Not ordinary disciples.
Then came Linhua.
Zhang Wei.Han Yu.Pan Qiang.Lady Cang Lian.Wu Jian.The crimson-robed woman from Shuiha's eastern sects, eyes calm and unreadable.The blacksmith's son, hands rough, qi dense and steady like tempered steel.
Seven in total.
A murmur rippled through the stands.
"Only seven?""Did Linhua withdraw?""Or lose someone?"
Grand Elder Chen raised a hand.
"There has been a change."
The crowd leaned in.
"Three of Linhua's original contenders was defeated in a lawful challenge last night," he announced. "As per Tianlong law, their slot has been claimed."
From the shadows at the edge of the arena, figures stepped forward.
He wore simple dark robes—no crest, no ornament. His hair was tied loosely, his expression neutral. His qi was… quiet. Not weak. Quiet.
Too quiet.
He stopped beside Linhua's formation and bowed—not deeply, not arrogantly. Precisely.
"I am Gu Yan," he said. "I will compete."
As murmurs spread across the arena, the air to his left stirred—subtle, almost imperceptible. A second figure emerged from Hei'an's formation, footsteps soundless against the rune-etched stone.
This youth wore pale gray robes, clean and unadorned, yet his eyes were sharp—too sharp. A thin smile rested permanently on his lips, as though he were watching a game only he understood.
"I am Xu Mo," he said lightly, bowing with exaggerated courtesy. "I claimed the second slot."
A ripple passed through the stands.
Before it could settle, a third presence stepped forward.
Unlike the first two, this one did not bother hiding his weight.
Each step cracked faint lines into the arena floor, the runes flaring briefly as if resisting him. His frame was tall, broad-shouldered, his arms bound in dark wrappings etched with sealing marks. His aura was suppressed—forcefully so—but even then, it pressed outward like a restrained beast.
"Lei Zhen," he said simply. "Third slot."
The realization swept through the crowd like a cold wave.
"They didn't just send competitors…""Those three challenged their own roster?""No—those are replacements."
Grand Elder Chen's gaze sharpened, finally resting on Linhua's delegation. "Confirm."
Grand Elder Chen raised his staff, sealing the moment.
"The first phase begins tomorrow," he declared. "Rest. Observe. Survive."
As the crowd dispersed, Zhang Wei felt it clearly now—the convergence of wills, ambitions, schemes, and hidden wars pressing inward like a closing net.
This was no longer a competition.
It was a crucible.
And the fire had only just been lit.