The elder of the Heavenless Bow Sect stepped forward once more, this time with a scroll in hand and an air of ceremony clinging to him like a royal mantle. His expression, though still visibly shaken by the climax of the tournament, was composed with the dignity of his station.
The crowd gathered closer. The meadow, still rustling with gentle wind, now bore the weight of pure anticipation.
"Before we announce the victors," he began, his voice rising clear over the murmurs, "let it be known — this day shall be remembered."
He unfurled the scroll. From behind, a group of sect disciples raised three banners, each with an embroidered symbol. The third bore a golden leaf, the second a rising phoenix, and the first — freshly sewn and radiant — the crest of the Immortal Sect: a halberd standing tall over a lake of stars.
Trumpets, soft and refined, sounded from the Heavenless Bow Sect's musicians. The crowd gasped at the banners, and a murmur of admiration swelled across the field.
"In third place," the elder called, "Rion of the Goldleaf Pavilion!"
A golden wind swept the plain as Rion stepped forward. He bowed deeply, and the applause was warm and proud. Despite his modest result, Rion's face shone with sincerity. He had stood among monsters… and lived to tell the tale.
"In second place… Ashborn of the Crimson Phoenix Sect!"
The crowd roared. A phoenix silhouette lit up the sky behind him — a subtle illusion spell cast by one of the elders in celebration. Ashborn stepped forward with a charismatic smile, his black and crimson robes fluttering in the breeze. He offered a brief bow to the audience, then turned slightly to glance at Kazel, amusement still dancing in his eyes.
"And now…" the elder paused, letting silence take its rightful stage.
The flags snapped in the wind.
Even the breeze held its breath.
"In first place — with a strike that split not just the target, but history itself — Kazel of the Immortal Sect!"
The crowd exploded. It wasn't just applause — it was an uproar. Cheers and whistles, feet stomping the ground, hats tossed into the air. Some children shouted his name. Others simply stood in awe. A few elders in the back began to murmur ancient sayings of omens and destiny.
Kazel didn't step forward immediately. He stood still, eyes half-lidded like none of this surprised him. Then, casually, he took one step into the open.
And in that step, the world acknowledged him.
Juni stared, unmoving, but her hand gripped the armrest of her seat.
The crowd's cheers began to settle, like waves receding from the shore after a storm. Yet the energy remained charged, humming in the air like a drawn bowstring.
Juni rose from her seat and stepped down from the viewing platform, her movements elegant and composed — the grace of a seasoned warrior and respected elder. The crowd instinctively parted for her, creating a path as if the wind itself obeyed her presence.
She stood before the three victors — Rion, Ashborn, and Kazel — her eyes calm, her hands clasped before her waist.
"First, allow me to personally offer my congratulations," she said, her voice firm but warm, carrying across the meadow. "You three are not merely winners. You are a testament to skill, discipline, and in some cases…" she glanced at Kazel, "...raw nerve."
The crowd chuckled at her dry tone, and even Ashborn smirked.
She continued, "It is a rare thing for an elder of our sect to ask this directly, and I hope you do not take offense—" she paused, bowing her head slightly, "—but I must extend the offer regardless."
The wind picked up slightly, and the Heavenless Bow Sect's banners fluttered with quiet grandeur.
"I, Juni of the Heavenless Bow Sect, formally ask — do any of you wish to join our Sect?"
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some younger disciples looked stunned. The Heavenless Bow rarely recruited like this. Let alone directly from the mouth of an elder, and certainly not publicly.
Rion's eyes widened, his lips parting slightly in disbelief. He looked at Juni, then at the crowd, then quickly bowed. "Elder Juni… it would be the greatest honor of my life."
Juni gave him a soft smile and nodded. "We'll speak later."
Then her gaze turned to Ashborn, curious, respectful. "Ashborn of the Crimson Phoenix…?"
Ashborn laughed gently and held up a hand in polite refusal. "I thank you for the honor, Elder Juni. But I already have a mountain of trouble to manage where I am. I can't abandon my flame just yet."
A few laughed again, but Juni merely nodded in understanding.
Finally, she turned her gaze to Kazel.
There was a moment of quiet. Even the wind seemed to hush itself.
Kazel's arms were crossed, the scroll tucked under one. He raised a brow slightly, amused.
"You already know my answer," he said.
Juni sighed but smiled. "I do. But rules are rules."
Kazel gave her a slight bow — not deep, but courteous. "I thank you for the offer, Elder Juni. But I'm quite happy building my own sect… from scratch."
Liora smiled.
The crowd murmured, clearly intrigued. A sect of his own?
Juni straightened, satisfied. "So be it. Each of you, continue your paths. Whether they converge or clash in the future — I hope you remember this day."
She stepped back, and the crowd erupted into applause once again — this time not for the competition, but for the beginning of something greater.
As Kazel descended the small rise from the competition grounds back into the sea of people, the crowd parted instinctively around him — not in fear, but in awe. Like a storm had passed, and now they stood in the eye of it, quiet and reverent.
Arhatam was the first to reach him — clumsy in his excitement, nearly tripping over his own robes. "Young master!" he gasped, wide-eyed. "That shot! That shot! I've read ancient manuals that spoke of mythical arrows, but I swear on every scroll I own, I've never seen anything like that in my life!"
He grabbed Kazel's shoulders, shaking him slightly. "You split a bullseye from that distance! You're not an archer, you're an entire siege weapon!"
Kazel chuckled, brushing his hair back from the wind. "You really need to learn how to breathe between words."
Then came Durandal — slower, more grounded, but no less proud. He didn't say anything at first. Just stood there, nodding. A quiet respect in his gaze.
"You didn't yawn, did you?" he asked, deadpan.
Kazel raised a brow. "...Maybe."
Durandal cracked a grin. "Figures."
Then, almost uncharacteristically, he reached out and clasped Kazel's arm with firm brotherhood. "You carry the name of our sect higher than anyone else could. I'm honored to serve you."
Kazel looked at the two — one bubbling with frantic pride, the other calm and steady — and smiled softly. "Then don't fall behind," he said. "This is only the beginning."
The three of them stood there for a moment — surrounded by cheers, echoing applause, and the curious stares of those who had just witnessed a legend in the making.
Above them, the sun gleamed gently down over the Fang. The wind whispered again — not as a challenge this time, but as if in salute.
The trio found themselves seated under the shade of a canvas roof at a lively roadside tavern just off the tournament grounds. The aroma of sizzling meats and fresh herbs mingled with the residual energy of the crowd, and laughter rang from every corner. A wooden table groaned under the weight of shared dishes — grilled fish, roasted roots, steaming bowls of rice, and a towering platter of skewered meatballs.
Kazel leaned back in his chair, sipping from a cup of warm barley tea, the scroll laid across his lap. "Alright, I understand the Spirit Stones," he said between bites of roasted duck, "but what's so special about this scroll? Juni made it sound like the real prize wasn't the gold or the bow, but this."
Before either of them could speak, Arhatam, who had just thrown a meatball into his mouth whole, let out a sudden gk! — his eyes widened and he froze.
Kazel blinked. "...You good?"
Durandal reacted immediately, reaching over and gripping Arhatam's neck with the precision of a battlefield medic and the strength of a raging boar. He massaged hard — too hard.
KRAK!
Arhatam jolted in place as the meatball was dislodged, bouncing off the table and into someone else's soup two tables away.
"AGHH! THAT'S NOT HOW YOU HANDLE A CHOKING PERSON!!" Arhatam shouted, half-coughing, half-horrified, clutching his neck. "You nearly snapped my spine in half!"
Kazel winced. "Remind me to never choke near Durandal."
Durandal muttered, "You're alive, aren't you?"
"Barely!" Arhatam took a sip of water, then wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve. "Ahem… Anyway! The scroll!"
He slapped the table with both palms, dramatically lowering his voice. "That is no ordinary scroll, my dear young master. That's a Soul Skill Scroll."
Kazel raised a brow. "A what?"
Durandal leaned in too, intrigued despite already hearing about it. Arhatam straightened, tapping the scroll reverently. "A rare and ancient creation. When you contract it, the scroll grants you a skill — a real Soul Skill — from a spirit beast. But here's the kicker: you don't need to host the beast itself."
Kazel's eyes narrowed slightly, his voice now curious. "You mean… I could gain a beast's power, without integrating it?"
"Exactly," Arhatam nodded, lowering his voice. "You get the skill, the utility,... without the soul burden, the risk of backlash, or the need for compatibility."
Kazel looked down at the scroll again. The golden string that tied it shimmered subtly, as if responding to their conversation.
"This is the first time I've heard of something like that," he muttered.
"That's because they're extremely rare," said Arhatam. "Most are hoarded by ancient families or powerful sects. For one to be used as a prize... well, the Heavenless Bow Sect must have deep pockets."
Arhatam grinned. Durandal just nodded with approval as he took another bite.
Outside, the wind stirred again. Even the scroll seemed to flutter on its own — as if it, too, recognized that it had changed hands into someone... different.