Dark Star Nocturne's servant quarter buzzed with an unfamiliar pulse, its normally stagnant air now laced with tension and movement. The twisted alleys, once echoing only with the shuffle of tired feet and the hiss of boiling medicinal brews, were now alive with cloaked figures moving in pairs. Their robes bore faint emblems of distant sects, subtle enough to be missed by the untrained eye, but Song noticed. These weren't ordinary cultivators. Their synchronized steps and the way they melted into the shadows bespoke experience, not rank alone. A silent pressure accompanied them, an unseen weight that turned familiar corners into foreign ground.
Song limped through the shifting street, his bandaged limbs reminding him of the cost of defiance. Beneath the wrappings, however, his body thrummed with a quiet, hard-earned power. His advancement to Second Lord had not come without suffering, but it was real—a foundation to build on. Every step was pain. Every breath still caught against cracked ribs. But he moved forward. Ten days had passed since Edge's ultimatum, leaving him with only twenty more to earn one hundred Merit Points—an impossible task even for someone uninjured, let alone him. And yet, the Fiery Immortal Technique burned within his core, reshaping him in ways he hadn't fully understood.
"I need to see real combat," he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse but firm. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a cluster of cultivators gathered around the Magistracy's notice board, their murmurs carrying snippets of excitement. Pushing closer, Song's gaze locked onto a broad slip of golden paper pinned at the center. It read:Free Tournament – Great Powers ExhibitionOpen Arena, No Entry Fee. Combat Observation Permitted.
Song's heart stirred. A real tournament. No restrictions, no private duels behind closed doors. Just raw power, skill, and law comprehension displayed without veil. The arena was said to be near the edge of the servant quarter—close, but still a draining walk in his condition. Gritting his teeth, he forced his aching limbs into motion, leaning on a bamboo staff as a makeshift crutch.
By the time he arrived, sweat drenched his robes and his breath came in ragged pulls. But the sight before him stole away the pain. The arena stood proud and timeworn, an oval structure of weathered stone with cracked steps and sun-bleached flags fluttering from old iron poles. Four rows of seats encircled the sand-filled pit, blending laborers, outer disciples, rogue cultivators, and even a few junior elders in a rare mix. No caste here—only those with the hunger to witness battle.
Spiritual energy hung in the air, thick and alive, vibrating just beneath the surface like a thunderstorm waiting to break. Song's interface flickered:Location: Dark Star ArenaEvent: Great Powers TournamentAccess: Free
He took a seat near the edge of the second row, favoring a spot in the shade. His eyes were drawn instantly to a match already in progress. In the arena below, a young woman garbed in flowing black stood opposite a youth in gray robes, their gazes locked, unblinking. Silence gripped the crowd. Even the breeze held its breath.
A referee—a silver-haired elder with a lean frame—stepped forward, holding a glowing orb the size of a melon. He raised it overhead. It pulsed once, then twice, then soared skyward as he stepped back. It hovered for a heartbeat before descending, dimming rapidly. The instant it touched the arena floor, the match began.
The woman launched forward in a blur, sand spraying beneath her feet. Her movements were sharp, honed like a blade drawn a thousand times. Song's interface shifted again:Observation: Tournament DuelParticipants: Unknown Female (Black), Unknown Male (Gray)Rank: Estimated Fifth Lord
The male opponent did not move. He smirked, raising a single hand as the woman closed the distance. A wall of sand erupted from the ground, forming a dense shield that absorbed her palm strike with a low, thunderous thud. The energy wave from the impact surged outward, striking the arena's spiritual barrier with a visible ripple. Song flinched as the hum of the ward echoed through his bones.
"This is combat?" he whispered, wide-eyed. His training in the servant quarter, no matter how brutal, felt like child's play compared to this. These weren't mere exchanges of force. They were contests of comprehension—of Law, precision, and timing.
The duel intensified. The youth's sand shield twisted and reformed, morphing into a massive fist that lashed out with brutal speed. The woman parried with her bare hands, not retreating an inch. She turned each impact aside, her movements like a dance of fire and water—fluid yet forceful.
Song leaned forward, the pain in his ribs forgotten. The spark of the Fiery Immortal Technique inside him pulsed, resonating faintly with the woman's explosive movements. I need this strength, he thought. Not just power, but control.
The tide shifted. The youth's attacks grew sharper, the sand rising into knives, spears, and spinning disks. The air turned sharp with the hiss of moving particles. Song watched as the woman began to falter, her footwork disrupted, her counters slower. Defeat seemed inevitable.
But then she spun. Her figure blurred and vanished mid-motion, leaving only an afterimage that dissolved into the breeze. A moment later, she appeared behind the youth, her hand wrapped around his throat, her other palm pressed lightly against his heart. He froze. His sand constructs crumbled into dust.
She released him and stepped back. The referee nodded.Outcome: Female (Black) VictoryTechnique: Unknown Movement Skill
The arena erupted in cheers, the crowd's roar loud and unrestrained. Song remained seated, stunned, his body motionless. The duel had shattered something inside him—a false ceiling, perhaps. He'd thought his path was clear. Now he realized it had barely begun.
"I've never seen real combat," he whispered. "This is the path."
Though he had reached Second Lord, the gulf between him and them felt vast. His hand clenched at his robe. He needed more than cultivation. He needed experience. Combat. Battle under pressure.
He glanced toward the other arenas set around the coliseum, hoping for more duels. Unfortunately, most had concluded. He sighed, disappointment flickering.
"More fights today?" he asked the tall warrior sitting beside him, a man with sunburnt skin and a halberd strapped to his back.
"Second stage starts in twenty minutes," the man replied without looking.
Song gave a grateful nod, leaning back against the warm stone of his seat. His body ached, but his spirit surged. This tournament was more than a spectacle. It was a classroom. A crucible. And for now, pain would take second place to progress.
Strength is everything, he vowed once more, the echo of clashing cultivators still ringing in his mind. And I will seize it.
To be continued…