The colossal city arena, once a roaring cauldron of competitive energy, now hummed with the fading cheers of a day's battles, its stone tiers slowly emptying under a sky bruised with the muted hues of dusk. The air grew colder, carrying the sharp, metallic tang of spent spiritual energy and the faint, acrid char of techniques that had burned themselves out. Most of the mini-arenas stood silent, their protective barriers dimming, their runes fading into dormancy. Yet, one remained, a persistent focal point of primal struggle, where a churning gray storm of ash and snow raged on, its combatants locked in a relentless, seemingly endless duel.
Song sat rigid, his body hunched, his cracked ribs aching with a deep, throbbing pain under the lingering, oppressive pressure of an elder's aura.
Song's Physical & Spiritual State: Spiritual Energy: Depleted (a hollow, draining sensation that left him feeling utterly vulnerable, a direct consequence of enduring the tournament's immense intensity). Health: Compromised (his internal injuries screamed, each breath a struggle, a stark reminder of his current fragility).
Despite his compromised state, his eyes remained stubbornly glued to the obscured mini-arena, where the fierce clash between Dark Cloud's muscular man and Frost Spirit's lanky youth showed no sign of abating. Whispers of Dark Cloud's absolute dominance, their unbroken, merciless winning streak, filled the stands, casting a chilling shadow over the other six great clans. Song's mind raced, his thoughts a chaotic whirlwind, meticulously piecing together the true stakes of this brutal tournament, wary of the raw, untamed power he'd witnessed throughout the day.
The puppeteer's swift, brutal victory over the Star Luck swordswoman still echoed vividly in Song's thoughts, her earth giant a testament to Dark Cloud's terrifying prowess and control. Elders sitting in the rows behind him spoke in hushed tones of the puppeteer's incredible youth—barely sixteen, they whispered, yet wielding a powerful clan relic with such devastating effect. Despite her undeniable skill, they still referred to her as merely "good," especially when compared to the "monster" still battling in the ash-snow arena. Song's Perception: Moderate strained to catch even the faintest glimpses through the churning maelstrom of elements, but only sudden bursts of violent spiritual energy and the muffled, bone-jarring impacts hinted at the fight's ferocious intensity within. "What's that beast planning in there?" a burly warrior beside him growled, his voice thick with a palpable fear that Song shared. The crowd's tension was a tangible entity, palpable and suffocating, as the mini-arena's spiritual barrier flickered ominously under the relentless strain of the prolonged, destructive conflict. Dark Cloud's fearsome reputation for ruthlessness was no mere myth, and this particular fighter was clearly their pinnacle, their most lethal weapon.
A sudden, deafening explosion ripped through the very fabric of the swirling storm, instantly shattering the elemental veil and revealing a terrifying, undeniable truth.
Crimson flames, hot enough to make the very air shimmer, erupted violently, filling the entire mini-arena in a blinding, infernal blaze. The intense heat seared even through the supposedly impenetrable spiritual barrier, making Song shudder instinctively. His own Fire Concept: Basic was dwarfed, rendered utterly insignificant by the overwhelming, untamed power of the blaze. Its creator was a master of fire, operating on a level far, far beyond anything Song had ever conceived. The spiritual barrier trembled violently, fine cracks spiderwebbing across its surface like fractured ice, threatening to collapse entirely under the sheer, unbridled force. Elders across the stands leapt to their feet, shouting in unison, their voices filled with a mixture of awe and horror, "What in the heavens is that whelp doing?!" Warriors around Song stood as well, their faces a complex mosaic of awe, dread, and morbid fascination. Song's heart pounded against his aching ribs—such a destructive display wasn't normal, even for a tournament renowned for its brutal outcomes and unforgiving nature. Several courageous warriors, led by the arena's grim-faced judge, plunged headlong into the inferno, their figures swallowed by the raging flames, triggering a second, concussive explosion. Then, as quickly as it had erupted, the fire collapsed in on itself, subsiding into smoldering coals, revealing the stark, horrifying aftermath.
Four arena warriors, their faces grim and soot-stained, now pinned the muscular Dark Cloud fighter to the scorched earth. His arms were twisted painfully behind his back, but a defiant, almost mocking smirk played on his lips, even under restraint. The lanky Frost Spirit youth, however, was gone. All that remained of him was a gruesome pile of ash, with a single, charred, twisted hand protruding grotesquely from the smoldering remains. Song's stomach churned violently, a wave of nausea washing over him. The crowd's collective silence was deafening, a thick blanket of horror as the brutal reality of what they had just witnessed slowly, chillingly, sank in.
Two new figures appeared, striding into the arena with contrasting demeanors: a furious elder, Lou Dor of the Frost Spirit clan, his gaunt face contorted in a murderous rage, his eyes burning with vengeance. The other was Bai Sel, a composed, almost serenely smiling woman from the Dark Cloud clan, her smile mocking and utterly unconcerned. "Advisor Bai Sel!" Lou Dor roared, his voice trembling with barely suppressed fury, his spiritual pressure erupting outwards, a crushing, invisible force that slammed into the stands, making the very stone tremble. "Does your sect seek war with my clan?!"
Song collapsed to his knees, a thin trickle of blood weeping from the corners of his eyes, his fractured ribs screaming in agony under the elder's overwhelming spiritual aura.
Song's Critical Condition: Health: Critical (his vision swam, blurring at the edges, as Lou Dor's raw, untamed power intensified, threatening to tear him apart).
Bai Sel's voice, remarkably soft and melodious, cut through the oppressive atmosphere, heard clearly by all present despite the elder's furious roar. "Advisor Lou Dor, please, calm yourself. Your junior knew the inherent risks of entering the arena. Tournaments, by their very nature, sometimes have unfortunate accidents. My pupil merely used his full strength—how could he possibly know that your 'genius' was so… weak?"
Her gentle, yet undeniably powerful, spiritual force spread outwards, subtly neutralizing the crushing weight of Lou Dor's pressure, like a soft breeze dispelling a dark storm cloud. Free from the agonizing weight, Song gasped for air, his lungs burning. Bai Sel's strength was undeniable, her composure absolute. Lou Dor's rage, for all its intensity, was rendered impotent, his fists clenching and unclenching uselessly at his sides. "You may file a formal complaint with Dark Cloud's head if you wish," Bai Sel stated, her tone dismissive, as she gestured for her warriors to release the muscular man. He rose, a triumphant, almost predatory grin flashing at Lou Dor, and calmly followed Bai Sel out of the arena, leaving the enraged elder seething, trembling with impotent fury. "Their arrogance grows yearly," a warrior near Song spat, his voice filled with bitter resentment.
"They've earned it," an older elder replied, his voice heavy with resignation. "Few now possess the might to truly challenge Dark Cloud."
The tournament was abruptly paused, no further fights scheduled for the day. Song slowly, painfully, limped his way home, every bone in his body aching from the lingering aftershocks of Lou Dor's oppressive aura, each step a testament to his sheer will. The hour-long journey drained what little spiritual energy he had left, leaving him utterly exhausted. Yet, despite his physical torment, the day's brutal lessons burned bright in his mind: Dark Cloud's terrifying dominance, the muscular man's ruthless brutality, and the immense, almost insurmountable heights Song himself must reach if he ever hoped to stand against such power. Arriving at his humble dwelling, he found a guest already waiting, an unexpected shadow lingering in his doorway, their silent presence a new, enigmatic puzzle in a day already filled with startling revelations.