The moment Vikram Rathore stepped into the Crown Dome, Nalanda itself seemed to stop breathing.
Runic lightning crackled across the black shell, carving serpentine scars of blue over the crimson surface. The audience—ten lakh cultivators, nobles, and masters—leaned forward as one. No one whispered. No one exhaled.
Even the banners above the coliseum hung frozen, as though the air had forgotten how to move.
It no longer felt like a trial.
It felt like a sentencing.
Vikram crossed the threshold—and the world changed.
A metallic tang invaded his tongue; the air felt thick, pressing into his lungs like syrup. The ground was not stone but cracked crimson soil, pulsing faintly as if it were alive, as if each footstep beat against the chest of something sleeping below.
He tried to focus, but the horizon bent wrong—trees twisted upward like spines, roots coiling through the air. Above, the red moon loomed immense, staring down like an eye that had forgotten how to blink.
His body trembled, instincts screaming that this was not a place for mortals.
Every sense warred against him—fight, flee, freeze.
He whispered to himself, "Three moves… Endure three moves."
The words gave shape to courage. They tasted like steel in his mouth.
Outside, the mirror projection finally came to life, revealing the dome's interior to the horrified spectators. Crimson mist. Dead trees. A throne at the farthest edge—one small silhouette seated upon it.
Even hardened generals and sect masters felt their breath falter.
The Lotus Pavilion Elder, usually serene as a pond, whispered, "It's not a battlefield. It's a graveyard."
The Beastmaster Elder scoffed—though his voice cracked halfway through.
"I'd sooner drop my dragons into a volcano than set them there."
Principal Devendra, arms crossed, said nothing for a long time. Then softly—
"This isn't formation art.
This… is sovereignty."
Fifty kilometers away, on the other end of the dome, Aryan sat motionless upon his throne.
A boy, small and silent, cloaked in shadow. His mask of obsidian caught the red light and turned it molten.
He didn't move.
He didn't need to.
The roots beneath his seat pulsed faintly, as if bowing to his heartbeat. The throne itself seemed to breathe.
[System: Host, audience trauma level: 324% above healthy average. Should I broadcast a lullaby?]
Aryan didn't answer immediately. A faint smile ghosted beneath his mask.
[System: I'm serious. Half the spectators are considering early retirement.]
Aryan: "Good. Fewer distractions."
He rested his chin on one hand and simply watched.
At the far side, Vikram ignited his chakra. Golden energy flared behind him, forming the Garuda Wings, symbols of his sect's highest pride. His aura shimmered with sunfire.
Even across the distance, it painted him like a miniature sun against the crimson world.
When his eyes locked onto Aryan's distant figure, the gold dimmed.
That small silhouette radiated a gravity that bent light itself.
For the first time in his life, Vikram felt small.
Not weak—just… insignificant before the infinite.
Vikram steadied his breathing and raised his voice.
"I accept the rules. Three moves. I will endure them."
The voice that came back was neither loud nor soft—it simply existed everywhere at once.
"Welcome, challenger.
You have entered Death's domain.
Survive three moves… and you may leave.
Or not."
The words echoed in his bones, not his ears.
[System: You just made seventy percent of Nalanda soil themselves. Happy now?]
Aryan: "Yes."
Outside, the crowd rippled in waves of disbelief and awe. Children cried. Scholars forgot to write. The arena was spellbound.
Aryan raised his right hand.
It was a lazy motion—almost bored.
He remembered the arrogant boy from the Iron Palm Sect, the way his raw power had been wasted through arrogance. Aryan had practiced that technique in solitude, refining it for precision instead of pride.
Now he wanted to test it properly.
He pressed his palm forward, just barely into the air.
The runes along the throne lit like veins, energy gathering, condensing at his fingertips into a sphere of gold and white. Lightning crackled. The air warped.
Then—
He exhaled.
The world detonated.
A pulse of compressed energy slammed outward, shattering the sound barrier a dozen times over.
The crimson dust rose in a ring-shaped wall that devoured sight and sound alike.
Vikram's eyes widened. His instincts screamed before his brain did.
He kicked off the ground, chakra bursting into his legs, and shot upward.
The impact wave followed.
It wasn't air—it was force given hunger.
Branches exploded behind him as he launched from one dead tree to another, using collapsing trunks to deflect the shock. Each jump took milliseconds—leaping, twisting, redirecting energy. He turned the dome's monstrous forest into stepping stones of survival.
The audience gasped as the projection struggled to keep up. His golden blur ricocheted across the horizon like lightning in reverse.
But even so—
When the blast finally dissipated, Vikram's body slammed into the ground and skidded across crimson soil, carving a furrow fifty meters deep. His wings shattered into fragments of golden dust.
He groaned, coughing blood, but forced a grin. "Move one… survived."
The crowd erupted—half in terror, half in awe. A dozen projection crystals short-circuited from overload.
Elder Firecloud gripped the balcony edge. "He didn't blink! The child didn't even blink!"
Lotus Pavilion Elder: "That wasn't martial power. That was a natural disaster pretending to be etiquette."
Devendra, quiet: "One move."
[System: You promised to start small.]
Aryan: "It was small."
[System: The shockwave registered as a minor quake. In three provinces.]
Aryan: "I'm optimizing."
Vikram spat blood, pushing himself upright. His body screamed, but his spirit refused surrender.
He unfurled his aura again—the Garuda Wings reforming in flickers of fading light. His breathing steadied. "I'm still standing."
Aryan didn't stand.
He simply lifted one finger and tapped the armrest of his throne.
The ground shuddered.
From beneath Vikram's boots, roots erupted—thick as serpents, glowing with runic veins. Vines tore free from the crimson soil, twisting upward in mad spirals, like the planet itself had grown claws.
The roots lunged.
They were fast—too fast. Each movement calculated, guided by memory.
These weren't random vines; they carried every move Aryan had ever practiced.
Sita, watching from the stands, felt her throat tighten.
"He's… he's using the other contenders' techniques—through the land itself."
Bhaskar Draksha's jaw flexed.
"He's evolving mid-battle."
Zhang Xuan muttered, eyes sharp. "So that's what twenty times time advantage gives you."
Vikram sliced through the first wave. Golden chakra flared along his blade edge. He cut roots into halves, then quarters, but every piece twisted into a new shape—reforming, alive, angry.
He leapt onto a collapsing branch, spun, and unleashed a Garuda Spiral, a wind-infused vortex that shredded a dozen vines at once. The sound roared like a hurricane inside a cage.
For a moment—just a moment—he pushed back.
But Aryan flicked another finger.
The entire forest responded.
Roots twisted into arms; vines braided together into spears. They came from every direction, impossible to track. One pierced his shoulder; another wrapped his leg. He roared, broke free, only for three more to take their place.
The mirror projections stuttered—the visuals too chaotic to process.
Roshni clenched her fists from the stands.
"He can't hold out much longer!"
A vine wrapped around Vikram's waist, pulling him toward the earth. He slammed his palm down, summoning an energy shield just before impact. The barrier shattered. He skidded backward, blood spraying from his mouth.
He fell to one knee.
"Enough! I yield!" he shouted, voice cracking through the storm.
Instantly—
The vines stopped.
Everything went still.
Even the dust froze midair.
[System: Roots disengaged. Mercy protocol—paused.]
Aryan exhaled softly. "Fine. One left."
The throne creaked as Aryan rose for the first time.
Even that small motion made the air tremble. Every vine on the field bowed toward him. The red moonlight pooled around his feet like liquid.
He walked through the silence, each step echoing like thunder in slow motion.
To Vikram, it felt like eternity condensed into seconds—the walk of an executioner who pitied his target. Every instinct screamed don't move.
Aryan stopped before him, eyes hidden behind the black mask.
Vikram closed his eyes. "Do what you must."
Aryan placed a hand on his chest—gently.
To him, it was kindness, a small transfer of stabilizing chakra to heal the damage.
But to anyone else, that gentle pat was a divine overload.
Power surged outward, a flood of pure life force. It poured into Vikram like molten sunlight, igniting every nerve in his body. Runes flickered wildly across his skin.
He screamed—not from pain, but from sheer energy his mortal vessel couldn't contain.
And then—boom.
A concussive blast erupted outward, shaking the dome itself.
Vikram's body shot backward like a comet of gold and red light, smashing through the barrier walls and crashing into the contender stands with a sonic crack that made nearby spectators duck for cover.
Dust swallowed everything.
When it cleared—Vikram lay half-buried in the shattered stone, alive… barely.
For a full ten seconds, the arena was utterly silent.
Then chaos broke loose.
Screams, gasps, shouts—everyone talking over everyone.
"He killed him!"
"No, look—he's moving!"
"He healed him into unconsciousness!"
"What kind of healing is that!?"
Ganpat burst out laughing so hard he dropped his teacup.
"Now that's my boy! Can't decide between doctor and destroyer!"
Taarask the miniature beast chirped, puffing out smoke rings in delight.
The elders' balcony was pandemonium.
Firecloud's elder roared, "That wasn't mercy—that was divine electrocution!"
Lotus Pavilion's elder clutched her head. "He gave him life force in excess. The body can't handle that much!"
The Beastmaster elder snarled, "He toyed with him!"
Principal Devendra alone stayed calm, arms behind his back.
"No. That was control… from someone who hasn't yet learned fear."
Medics rushed to Vikram's side. The boy was trembling, but alive—and something else. His skin radiated faint golden light; his injuries were closing, cells regenerating at unnatural speed.
"He's… healing himself?" one healer gasped.
"No—he's been restructured," another whispered. "His body's adapting to a higher energy frequency!"
The scoreboard flared back to life.
"Vikram Rathore – Defeated.
Survived Three Moves.
Returned to Upper Rank.
Crown Rank Instructor – Undefeated."
The crowd roared—half applause, half prayers for their own sanity.
Inside the dome, the dust settled once more. The red world restored its silence. Aryan sat back down, resting an elbow on the throne's armrest.
[System: Host, next time specify your intentions before using palm contact. You almost baptized him in nuclear chakra.]
Aryan: "I was healing him."
[System: You turned him into a flashlight.]
Aryan: "He's glowing nicely. That's success."
[System: Success with a body count margin.]
Aryan chuckled. "Not dead, though."
[System: Yet.]
Principal Devendra stood slowly, gaze sweeping across the chaos.
"Now they understand," he said softly.
Lotus Pavilion Elder: "Understand what? That he's strong?"
Devendra's expression didn't change.
"No. That the Crown isn't granted by strength.
It's given to those who can make even mercy terrifying."
The other elders fell silent.
Outside, the cheers shifted from excitement to reverent dread.
The announcer's voice cracked with awe.
"As per tradition—batches two through four, prepare for entry!
The Second Ring… begins!"
A thousand mirrors flickered to life as healers dragged away debris and fear.
Inside the dome, Aryan stretched, rolling his shoulders.
[System: Host, estimated queue of next challengers: forty-two. Want me to prepare ambient background music?]
Aryan: "Play the one from my last world."
[System: The one that made gamers rage-quit?]
"Exactly."
A mechanical sigh echoed through the dome.
[System: May the heavens pity them.]
Aryan chuckled under his breath, leaning back in his throne, eyes glimmering crimson beneath the mask.
"One down.
Next."
Outside, thunder rolled across Nalanda's skies—an omen, or applause.
No one could tell the difference anymore.