Chapter 11: Dawn's First Duel
The night before the tournament, the Iron Banner Sect barely slept. Lanterns flickered in dormitory windows well past midnight, their light dancing across faces tense with hope and dread. Jiang Wei lay awake, fingers pressed to the pebble at his wrist, feeling its warmth pulse in tune with his racing heart. Outside, thunder from the receding storm echoed off distant cliffs—a somber drum, calling the brave and the foolish alike.
Before dawn's first light, the sect grounds were already alive. Disciples gathered beneath banners stretched taut by the wind, each one hunched against the chill but steeled for the test ahead. Breath plumed in the darkness as Jiang Wei joined Ming Xue, Yao Ping, and Han Zhi at the edge of the training field.
Ming Xue was all composure, blade already tied to her back; Yao Ping hummed nervously, repeating the names of basic forms under his breath. Han Zhi's knuckles were white where they clutched his robe, but he offered Jiang Wei a small, determined nod.
Instructors lined the main platform. Senior Sister Wen stood beside Elder Hui, both faces grave in the morn's uncertain light. "Welcome, outer disciples," Wen called, voice carrying to every trembling corner. "Today, your fates change. Step onto the field—face yourselves, your fears, and each other."
The tournament grounds had been transformed. Four dueling circles, marked by fresh chalk and guarded by watchful senior disciples, waited on the flattened grass. Names were drawn by lot. Each duel would be single elimination: a single loss, and the dream of advancement died.
Jiang Wei's heart pounded as slips were called one by one. "Jiang Wei versus Ren Lei!"
A ripple went through the crowd. Ren Lei was a broad-shouldered local from an allied clan, with a sneering mouth and reputation for aggression. As he stepped into the circle, blue dawnlight caught on the hilt of his training sword and the threads of his clan's sash.
Jiang Wei breathed deeply, heat from the pebble centering him. Elder Hui raised a hand to command silence. "Begin!"
Ren Lei lunged like a striking boar, his attacks brash and forceful. For a moment, Jiang Wei faltered under the assault—parrying, sliding back, feeling bruises bloom on his forearm. He remembered the whispers in the bamboo, Wen's warnings: *Honor and restraint. Stillness in the storm.*
Jiang Wei found his rhythm. He began to move like water, dodging and redirecting, drawing Ren Lei into frustration. Cheers and jeers wove through the crowd as the duel's tempo built. Ren Lei raised his sword overhead, bellowing, "Stand and fight, coward!" and swung with both hands.
Jiang Wei waited until the very last heartbeat, then stepped into the arc of the blow. He pivoted, catching the force on his own blade and levering it aside. Ren Lei stumbled forward. Jiang Wei struck—quick and clean—touching Ren Lei's shoulder before the boy could recover.
A hush fell over the field. Elder Hui's voice rang out: "Jiang Wei, victor!"
Relief and fatigue washed through him. As they cleared the circle, Ren Lei glared, then spat to the side and stalked away. But a few in the crowd murmured Jiang Wei's name; some with curiosity, some with grudging respect.
Ming Xue was next—her duel swift and efficient, her focus unyielding as steel. Yao Ping fought valiantly, barely eking out a win with a desperate feint, and Han Zhi was narrowly defeated, but left the field with head high and not a trace of bitterness.
The first round ended with forty battered but shining disciples standing on the grass, each one having survived their trial by dawn. Senior Sister Wen stepped forward, her voice now gentler. "You have crossed a threshold. Ready yourselves—tomorrow brings new matches, fiercer rivals, and the path grows steeper with every victory."
That night, Jiang Wei sat beneath the stars, the pebble pulsing softly with triumph and warning—a reminder that, for every door won in blood and sweat, another waited, shadowed and grand, just beyond reach.