The Outer Sect Tournament was chaos.
It was not a stage for elegant duels. It was a muddy, desperate brawl. The arena was comprised
of ten raised platforms, and on each, two low-level disciples fought with the desperation of
drowning rats.
Ren Wei's name was called. His opponent was a broad-shouldered disciple named Hu Long, a
boy known for his brute strength and a dull, aggressive-bordering-on-stupid personality. He was
a perfect target.
Li Mei squeezed his hand, her own ice-cold. "Be... be so careful, Ren Wei." She looked at him
with wide, terrified eyes. "Don't... don't get hurt."
"I won't," he said, giving her a confident smile. "It's just a match."
He stepped onto the platform. Hu Long sneered, cracking his knuckles. The proctor, a
bored-looking Inner Sect disciple, dropped his hand. "Begin!"
Hu Long charged, his wooden sword raised like a club.
Ren Wei didn't meet the charge. He dodged. And he talked.
"That's a strong opening, Senior Brother Hu!" he called out, ducking a clumsy swing. "But you're
breathing too hard. Wasting energy!"
"Shut up and fight, rat!" Hu Long roared, swinging again.
Ren Wei parried, the impact jarring his arm. Hu Long was strong. "You're angry," Ren Wei
observed, sidestepping. "Why? Because you know this is your last chance? Because your talent
is just as bad as mine, and the only thing you have is brute strength?"
"I'll... I'll break you!" Hu Long was turning red. His swings became wider, more predictable.
This was the core of Ren Wei's strategy. He wasn't a fighter. He was a psychologist. He was
using cognitive-behavioral-antagonism. He was analyzing and provoking.
For five minutes, he did nothing but dodge, parry, and verbally dissect his opponent. He pointed
out Hu Long's tells, his wasted movements, his sloppy footwork. Hu Long, driven into a blind,
sloppy rage, over-committed. He lunged, a full-body, screaming attack.
Ren Wei didn't dodge. He stood his ground, parried the blow downward with all his strength, and
used Hu Long's own momentum—and his now-perfectly-off-balance stance—to trip him.
Hu Long went flying, face-first, off the platform and into the mud.
Silence. Then, a few scattered laughs.
Ren Wei stood on the platform, panting, his arm aching, but... victorious. He had won. He hadn't
just survived. He had won.
The proctor yawned. "Platform Seven, winner: Ren Wei."
A wave of elation, pure and potent, washed over him. He felt strong. He felt smart. He belonged.
He jumped down from the platform. Li Mei was there instantly, throwing her arms around him,
her face buried in his chest. "You did it! You did it! You were... you were amazing!"
He hugged her back, laughing. "It worked. My crazy plan worked."
"Good fight, Ren Wei!"
A new voice. Ren Wei looked up. A tall, lanky disciple with a simple, honest face was grinning at
him. "Zhang. That was... smart as hell." He clapped Ren Wei on the back. "Never seen anyone
talk Hu Long into defeat."
"Ah... thanks, Senior Brother Zhang," Ren Wei said, feeling a flush of pride.
"Here," Zhang said, offering his own waterskin. "You look exhausted. My match isn't for an
hour."
"No!" The word was a sharp, high-pitched squeak. Li Mei flinched, as if she'd been struck. "He...
he... he has his water. I... I brought it." She fumbled at her own hip, her hands trembling as she "None taken," Ren Wei said, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. He took his own waterskin
from Li Mei. "Thanks, Mei." He nodded to Zhang. "Good luck in your match."
He took a long drink. Li Mei watched him, her hand still trembling.
An hour later, Zhang's match was called. He stepped onto the platform, looking confident. Ten
seconds in, he stumbled. His face went a pale, sickly green. He clutched his stomach, dropping
his sword, and retched violently over the side of the platform.
He had forfeited.
"Food poisoning," someone whispered.
Ren Wei, standing on the sidelines, went cold. A dread so profound it made his knees weak
settled in his gut.
Zhang drank from his waterskin. No. I drank from mine. Zhang offered me HIS.
He replayed the scene. Zhang offered his skin. Li Mei had panicked. She'd given Ren Wei her
skin. Their skin.
What if...
He turned to Li Mei. "Mei. I'm... I'm feeling a little sick. That fight... I think I'll go back to the
hovel."
Her face was a mask of perfect concern. "Oh, no! Is it your stomach, too? Maybe there's a... a
sickness going around?" She put her arm around his waist. "Lean on me. I'll take care of you."
He let her walk him back, his mind racing, a horrible, sickening hypothesis forming.
That night, he lay on his mat, pretending to be asleep. He waited until he heard Li Mei's
breathing even out. He slid out of the hovel.
He had to know.
He would use his "psychology." He would set a trap.
The next morning, he "confessed" to her. "Mei... I'm worried about Zhang. I think Hu Long's
friends... they might have poisoned him to get revenge. I... I'm going to go to the library and see
if I can find an antidote manual. I'll... I'll meet him there. To... to study. To help him."
Li Mei's reaction was perfect. "Oh, Ren Wei," she breathed, her eyes shining with admiration.
"You are... just... the best person. You're so kind, even after he was... he was so familiar with
you. But... be careful! Please!"
"I will," he said.
He did not go to the library.
He hid in the shadows of the drying shed, his heart hammering, praying he was wrong. He
watched the path. He watched, and he waited.
An hour passed. He was starting to feel like a paranoid fool.
Then, he saw her.
Li Mei came out of her hovel. She looked left. She looked right. She was no longer the shy,
gentle mouse. She was... different. Her movements were fluid, economical, and silent. She
moved like a hunter.
She glided down the path toward the second-year quarters, where Zhang lived.
Ren Wei followed, his blood turning to ice.
He watched from behind a rickety fence as she approached Zhang's hovel. She didn't knock.
She produced a small vial from her sleeve. She uncorked it, and with a delicate, practiced
motion, she poured a thick, dark, corrosive liquid onto the wooden step, right in front of his door.
It was lye. The kind used for cleaning the latrines. It bubbled, eating into the wood, forming a
dark, treacherous-looking patch. It was a "prank." A "rival's" work. But if Zhang stepped on that,
barefoot, in the dark...
Ren Wei's vision tunneled. The sounds of the sect faded.
The girl who had given him a bun. The girl who had mended his arm. The girl who had shared her Qi with him.
She was a liar.
The mask hadn't just cracked. It was gone. He was staring at the monster underneath.