Chapter 86 — Treasure
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Clang!
The sound of metal clashing against metal reverberated through the air as shock registered on Terissa's face...
"Maybe it's just a fluke..." She went again, this time striking from the left side at shoulder level.
Clang!
Amelia's sword was there again. It deflected the attack while she stepped back a fraction.
With her eyes closed, how was she able to pinpoint my location? Terissa thought, circling the platform and launching again, this time leaping into the air as she struck down with an overhead slash.
The blade cut a clean arc through the lights, wind hissing across the stage, but Amelia swayed her body so far backward that Terissa only felt the rush of air; the sword didn't touch her.
Amelia didn't open her eyes. She grounded herself, tiny shifts of weight audible on the platform, breath steady. Terissa adjusted midair, trying to angle for a follow-up, and Amelia — still with eyes closed — tilted the sword in her grip and flung it with a practiced motion.
The blade spun like a silver thought.
Terissa froze in midair, panic spiking as she realized there was no clear retreat. She tried to raise her sword to block, but Amelia's blade crossed paths first, a light that felt more like force than metal as it stabbed into Terissa's upper chest. Energy rippled from the strike, a visible shimmer that shoved Terissa backward.
She slammed against the platform edge and flew off, a wind of crowd gasps trailing her. The sword remained pinned to her chest; she crumpled and hit the ground hard, dark pooling at her mouth as medics rushed forward.
Silence was the first thing that settled over the arena. Then disbelief. They hadn't expected such an outcome; it felt wrong in their mouths. Moments ago they had jeered at Amelia, called her weak; now she had won.
She had won the fight with her eyes closed.
And with a kind of brutal efficiency that left no room for argument.
Amelia remained on the stage, knees giving out beneath her. She opened her eyes and bile rose; she vomited blood, the sound soft under the heavy breathing of the crowd. Muscles shrieked in protest as her heartbeat and breathing struggled back toward normal.
She had fallen into a parasympathetic state — the body's slow, folding aftermath after hyperdrive — a hollow, exhausted kind of quiet. Her skin was damp; the muscles in her throat trembled. Each small movement felt like lifting a weight of iron.
The referee was the first to break the silence with a clap, then another. The sound of his palms hit the arena like a signal, and it spread — tentative at first, then gathering strength.
He was emotional. He couldn't hide it.
Whatever had shaped Amelia — the bruises on her spirit, the nights spent awake with worry — had roots in bullying.
She was bullied. Not just her. Her family carried some of it too.
Do people really understand what cultivation means?
Did you think cultivation was just sitting in lotus like the Muslims when praying and sensing energy?
Why do people go into seclusion for cultivation?
What is cultivation?
Cultivation is the process of absorbing the vital energy of the universe to physically, mentally, and spiritually evolve into a more powerful self...
And this process demands absolute concentration.
I mean absolute focus.
Think of sleep for a moment.
When we face big problems — loss, debts that choke, hunger, heartbreak — sleep deserts us. The mind churns, replaying, worrying. Rest becomes impossible.
Cultivation asks the same of you. If your mind is constantly disturbed, you cannot cultivate. Emotions gnaw at breakthroughs.
Amelia's mind had been in constant turmoil, stalling her progress toward the mid stage and forcing regression.
The mocking, the bullying — they were not just words. They ate at her concentration.
So it's not that she didn't want to grow. Circumstances held her down.
Cultivation isn't magic, and it was never a trick.
It's effort. Grit. Something you wrestle with; something tangled with your fate.
If cultivation were mere magic, Socrates could have been a cultivator by now.
Compared to cultivation, Amelia was even farther along in some ways than Socrates.
Socrates wasn't a cultivator; he was a gladiator who honed his body to the absolute limit of an ordinary human and broke past those shackles.
"The winner of the tenth slot is Amelia Trueblood..." the referee announced, pulling out a digital card. He offered Amelia a hand. She accepted, and he helped her to her feet before handing her the card.
The crowd didn't erupt into cheers. They stared, mouths half-open, eyes bright with confusion and a new, grudging respect.
Then someone started clapping. It was soft at first, then more hands joined, a wave of palms echoing through the arena until it became a roar made of rhythm rather than sound.
Everyone clapped.
Everyone except one person whose gaze pierced Amelia from the stands — cold, calculating, full of killing intent.
On the stage, Amelia stood with blue eyes rimmed in red, tears spilling free. For the first time since her father's death, someone — many someones — had acknowledged her.
.
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.
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Slam.
Scatter.
Alyssa slammed her palm into the desk. The wood split, a sharp crack, and she snatched a broken piece to hurl at the wall; it shattered against plaster, slivers littering the floor. Her chest hammered.
"How?"
"How did my sister get defeated?" she hissed, stamping her foot hard enough to make the bed tremble.
"Everyone is clapping for her... That bitch, after she hurt my twin—"
"I'll avenge you. I'll go to her dorm and—"
Tum. Tum.
Tum. Tum.
Her focus snapped to the bed where her smart communication tablet buzzed. It pulsed urgent light. She snatched it up, thumb swiping to answer.
"Have you and your sister secured the slot?" the caller asked.
Alyssa spat out the events, voice tight and brittle.
"The daughter of Trueblood... that pest..." the caller muttered on his end.
"But Uncle... how can she fight with her eyes closed?"
"She can sense energy. That's the simplest explanation, but it ties back to the Truebloods. We can't let her live; she'll be a threat."
"A threat? She's only at the early qi condensation realm..." Alyssa protested, but the words felt thin.
"You wouldn't understand. It's good news she's going to the dungeon. Become friends with her. Protect her. When the right time comes, bring her to us. Her eyes are valuable... treasures..." the caller said, voice low, then hung up.
Alyssa let out a long breath. Jealousy slithered into her chest and settled there, bitter and hot.
Her own uncle had praised her sworn enemy in front of her — and asked her to guard her. Rage spiked at the insult.
She threw the tablet onto the bed and slammed her back against the wall, arms trembling.
"OH AMELIA! WHAT'S SO SPECIAL ABOUT YOUR EYES?"