The top twelve finalists had been decided. Night had descended, and after a day of ferocious martial clashes, the arena lay shattered and broken, reduced to a field of splinters and cracks. The latter rounds of combat had been waged almost upon ruins, each strike fraught with hardship.
And so the night would serve two ends: to let the twelve contenders rest and recover to their peak prowess, and to have artisans labor through the night to mend the arena for the matches on the morrow.
Such incidents had occurred before, when the combatants' power had grown too great for the stage to bear. Yet never had the damage been this severe, nor had it been wrought so early in the tournament—usually only the final bouts inflicted such ruin. Nothing of this sort had ever been witnessed.
Given the extraordinary might of this year's participants, the ten great powers pooled silver to forge an entirely new arena. This time, however, it would differ from its predecessors.
The new stage would be constructed entirely of steel, unyielding and indestructible, built to last for ages.
With only a single night to complete the work, only the most renowned blacksmiths and crafters in the imperial capital of the Spirit Kingdom were summoned.
The day's battles had drawn to a close. Fire Cloud Manor had suffered poor fortune; only Wen Rensi had advanced to the final stages, the rest of its disciples having been eliminated. Thanks to Gao Han's presence, the Misty Sect boasted two finalists—one more than the seven-star Fire Cloud Manor.
Also among the twelve were: a single disciple from the Serene Lotus Sect, Yue Ling; Qian Zhuan, a disciple of the Qianling Sect; Jian Qingtian of the Jian clan; and Hao Han, the wandering warrior of the martial realm.
Of the four imperial clans, only three disciples remained. The Gu clan had been entirely defeated. The other three houses each sent one contender: Lu Zhengfei, son of the imperial grand prince; Zheng Yan, the prodigy of the Zheng clan; and Hu Xiao of the Hu clan.
The Duan clan had surprisingly placed two disciples in the top twelve: Duan Qianchou, the clan's young master, and Duan Lang, a prodigy from a collateral branch of the family.
Duan Lang fought in an uncanny, savage manner, his eyes glowing with an eerie green light, devoid of all humanity. His strikes were not merely cruel—they were murderous. Once combat began, he attacked with mindless ferocity, every move aimed at killing.
He showed no mercy to his foes, nor to himself. He paid no heed to where his opponents struck, launching assaults without restraint.
In that moment, he seemed less a man than a wild beast, and his enemy not a fellow warrior, but a hated rival bound to him by a blood feud.
"Junior Brother Gao! Will you not join us at our quarters for a drink and celebration?" Nian Hua invited warmly.
Kang Le nodded eagerly. Though he himself had been defeated, the Misty Sect had two warriors in the top twelve—one more than Fire Cloud Manor—a great triumph for the sect.
Wei Ying, unable to bear the shame of losing to an outer-sect disciple, had left the arena immediately after his defeat.
Gao Han smiled gently. "I regret that I cannot. I have private matters to attend to." With that, he turned and departed the arena grounds.
At the Drunken Wind Tavern in the imperial capital, Gao Han sat dining with Gao Jianfeng and his companions, with the ever-present Zheng Kong in tow.
Gao Han recounted his experiences of the past few months, careful to keep what he should hidden, hidden. Above all, he said nothing of the ancient tomb—the most sacred secret of all, one he could not reveal even to his own father.
When he finished, everyone stared at him in stunned silence.
"So… Brother Han, you wield two kinds of momentum now?" The wine Zheng Kong had just lifted spilled from his agape mouth, yet he did not even notice.
The tavern fell utterly quiet, until the impetuous Gao Yong broke the tension.
"Hahaha! As expected of my brother Han—truly extraordinary!"
Gao Zhi, ever perceptive, spoke calmly. "Brother Han, you mean to say you command ice momentum?"
Gao Han took a sip of wine and nodded in confirmation.
Hours slipped by, and the group drank merrily. Through relentless persistence, Zheng Kong finally grew close with Gao Zhi and Gao Yong.
Later, at Zheng Kong's enthusiastic invitation, the Gao clan party traveled to the Zheng residence.
On the morning of the second day, Gao Han awoke from his meditation. With matches ahead, he only sought to replenish his expended energy.
BOOM… BOOM… BOOM…
The roll of war drums echoed, signaling the start of the tournament. Once the drums fell silent, any contestant not yet in the arena would be disqualified.
When the drumming ceased, the arena grounds fell deathly still—so quiet one could hear a pin drop. At its center stood a ten-foot-tall black steel platform, forged overnight by tireless craftsmen.
At You Canghai's announcement, the matches began. Each of the twelve was a powerhouse; all but Gao Han stood at the peak of the third layer of True Essence or higher.
"First match: Hu Xiao of the Hu clan versus Wen Rensi."
Two figures leaped onto the stage. Hu Xiao wore white robes, wielding a longsword, his bearing gentle and refined, like a scholarly gentleman.
Wen Rensi, as always, was clad in fiery crimson.
Wen Rensi struck with but a single palm, sending Hu Xiao flying off the platform.
The second match pitted Yue Ling against Lu Zhengfei.
Every female disciple of the Serene Lotus Sect was exquisitely beautiful, and their leader for this tournament was no exception. Her skin was as smooth and fair as suet jade, her figure alluring and statuesque.
Lu Zhengfei looked her over with appreciative eyes and smiled. "A true beauty, indeed. The Serene Lotus Sect is a blessed place. Were it not for accepting only women, I would join myself."
Thirty paces away, Yue Ling smiled charmingly. "If Young Master Lu has time, you are welcome to visit. I shall be your guide, and I promise you will not be disappointed."
Lu Zhengfei grinned. "Then I shall take you up on that offer. You had best…"
He never finished his sentence. His sword flashed from its sheath, pointed straight at Yue Ling, the blade cutting through the void as if splitting it in two.
"Lotus Petal!"
Pink lotus petals drifted down from the air, each exquisitely formed, lifelike and delicate. Though it was the same technique used by her fellows, Yue Ling's mastery was leagues beyond Yue Han or Le Mei.
When a petal struck the sharp sword, the blade was instantly knocked aside, its trajectory thrown wildly off course.
"Script!"
Lu Zhengfei changed the angle of his sword, whirling it through the air to inscribe dark characters of ink-like essence. The characters bore righteous pride and scholarly grace.
This was the Ink Record Sword Art—a top-tier Mortal-Rank technique, ever-changing, embodying the wisdom of poetry, prose, and the rule of kingdoms. Each form held unique power.
The floating characters clashed with the lotus petals, silently dissolving them until both techniques faded into nothingness.
Lu Zhengfei pressed his advantage, unleashing the forms of Poem and Verse. More dark characters filled the air, as if the void were a sheet of parchment and his sword a scholar's brush, painting calligraphy across the sky.
The characters carried the rhythm of poetry and the weight of classical prose, resonating with profound artistic charm. When they struck the steel platform, they crashed like heavy hammers, sending deafening booms echoing through the arena.
"Lotus War Art!"
Lotus flowers burst forth from the ground, each blooming in full, elegant beauty, standing tall like graceful maidens.
As the characters neared, the lotus petals lifted into the air, swirling into a storm of floral blades. The petals sliced through the air, shredding it—and the incoming characters—to pieces.
"Impressive indeed," Lu Zhengfei murmured, his expression turning stern. "Rule the Kingdom and Pacify the World!"
A colossal dark character meaning "kingdom" materialized in the air, majestic and overwhelming, exuding an irresistible, domineering aura that threatened to crush all beneath it. With a single tremor, it shattered the petal storm into dust and continued toward Yue Ling.
Yet once the lotus blossoms faded, seed pods remained upon the ground. From each pod burst lotus seeds like crossbow bolts, riddling the character with holes until it dissolved completely.
"Will you concede?" Yue Ling asked seriously. "If you do not, I cannot guarantee the third eruption of this technique will not harm you—perhaps even kill you."
Lu Zhengfei saw the utter sincerity in her eyes and did not doubt her words. He sheathed his sword and smiled bitterly. "A great man bends when he must. I concede."
Yue Ling waved her sword, and the seed pods vanished, melting back into streams of essence that returned to her body.
The match concluded, and You Canghai announced from the stage: "Next match: Jian Qingtian versus Qian Zhuan."
This bout was brief and one-sided. Jian Qingtian's prowess was plain for all to see. To avoid being defeated instantly, Qian Zhuan unleashed his ultimate technique at the very start: Heaven-Piercing Palm.
Qian Zhuan leaped high into the air and struck downward at Jian Qingtian. A colossal palm, thirty feet across, materialized in the sky and crashed violently toward him.
Jian Qingtian defeated him with merely two sword strikes.
The first was Ten Thousand Forms Return to One, which shattered the giant palm in an instant. The second sliced through layers of void, leaving no room to evade, appearing before Qian Zhuan in the blink of an eye.
"To defeat my strongest technique so easily… I concede." Qian Zhuan did not even glance at the sword before him; his face calm, he turned and descended the arena.
The next match was Duan Qianchou versus Zheng Yan.
At the level of the top twelve, holding back was futile. Every warrior was overwhelmingly powerful. To strike with one's ultimate technique from the start was the only way to stand a chance; to hold back as in earlier rounds meant being crushed in an instant—a humiliating end.
And so Zheng Yan unleashed his signature move the moment he stepped onto the stage: a single, earth-shaking spear strike.
"Tyranny!"
This was the sixth form of the Seven-Step Tyrant Spear, so domineering it cracked the very void.
Duan Qianchou lashed out with three consecutive kicks, each shaking like a mountain, shattering the tyrannical aura that enclosed him.
The first kick sent the surrounding energy trembling. The second covered it in cracks like shattered glass. The third erased it entirely.
Duan Qianchou then leaped high and kicked downward with crushing force.
In that instant, Zheng Yan felt as if a mountain were collapsing upon him. A Qi Condensation warrior would have been killed outright by the momentum alone.
CLANG…
Leg met spear in a deafening collision. Duan Qianchou hung suspended in midair, locked in a stalemate with Zheng Yan's spear, his leg having become like an unyielding mountain.
Zheng Yan was the first to falter, staggering back five steps, each denting the steel platform slightly.
Duan Qianchou gave him no respite, pressing his leg downward still. Zheng Yan quickly held his spear horizontally to block. The mountainous force tore the sleeves from his arms; the trouser leg upon Duan Qianchou's striking leg was also shredded to pieces.
A black leg guard was revealed upon his limb, studded with small, raised nodes that promised devastating striking power.
"A mid-grade spiritual leg guard… To think he possessed such a treasure. Truly, the Southern Valley Duan clan lives up to its name." Gao Han murmured in quiet surprise.
Zheng Yan was crushed by the overwhelming force, blood trickling from his seven orifices. At last he conceded, and Duan Qianchou retracted his strike, landing gently upon the stage. He sneered contemptuously. "Trash."
Zheng Kong, watching from the stands, flew into a rage. "Who are you calling trash? You're the trash! What right do you have to be arrogant? Win the tournament first, you bastard! Trash!"
Even as Zheng Kong shouted recklessly, Duan Lang's aura erupted violently. A savage, inhuman beastly presence washed over the stands.
"Die!" Duan Lang spoke little, uttering only a single cold word. His eyes blazed with murderous green light, as if he would tear his prey apart.
He spread his hands, five claw-like nails glinting like divine blades, and lunged viciously toward Zheng Kong. The ten talons sliced through the air, leaving a vacuum in their wake.
Spectators sighed for Zheng Kong and marveled at Duan Lang's temper. Mere words had driven him to abandon his match and launch a killing strike. He acted less like a man than a wolf in human skin.
CLANG!
A longsword blocked Duan Lang's claws, sending out a shrill screech of grinding metal. Bitter cold erupted from the blade, turning Duan Lang's hand blue and freezing the energy within it, holding it motionless in midair.
It was Gao Han. He knew that if he did not intervene, Zheng Kong would not survive the strike—at the very least, he would be maimed, his martial path ruined forever.
Zheng Kong was his friend, and Gao Han would never allow such a thing. He acted without hesitation.
"You have a fearsome temper. Withdraw your claws, or I shall cripple them!" Gao Han spoke icily, his gaze as frigid as a winter frost as he stared at Duan Lang.
Duan Lang showed no sign of retreating. His emotionless eyes locked onto Gao Han, sending a faint shiver down his spine.
What cruel eyes they were—devoid of mercy, cold-blooded, bloodthirsty, bearing no trace of humanity at all. They were enough to chill one to the bone.
"Enough, Lang. Do not be so ungracious," Duan Qianchou called from below, then shot Gao Han a meaningful smile.
At Duan Qianchou's voice, Duan Lang slowly lowered his hands. A layer of ice had formed over his palms, but with a slight tremor, he shook it off.
Duan Qianchou studied Gao Han in surprise and spoke coldly. "It seems I underestimated you. You are unusual… intriguing. Every strike of yours carries ice, and you managed to block Lang's attack."
He knew his brother's abilities better than anyone. Duan Lang cultivated an unorthodox, savage art of terrifying power; the strike he had just unleashed used his full strength. Even Duan Qianchou would have needed eighty percent of his power to block it. Yet Gao Han had done so with a single sword strike—regardless of how much strength he had used, it was a remarkable feat.
Moreover, Gao Han's frigid techniques piqued his curiosity. He had never encountered a warrior who wielded ice in every move.
Duan Qianchou smiled cruelly. "You are interesting indeed. I hope you are not defeated before you face me. Though you will fall to me in the end, it will be your honor to amuse this young master."
Gao Han sneered. "Victory or defeat is yet to be decided. I hope you will not disappoint me when we meet."
Duan Qianchou returned a cold smile and led Duan Lang back to their position.
The tournament resumed. The Zheng, Hu, and Qianling clans now had no disciples left, yet their ancestral elders remained in the stands to observe. Today would decide the top three; the remaining seven finalists mattered little to them.