Standing nearby, Jared remembered the moment had entered the city, Lyra dueling Kael from that very sect. Sword intent crackling between them, each slash meant to kill. Had Jared not intervened, one of those two would have died that day.
He stepped forward, eyes unwavering. “Corln, I will represent Sword Sect in the championship.”
“You?” Corin studied him. “You might have reached Wandering Immortal Realm Level Eight, but Sacred Sword Manor’s core disciples stand at Earthly Immortal Realm Level Four at least. If you go…”
“I know the risk,” Jared replied, voice steady. “That is precisely why we should go. Hide, and the world calls the Sword Sect cowardly. Fight, and we sharpen our sword technique, and our name.”
Lyra chimed in, “Master Morden, Jared’s progress borders on miraculous. He might give us a miracle of our own. Let us go with him. Even if we cannot compete, we can cheer on.”
Around them, the other disciples nodded, hope flickering In every gaze. Seeing their passionate faces, Corin sighed. “Very well. If you insist, go. But remember, nothing outweighs staying alive.”
He turned back to Jared, voice grave. “I will register you for it. The championship enforces three iron rules. First, sword technique only, no spells, magical items, or outside forces. Second, bring your own weapon, nothing but a sword. Third, once you step up, life and death rest with fate, no one may interfere.”
His gaze narrowed. “If you face Sacred Sword Manor, remember their Sky Havoc Sword Art is incredibly lethal. The instant you sense true danger, yield. Pride is worthless compared with life.”
Jared nodded in acknowledgment. “I understand…”
His calm eased Corin’s heart a fraction, yet unease coiled beneath. His gut whispered that the Sword Championship would not stay a simple contest.
***
Somewhere beyond the horizon, Sacred Sword Manor was already sharpening a blade meant for the heart of the Sword Sect.
Several days later, the Sword Championship began beneath a cloudless dawn.
Swordmaster City‘s square was brimming with people, an ocean of robes, banners, and restless anticipation.
At the center was an iolite arena, a square of three hundred meters that floated above the flagstones. Its edges were carved with countless sword runes that shimmered under the morning sun.
A faint golden sheen rippled across those runes-the Spiritual Barricade Array, forged by generations of city lords to cage stray spells and spiritual energy.
Tiered viewing platforms ringed the plaza, each terrace built into the surrounding cliffs. Sect banners snapped like startled falcons in the spring wind.
On the highest dais, the city’s governor sat in violet robes, flanked on the left by weathered swordmasters, on the right by sect leaders.
Most striking among them was Lester Windham, head of Sacred Sword Manor. Crimson robe, onyx sword at the hip, and eyes sharp as a hunting hawk, chatted cheerily with the sect elders, arrogance woven through every gesture.
Whispers rippled through the crowd. “Sacred Sword Manor brought three core disciples. In the lead is Jayson Morrow, whose Sky Havoc Sword Art has reached sixth level. Few in his generation can rival that.”
“Do not forget Hendrix Doherty from Seven-Star Sword Sect,” another voice answered. “One stroke of his Seven Shooting Stars Sword Art severed a millennium-old pine.”
A third gambler hissed, “The crown is Jayson’s to lose. Look at that aura, people avert their eyes without meaning to.”
Thousands of cultivators pivoted as one toward the eastern tunnel where the participants from various sects would soon emerge.
