Among the Sword Sect contingent, Jared’s faded blue coverall looked almost out of place beside rows of spotless white uniforms. At his waist hung Dragonslayer Sword, plain steel when compared to the fancy swords carried by everyone else.
Lyra nudged Jared’s arm, breath forming pale curls in the brisk mountain air. Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “Jared, look… Over by the gate.”
Across the flagstone square, three young men in polished silver mail escorted a fourth in crimson. That man, tall, sharp-jawed, his brow framed by raven-dark hair, moved with the careless grace of someone who had never known failure. A faint, crooked smile carved itself across his lips, the unmistakable smirk of Jayson Morrow.
Jayson must have felt Lyra’s stare. He turned, gaze sweeping past and settling on Jared as though inspecting a trinket at market, something cheap, barely worth weighing. The smile hardened into a sneer.
“So this is what the Sword Sect dredged up? A third-rate Wandering Immortal Realm, to make up the numbers?” He let the words hang, lazily venomous. “Looks like they’re truly scraping the bottom of the barrel.”
The silver-armored disciples around broke into muted laughter, soft enough to feign courtesy, loud enough to sting. The sound slid across the square like a cold draught, reaching every Sword Sect disciple.
Color drained from Lyra’s cheeks. Her fingers tightened around the leather-wrapped hilt at hip, knuckles blanching as they trembled.
“That’s beyond insulting,” hissed, voice quavering with restrained fury.
Jared’s expression never shifted. He answered in a tone as calm as a stone at the riverbed. “Their mouths belong to them. Let them say whatever they want…”
While the laughter still echoed, Jared’s eyes flicked across Divine Blade Manor’s entourage. He noted with mild curiosity that Kael, the young man who had a sword intent competition with Lyra earlier, was not standing among the disciples. Instead, Kael lounged in a cushioned seat nearer the elders.
Lyra leaned closer, speaking under breath. “Kael is Mr. Lester’s only son. Because of his identity, he’s kept off the stage, can’t risk the golden boy getting a bruise, can we?”
Jared merely nodded, filing the detail away. A pampered scion, afraid of getting hurt, will find the world very cruel someday.
A bronze bell tolled from the heart of the square, three long peals, two short. The notes rippled through flesh and stone alike, announcing that the century-waited Sword Championship was about to begin.
The steward of Swordmaster City rose. Spiritual energy magnified his voice until It rolled across the plaza like distant thunder.
“Once every hundred years, swordmasters gather to test their skills. I repeat the three iron rules. First, no spells and no magical items, only the sword decides who’s superior. Second, stop at first blood, life or death is the wielder’s own burden. Third, on the platform, the winner takes all!”
“Okay… Contestants, enter the arena!”
Light blossomed at the square’s main archway. One by one, disciples from every sect stepped through the shimmering curtain, boots clicking in measured cadence as they mounted the ring of elevated platforms.
Sixty-four names filled the Skyward projection above the field, paired into thirty-two brackets, each duel a single doorway to the next round.
Jared spotted his own name glowing beside the tenth bracket. His opponent, Caleb Wilkinson of the Flowing Cloud Sect, was at Earthly Immortal Realm Level Three.
Somewhere behind him, Corin’s warm baritone echoed. “Jared, watch for the Flowing Cloud Sect’s Thirteen Forms of Flowing Cloud. Speed is their weapon.”
Jared inclined his head once. “I will, Master Morden…”
He stepped onto the arena. Murmurs swirled immediately from the crowd in the surroundings.
“That’s the Sword Sect’s pick? He‘s so young.”
“I heard he’s only at Wandering Immortal Realm Level Eight-the lowest cultivation level in the roster if the listings are right.”
“Flowing Cloud Sect’s Caleb is at Earthly Immortal Realm Level Three. This bout’s over before it starts.”
Caleb vaulted onto the opposite edge, landing as light as thistledown. A confident smile tugged at his lips as offered a formal salute.
“Caleb Wilkinson of the Flowing Cloud Sect. May I have your name, friend?”
“Jared…”
Just one word, neither humble nor proud, delivered with an aura that unsettled Caleb more than open arrogance ever could.
Annoyance flickered in Caleb’s eyes. He drew his blade, moonlight skimmed along its edge as lunged forward. The steel became a streak of silver light rain aimed straight for Jared’s heart.
“Take this!” The opening form of the Thirteen Forms of Flowing Cloud, Sun Cloud, unfolded, sword light swirling and vanishing.
From the stands, it seemed a pale phantom flashed across the platform. In that same heartbeat, Caleb’s sword tip hovered a breath away from Jared’s chest.
In contrast, Jared stood motionless, as though still considering his attack.
A gasp rippled through the spectators.
“It’s over, Jared didn’t even move!”
“He’s full of himself, isn’t he? Not even bothering to draw his sword.”
Lyra felt pulse roar so loudly it drowned the arena. She squeezed eyes shut, afraid might see Jared die in front of her.
