Energy shot through the crowd on cue. Spectators straightened, chatter sharpening into eager murmurs while bodies pressed closer to the stage, hungry for genuine action after a string of flops.
Someone near Jared gasped, “That’s Hector Ironarm Rowe, High Immortal Realm Level Six. They say one punch from him can pulverize a hill!”
A second voice answered, “The Ironarm Vagabond? The guy who runs underground matches at the black market? Now this is worth watching.”
Hector strode to the first pillar, lungs filling like bellows, and slapped a dinner-plate palm against the carved surface. Etched runes ignited one by one, a white beam creeping upward from the base of the pillar.
One notch… Two… Three…
The climb slowed, each fresh glimmer taking longer than the last. The glow reached the fourth band and froze, unmoved by the brute’s snarled breaths or the torrent of energy he poured in.
Laughter burst around the platform, rowdy and merciless.
“Four bands? Not even halfway!” a heckler howled. “Better train another century before embarrassing yourself again!” someone jeered.
Blood flooded Hector’s face; he struck the stone in frustration, hopped down, and barged into the sea of onlookers without a backward glance.
“Next challenger!” one cyan-robed maid called, her tone clipped and official.
A youth in embroidered robes bounded onto the stage. Silken sleeves shimmered, marking him as someone more at home with ledgers than with blades. Pale-skinned and delicate, he twirled a folding fan with practiced flair, the picture of a romantic scholar.
A murmur rose. “That’s the young owner of Rowe Trading House. What’s a merchant’s heir doing up there?”
Another voice countered, “Don’t underestimate him… Young Master Rowe stands at High Immortal Realm Level Five. They measured a profound-grade spirit root when he was still a child.”
Unhurried, the young master approached the first pillar, snapped his fan shut, and set slender fingers on the carvings. Soft light flickered to life at his touch.
One band, two, three, four, five…
At the sixth mark the glow stuttered, wavering between six and seven before tiring there. A thin stiffness crept into the young master’s smile.
“Six and a half? Still miles away!” a spectator crowed.
“Young Master, those lily-white hands belong at a ledger, not a pillar,” another laughed, and chuckles rippled outward.
Someone cleared his throat, bowed toward the sedan. He announced before retreating at speed, “Young Master Rowe’s learning is shallow, I dare not presume.”
More laughter chased him, spreading across the square like ripples in a pond.
The third hopeful was a gaunt elder, beard and hair snow-white. He claimed three centuries of reclusive cultivation as he mounted the platform.
Spectators expected marvels, yet the first pillar stopped at five bands while the second stalled at a miserable three.
“Grandpa, shouldn’t you be bouncing great-grandkids instead of wooing brides?” a wit shouted.
“Maybe he believes age improves vigor!” someone cracked, drawing coarse guffaws. The elder slipped away, shoulders drooping, and vanished back into the crowd.
The fourth, fifth, sixth, one contender after another climbed up only to shuffle down in defeat moments later. Every fresh hopeful left the stage as quickly as he arrived, pride drained and eyes averted.
Some failed to push the first pillar past five bands; others cleared that hurdle only to have the second expose their limits.
The unluckiest tested all four pillars, totaling a mere ten bands before jeers drove them off the platform.
“Does anyone else wish to try?” the maid asked, fatigue edging her words. A rustle of whispers answered, yet no one stepped forward.
“Chance Family set the bar absurdly high,” someone muttered. “Clearing two-thirds on every pillar? That’s monstrous!”
“First pillar measures celestial-energy strength,” another explained. “Crossing two-thirds means at least High Immortal Realm Level Seven purity…”
“Second pillar gauges absolute capacity, core volume, meridian toughness, only freakish gifts make the cut… Third checks raw physical power; maybe a body-cultivator squeaks by,” a burly spectator conceded.
“Fourth is bloodline potency. Most of us don’t possess anything the pillar even recognizes,” another sighed.
He concluded with a snort, “Face it-Miss Vivian never planned to wed. These hoops just polish her legend.”
A man in a scuffed leather vest lifted his chin. “Miss Langley set almost the same hurdles in her tournament, and Lord Asher Rowan still claimed victory, didn’t he?”
A stocky trader answered. “Lord Asher Rowan reached High Immortal Realm Level Eight before turning one hundred, and they say ancient blood runs in his veins. Miss Vivian won’t find such a match easily.”
Voices tumbled over one another, rising and falling like waves against granite Luther felt the words bounce around the square each
Tew opinion sparking a fresh ripple of noise.
Jared rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “The Fourteenth Firmament is packed with talent, but even here Miss Vivian’s requirements feel downright brutal.”
Grace kept her eyes on the stage. “Miss Vivian’s said to be breathtaking and a master of pill craft. Ordinary men don’t interest her at all.”
Her tone softened. “She’s been stuck at High Immortal Realm Level Eight for years. Taking a cultivation partner through this contest seems to be her last resort.”
Grace drew a slow breath. “The bar is high, yes, yet not unreachable. Young Lord Wagner of Cloudhaven City could clear it.”
Luther tipped his head. “Young Lord Wagner?”
Grace parted her lips to explain, but a sudden stir surged through the crowd and swallowed her words. Someone up front shouted, “Make way! Lord Wagner is here!”
Like water splitting around a stone, people pressed back, leaving a neat corridor toward the platform. Down that opening strode a young man, hands clasped behind him, spine unbowed.
Luther judged him to be twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight.
His features were clean as carved jade, moon-white robes spotless, an azure jade pendant at his belt swaying in time with his steps. Each stride landed on an invisible rhythm.
The air around him folded inward, quiet, as though heaven and earth had agreed to breathe with him.
A boy gasped, “It’s really Lord Wagner!”
Another echoed, “Young Lord Dominic himself. What brings him here?”
A third voice laughed nervously. “With him competing, what chance does anyone else have?”
Someone nearer the back added, “He’s already High Immortal Realm Level Nine and not even one hundred twenty yet. A born favorite of the skies!”
The young man let the chatter roll past as though it belonged to another world, eyes forward, pace unbroken toward the stage.
Every footfall landed unhurried, almost leisurely, like a master inspecting his own garden instead of a challenger approaching a trial. The eight maidservants instinctively dipped their heads. Even the curtain of the Eight-Treasure Crystal Palanquin quivered, faint as a held breath.
Dominic stepped onto the platform and faced the four testing columns.
A faint, elusive smile curved his lips as he glanced over the sea of faces below. A middle-aged cultivator muttered, “At last, someone who looks the part.”
Dominic did not test immediately. He offered the palanquin a slight nod. “Miss Chance, Dominic presents himself today. Forgive the intrusion.”
Silence, then a cool female voice drifted from within. “Lord Wagner’s arrival honors the Chance family.”
He answered with a light smile, turned, and walked toward the first column.
