Chương 65: 64. Dropping Your Ankle Weights Does Not Give You Plot Armour!

The announcer's voice booms across the arena, introducing the fighters in batches. I half-listen, my attention split between the platform below and the Gaze flickering at the edge of my vision. Then Ling'er's hand touches her ear, then her chin. I follow her line of sight to Platform Seven. A woman stands at the edge of the platform, arms crossed, her expression bored. Twenty-four, maybe twenty-five. Her robes are crimson, trimmed in gold. The emblem of the Crimson Dragon Alliance is stitched across her chest.

The crowd barely notices her. They are too busy cheering for the muscular boy on Platform Three, the flashy girl on Platform Eleven, the young master with the jeweled sword on Platform Fourteen. But the cultivators around me have gone quiet. I hear snippets of their murmurs, and I activate the Gaze. Crimson Dragon Alliance Inner Disciple - Qi Condensation (Peak) Name: Yan Ruohan Age: 24 Spirit Root: Fire/Earth (B-grade) Constitution: Ember-Scale (C-grade) - Extremely diluted dragon blood. Distant lineage.

Will never fully manifest as draconic, but grants slightly increased toughness, heat resistance, and an affinity for fire techniques. Cultivation: Qi Condensation (Peak) Verdict: She could have broken through to Foundation Establishment years ago. Years of resources, discipline, sparring, bloodline-adjacent beast arts, and deliberate delayed advancement to temper herself further. I nod slowly. This is what deliberate cultivation looks like.

Exactly what I meant when I was guiding Ling'er months ago, a robust foundation incomparable to those of the same rank that would pay dividends once she broke through. Ling'er is watching me. I touch my chest and signal.

'Watch closely.' They are cut from different cloth, but the pattern is the same. There is something for Ling'er to learn here. I turn slightly. Find Shen Qiao near the edge of the Silver Hall queue, his ledger tucked under his arm, his eyes scanning the crowd. I raise my hand to my stomach and touch my throat.

'Small bet.' His eyes shine, and he dips his head in acknowledgement before disappearing; he will bet on her in the Silver Hall where the mortals, dazzled by flashier fighters, have not yet recognized her for what she is. He disappears into the queue. I do not move toward the Jade Hall. I stand at the edge of the crowd, listening.

"Yan Ruohan is a shoo-in for the top eight," a cultivator near me says. His companion nods.

"The Crimson Dragon Alliance doesn't send amateurs." Never touch a match where the Gaze and crowd agree. The cultivators are the crowd here. And they agree. I will not bet on Yan Ruohan in the Jade Hall, there is no edge. Most cultivators here are Qi Condensation late or peak. That is not surprising. The tournament draws the best from across the continent. The weak do not make it here. I scan the remaining platforms, the Gaze flickering in short bursts. Then I see him. He is likely one of the older contestants.

Thin as a reed. His robes are plain and unadorned, but it's his sword that catches my attention. It looks simple at first glance; plain iron fittings and a leather-wrapped hilt. But the Gaze shows me what the crowd cannot see. Plain Iron Sword - Formation-Assisted Combat Tool Type: Quasi-Spirit Tool Formation Network: Twelve micro-arrays etched along the tang and inner blade spine. Primary Effect: Reduces qi expenditure by half during repeated sword techniques. Stabilizes edge alignment.

Recycles wasted qi into grip reinforcement. Verdict: It looks ordinary, but outperforms most low-grade spirit weapons in this competition. I shift my gaze to his robes and armor. Plain, but all carrying the same style of micro-arrays invisible to the naked eye. I activate the Gaze on the cultivator himself.

Formation-Sword Cultivator - Qi Condensation (Eighth Stage) Name: Mu Jianyu Age: 28 Spirit Root: Metal/Wind (C-grade) Constitution: Pattern-Mind (D-grade) - Enhanced ability to visualize and remember complex patterns. Somewhat useful in combat, but invaluable for designing the tools he carries. Cultivation: Qi Condensation (Eighth Stage) - Stable Verdict: A talented formations specialist who uses the sword. Relies heavily on hand-crafted artifacts.

Hopes to have an impressive showing to be recruited by one of the major sects. Around me, cultivators laugh. I hear snatches of their conversation.

"First round knockout, guaranteed." The mortals are worse. They jeer openly. A man behind me shouts, "Go home, scarecrow!" Mu Jianyu does not react. He stands with his eyes closed, his hand resting on his sword hilt, his breathing slow and even. I find Shen Qiao emerging from the Silver Hall queue. He catches my eye. I do a sequence of hand signals, looking directly at the scrawny sword cultivator.

'Medium bet.' He sighs and his shoulders sag. He has just finished waiting in line. Now he must do it again. I turn toward the Jade Hall. The line there is shorter and the clerks are faster. Cultivators in fine robes place their bets with the casual ease of people who do this often. The minimum bet is ten low-grade stones. I place fifty on Mu Jianyu for the first match. I add ten on a random cultivator. A hedge. A way to make my betting pattern look like the pattern of someone who does not know what he is doing.

The clerk hands me my slips. I tuck them away and return to the arena floor. The introductions continue. The last batch of fighters takes their positions on the platforms. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. And then I see another outlier. He is massive. Fat in the way that strongmen are; thick around the middle, but the arms beneath his robes are like tree trunks. His face is broad and flat, arranged in the dull scowl of someone people often mistook for stupid.

He carries a sword that should be too heavy for anyone to carry, the blade as wide as my chest. The crowd jeers. Cultivators laugh. A woman behind me says, "Did he eat his opponent before the match?" I do not laugh. Ling'er signals to me from afar, leaning forward slightly as she scrutinizes him. Stone Ox City Champion - Qi Condensation (Eighth Stage) Name: Bao Gantian Age: 32 Spirit Root: Earth (D-grade) Constitution: Blood Furnace Constitution (B-grade) - Burns his own blood, fat, and muscle as fuel.

Can temporarily generate power beyond his cultivation stage. Cultivation: Qi Condensation (Eighth Stage) - Stable Verdict: A combat genius who dominated everyone in his city through brute strength alone. Here to claim glory and fortune. His body is his weapon and his appearance is a tool. I watch him stand at the edge of his platform, heavy sword planted in front of him, both hands resting on the hilt. His face is set into a permanent scowl, veins throbbing along his brow. I turn.

Find Shen Qiao near the Silver Hall queue. He is closer this time, watching me for signals.

'Medium bet.' I walk to the Jade Hall. Place another fifty low-grade on Bao Gantian. Another twenty on a random cultivator I do not expect to win. The clerk does not look at me twice. I settle into my seat beside Ling'er as the introductions conclude. The roar of the crowd settles into a low, expectant hum. Sixteen platforms. Two-hundred and fifty-six fighters. And three people I am almost certain will make the top eight without serious trouble unless they meet each other.

'Yan Ruohan. Mu Jianyu. Bao Gantian.' Three different kinds of monster. I think back to Greenstone. The tournament there was simpler. Geniuses were young. High spirit roots. Fast climbers. Cultivation rank mostly indicated power; a peak disciple was stronger than a late-stage disciple. A genius was someone who climbed faster than the others, and the two finalists were walking proof. Here, people delay breakthrough for years. Spirit weapons distort odds.

Unaffiliated fighters arrive with constitutions that aren't understood until it's too late. Cultivation rank does not mean what it says here. Ling'er was not the only exception. She was just the most impossible one I found first. I look at her. She is watching the platforms with unnerving intensity. She has not seen opponents like these before. The bandits were nothing. The spirit beasts were training. The disciples at home were sparring partners. She is raw. Incredibly raw compared to these polished experts.

I have done my best. I have given her techniques, resources, guidance. But I am not a major sect with decades of institutional knowledge, nor am I a clan with bloodline secrets passed down for generations. Yet, she has climbed this far anyway.

"Master," Ling'er says quietly.

"You are thinking very loudly." I blink.

"I am not thinking at all."

"You are. Your face does that thing."

"What thing?" She does a rude mockup of my face, flaring her nostrils in a way that's unbecoming of a lady her age. I ruffle her hair and she squawks in indignance.

"Don't talk to your sect leader like that."

"Sorry, Master." The first matches are called. Sixteen platforms. Sixteen fights, all taking place at once. The Core Formation cultivator raises his voice, and the arena falls silent.

"Rules are simple," he says.

"Ring-out, surrender, or incapacity. No killing. No permanent maiming. The formations around each platform will prevent collateral damage." He gestures. A bolt of lightning shoots from his hand; toward the stands. The crowd gasps. People flinch. The energy dissipates harmlessly against an invisible barrier a few feet from the front row.

"You are protected," the cultivator says dryly.

"But do not test the formations." The crowd laughs, nervous and relieved. The first batch of fights pass by. Flashes of technique, bursts of qi, the occasional dramatic ring-out. To the cultivators in the stands, they are light entertainment. A warm-up before the real matches begin. I watch Ling'er from the corner of my eye. Her eyes track the fighters, the techniques, the flow of each match. At Foundation Establishment, none of this is useful to her directly. The forms are too slow. The techniques too weak.

She could dismantle every fighter on those platforms without leaving her seat, and so could I. But she is not watching for herself. She is watching for the sect. For the disciples who will need to understand these techniques. The second batch proceeds without much fanfare either. Except for one. The fighter is a body refiner with a bowl cut with pale green robes and muscles that bulge underneath. His opponent is a red-haired cultivator that uses sand techniques—shifting, abrasive, impossible to block.

The body refiner is losing badly. He cannot get close. Every time he advances, the sand pushes him back. Then the body refiner stops. He reaches down. Unstraps weights from his ankles. Drops them on the platform. The impact cracks the platform, and he begins moving with greater speed. Not fast enough however—he still loses. I watch him stumble off the platform, defeated but not humiliated. Something about the scene tugs at the back of my mind. Why does it feel like I'm supposed to remember something?

I shrug my shoulders. If it was important, I would've remembered. The third batch of fighters take their spots on the platform, and among them is Yan Ruohan. The crowd stirs. Even the mortals have heard the whispers now. The Crimson Dragon Alliance's blade. A woman who should have reached Foundation Establishment long ago and chose not to. Her opponent is a man in his thirties. Peak Qi Condensation. His robes bear the emblem of a sect I do not recognize. His spear crackles with lightning. He takes this seriously.

I can see it in his stance, his breathing, the way his qi gathers around him before the signal even sounds.

'This will end in less than twenty exchanges.' The signal goes. The cultivator's spear flashes. Lightning arcs from the tip, a straight line of blinding white, aimed directly at Yan Ruohan's chest. A technique meant to end the fight before it begins. She blurs. I do not see her move. I see her starting position. I see her ending position—behind the cultivator, one leg extended, her foot still rising from the follow-through. The cultivator flies across the platform. He hits the barrier.

He slides down, coughing blood, one hand pressed to his sternum. One exchange. The crowd is silent for a heartbeat. Then they erupt. A roar of disbelief, of awe, of sudden understanding. Yan Ruohan looks down at the cultivator. Her expression is one of distaste. Boredom, almost. She shakes her head as the announcer calls her victory. She walks off the platform without waiting for the confirmation. I click my teeth together. It seems she's here to make a statement.

Had she laid low, perhaps we could've profited more in the Silver Hall for just a bit longer. The next time her name appears on a betting board, no mortal will underestimate her. That is the problem with information. The moment it becomes obvious, it stops being valuable. Somewhere below, Shen Qiao is probably realizing the same thing. The Silver Hall had been blind for exactly one match. One match was enough. It would have to be enough. I turn my attention to the remaining platforms. The day is young.

This place has many blind spots. We only need to find them before everyone else opens their eyes.