Chương 71: 70. Narrative Demands the Spearman Fails

We return to the arena tired but functional. The morning light is harsh after the dim room, the crowds already thick at the gates. My eyes feel like they have been replaced with hot coals. I miss coffee. It made early mornings bearable and late nights possible. I add this to my mental list: recreate coffee in this world. I find a stall near the arena entrance selling medicinal tea. The vendor is an old, wiry woman with droopy eyes.

"The strongest you have, please." She looks at me.

"Are you sure? It's very strong."

"I am a cultivator. I can handle it." She pours me a cup. The liquid is dark, almost black, and thick—I drink and the effect is immediate. It tastes like regret and feels like smelling salts being jabbed directly into my brain. My eyes water and my sinuses clear. But by the time I reach the arena entrance, I am more alert than I have been in days. Ignoring Ling'er's worried look, we enter the arena. I see Shen Qiao from afar and lock eyes for a brief moment, acknowledging each other.

Today, the Qi Condensation bracket is different. The announcer's voice booms across the arena, explaining the new format. With sixty-four fighters remaining, they will be divided into eight groups of eight. Each group will fight on the central platform in a free-for-all. The last fighter standing from each group advances to the top eight. The crowd roars. They love this. Chaos is more entertaining than order. The arena has changed again. The eight platforms are gone.

In their place, one massive stone platform rises in the center, broad enough to fit all eight fighters with room to maneuver. The protective dome is thicker, shimmering with layers of reinforcement. I immediately see the gambling implications. Crowd favorites become targets. No one wants to face a strong fighter one-on-one later. If you are too obviously strong, the rest of the group will team up against you. The only way to survive that is to be strong enough to beat seven people at once. Very few are.

I look at the bracket. Group One is posted. Yan Ruohan, Mu Jianyu, and six others. I close my eyes and sigh. Mu Jianyu is strong. His formations are clever. His sword is precise. But everything I have seen of Yan Ruohan tells me that she is simply too strong for him. Her foundation is too deep. Her experience is too broad.

'He will lose.' I flag Shen Qiao from afar to bet on him, and do the same here in the Jade Hall. Not because I believe in him. Because a momentum gambler who publicly defended Mu Jianyu yesterday cannot suddenly abandon him the moment the matchup turns bad. That would make the previous performance look calculated. All of it would be exposed as performance. So I place the bet. I make it look reluctant. I sigh as I hand the stones to the clerk. I shake my head as I walk away.

Internally, I know I am paying for camouflage. The match begins. Eight fighters on the central platform. The protective dome shimmers. The arena-goers quiet down. Several fighters immediately turn toward Yan Ruohan. They do not coordinate formally, but their intent is obvious. No one wants to face her one-on-one later. If they can eliminate her now, the rest of the group becomes manageable. They unleash techniques from range. Fireballs. Wind blades. A talisman that explodes into binding chains.

A sword cultivator tries to control distance, keeping her pinned while the others attack. It is not clumsy. Their coordination is rough but practical. They are not allies, but they share a common enemy. For now. Yan Ruohan moves. The fireball passes where she was. The wind blades curve around her. The binding chains miss by a hair's breadth.

"HAAAAA!" The sword cultivator commits. He thrusts, trying to force her toward the edge of the platform. She pivots, catches the outstretched hand, and redirects his momentum. He stumbles past her, off balance, and is caught by a wind blade from his own ally. He falls. The crowd gasps. Yan Ruohan does not stop. She steps through the chaos like water through rocks. A palm strike here, a kick there—another fighter slides to the edge of the platform, barely catching himself before the ring-out. One by one.

Meanwhile, Mu Jianyu does not join the dogpile. At first, I think this is a mistake. Yan Ruohan is occupying the strongest fighters. If Mu Jianyu wants to advance, he should help eliminate her. That is the rational play. Instead, he stays at the edge of the platform, his sword drawn, his eyes tracking the chaos. Then I see what he is doing. He isn't avoiding Yan Ruohan. He is letting her occupy the strongest fighters while he removes the distracted ones.

A large man with a heavy axe tries to bull rush Yan Ruohan from the side. Mu Jianyu steps into his path. A formation flare bursts from his sword—bright, disorienting. The axe fighter blinks. Stumbles. Mu Jianyu's pommel strikes his temple. He falls. By the time the dust clears, most of the platform has collapsed into two centers of gravity. Yan Ruohan stands near the center, surrounded by the bodies of the fighters who tried to gang up on her. She is not injured. Her robes are barely disturbed.

Her breathing is steady. Mu Jianyu stands near the edge, his sword drawn, his eyes fixed on her. He is injured—a gash on his arm, a bruise on his ribs. He has taken down three fighters on his own. He has done everything right. Yan Ruohan looks at him. Not with disdain. Not with pity. With something closer to acknowledgment.

"You would have had better odds if you joined them." Mu Jianyu raises his sword, his eyes frighteningly clear even against the strongest person in the bracket.

"I did not come here for odds." I understand then. He never expected to win. Not against her. Not in this group. But a duel against Yan Ruohan—the Crimson Dragon Alliance's monster—in front of the entire arena, broadcast on projection crystals, witnessed by scouts from every major sect... that is worth more than quietly surviving another round.

'He is fighting to be seen.' Mu Jianyu pushes forward on the offensive. Formation lines flare along the blade, blue-white and urgent. He closes the distance before Yan Ruohan can settle into her stance. She deflects. Her forearm guard meets his blade, and the impact rings through the dome. He presses forward relentlessly, every strike forcing Yan Ruohan to give ground for the first time all tournament. The spectators murmurs. No one has lasted this long against her. Mu Jianyu does not stop.

His sword hums now, the formations working at full capacity. His sleeves tear. Formation lines flare across his armor, his boots, his belt—every hidden tool revealed under stress. He is past hiding. He is showing everything. Yan Ruohan's eyes lift. She is watching him now with an alertness absent from prior fights. She counters. A palm strike aimed at his chest. He twists, takes it on his shoulder instead. He uses the momentum to spin into another attack.

His blade traces a line across her forearm, deep enough to draw a bead of blood. She looks at the cut. Then at him.

"Clever," she says. He does not answer. He just pushes harder. His sword becomes a blur. The formations scream. His boots flare with every step, enhancing his speed beyond what his body should be able to handle. His belt hums, stabilizing his core, keeping his balance perfect even as his body begins to fail. The crowd is silent now. They can see it. He is burning through everything he has. Every hidden tool. Every saved technique. Every secret he brought to this tournament.

For one brief, shining moment, he looks like the absolute peak of what a Qi Condensation cultivator can become through intellect, craft, and discipline. The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. He roars. It is unbecoming of someone who was always cool and collected until now. His face twists. His veins bulge. He brings his sword down in a vertical arc; a beautiful strike, the best he has shown this tournament.

It lands, and a line of red opens across Yan Ruohan's shoulder, cutting through her armor. Even cultivators are at the edge of their seats watching the fight. She looks down at the blood seeping through her robes with mild surprise. Mu Jianyu lands from his strike, breathing hard, his sword still raised. He did it. He drew blood from the Crimson Dragon Alliance's monster. The crowd's gasp fades into a hush, everyone waiting to see what happens next. Yan Ruohan raises her hand. Touches her shoulder.

Looks at the blood on her fingertips.

"Ah," she says. Quiet, almost curious.

"You really are something." Mu Jianyu does not lower his sword. He cannot. His arms are trembling, his formations flickering at the edge of failure. But his eyes are steady. His sword slows, his breathing becomes ragged, and the glow of his formations flickers unsteadily. With a burst of speed faster than anything she's displayed before, she steps inside his guard. Her palm hits his sternum, and I hear the air leave his lungs from across the arena. He doubles over. Her knee rises, catches him under the chin.

His head snaps back. Blood sprays from his lip. But still, he does not fall. She grabs his collar, holds him upright, and delivers a second palm strike to his chest. Then a third. A fourth. Each one is measured, controlled, not designed to kill but to dismantle his armor. Formation lines sputter and die. Mu Jianyu's sword falls from his hand, and she lets go. But as he falls, he smiles. His eyes, full of pain, were staring at the crowd past her. I look away from the platform. Toward the booths he was staring at.

Not just minor sects. Crimson Dragon Alliance scouts. Formation specialists. Recruiters. Their heads are together, murmuring, pointing at the fallen fighter. I close my eyes.

"Well fought." The first fight of the day concludes with her as the victor. The announcer declares it. The crowd applauds, but the applause is distracted. I walk with Ling'er to the concourse, and people aren't discussing Yan Ruohan. They are discussing Mu Jianyu.

"Who was he again? Which sect?"

"Unaffiliated. I heard he came alone." I do not turn around and keep walking. He will not be unaffiliated for much longer. We find a noodle stall near the concourse. The crowds are thick, the noise constant, the air heavy with grease and victory and loss. We sit at a narrow table, our bowls steaming, our chopsticks moving. I am about to ask Ling'er how many techniques she observed when a shadow falls across the table. I recognize him immediately. Qiao Ren. He is smug. His companions are behind him, grinning.

"I hope you didn't bet on Mu Jianyu today." He leans on the table.

"That'd be… an expensive lesson." I shrug.

"Mu Jianyu performed well. Yan Ruohan was simply better. I can admit that."

"That is what happens when small men mistake cleverness for strength." I don't care much personally about his barbed insult. I got what I wanted from him: cover. A momentum gambler who backed the wrong horse. He thinks I lost. He thinks he was right in the end. I let him have it, and am about to return to my noodles. SNAP! Ling'er's chopsticks have split in half, crushed in her grip. Her knuckles are white. Her eyes, although downcast, were narrowed into slits. Veins bulged faintly near her forehead.

She is staring at Qiao Ren the way she stared at the bandits. The same cold, predatory focus she had when she was deciding how to kill. I place my hand on her shoulder. Squeeze once. Firm. The tension in her shoulders does not release, but it stops building. She does not look at me. She keeps her eyes on Qiao Ren while having her face down in the bowl of noodles. I turn back to him. Smile. Small and easy.

"Senior Qiao has taught this cultivator an expensive lesson." I bow my head slightly, just enough.

"I will be more careful in the future." He laughs. His companions laugh. The crowd around us laugh. A minor entertainment. A foolish gambler conceding defeat. Qiao Ren claps me on the shoulder. Hard enough to send a mortal flying. But between Foundation Establishment cultivators, it's just a rough gesture.

"Stick to what you know, little man." He walks away. His companions follow. I do not watch him go. I watch Ling'er. Her eyes are still fixed on his back. Her face is still. Her breathing is controlled. But I know that look. She will not forget him. I decide this is a future problem.

"Finish your noodles," I say. She picks up the broken chopsticks, before setting them down and just slurping the whole bowl down in one go. I try to refocus her.

"What did you learn from the match? Beyond Mu Jianyu."

"... A few techniques. Most of them were trump cards. Things fighters were saving." She pauses.

"Mu Jianyu's formations were the most interesting. There are similarities between his work and what Lian is learning. But this is more for weapons and armor. I think I can find a way to build upon the Formation Foundations manual." I lean forward, whispering even quieter.

"So you're able to replicate his techniques?"

"Yes, Master. But unlike techniques, I may need to practice them. It's hard to get a full read on what he was doing from afar, so I'll need to experiment to fill the gaps." She says it apologetically. As if she is disappointed in herself for taking longer than an instant to learn what was likely Mu Jianyu's life work. I shake my head.

"Try your best," I say.

"That is all I ask." I walk to a stall near the concourse. The vendor sells sweets: candied fruits, honeyed pastries, small cakes dusted with sugar. I buy two of each for Ling'er. I return and hand her the pile of sweets. Her eyes shine, forgetting about Qiao Ren entirely.

"Go back to the stands," I say.

"Watch the next groups and signal for me, okay?" She nods and disappears into the crowd, heading back to our seats. I find a spot near the Jade Hall, where Ling'er and the odds boards are visible. Shen Qiao is near the Silver Hall entrance, his ledger tucked under his arm, his eyes scanning. The next groups are announced. I run my calculations. The Gaze gives me the data: as well as any hidden injuries or intents by the competitors.

Ling'er's insights fill the gaps—hidden trump cards, fighters who are holding back, tells that the Gaze cannot see. I place my bets and signal. Shen Qiao watches from across the concourse. Ling'er's hand drifts to her ear. A signal. Fighter A. Bet. I follow her gaze to the group board. A man in light armor, his spear held loosely, his stance relaxed. The odds board don't favor him. The Gaze confirms he's undervalued. Despite that, I signal back and touch my chin. No. Ling'er's brow furrows. She watches me, waiting.

I signal slowly, ensuring each action looks natural instead of practiced. Second choice? She pauses. Her eyes scan the group. Then she tilts her head, considering. Her hand moves. Fighter C. Bet. I look at the board. A man with a compact build and turquoise robes, Lu Fan. A body refiner with a decent footwork technique. I place the bet. Shen Qiao watches from across the concourse. He sees my hand signals and places his own bet in the Silver Hall. As I wait for the match to begin, I think about spear users.

It's irrational. I know that. The spear is the superior weapon: longer reach, faster thrust, easier to learn. But in this tournament, in this city, in this world I have observed over the past days, spear users lose. Not all of them. Not every single one. But enough that I have started to notice a pattern. Yan Ruohan and Mu Jianyu's opponent in the second round were both spear users. It does not make sense. By logic, by physics, by every tactical principle I know, the spear should be winning.

But the spear users are not winning. They are losing. And not always because they are weaker. Sometimes they are stronger. Sometimes they are faster. Sometimes they have better techniques, better formations, better everything. They still lose. I shake my head. The Gaze does not show anything. No hidden debuff. No secret weakness. Just the cold, hard numbers of cultivation stages, spirit roots, and constitutions.

My gut says otherwise, and for the first time since I came here, I follow my gut instead of the Gaze or Ling'er's insight. The match begins. The spearman Ling'er told me to bet on dominates the first exchange. His spear is a blur—thrust, sweep, thrust again. His opponents scramble to avoid his piercing strikes. The difference in skill is obvious from the first exchange. Then something shifts. A thrust that misses by a hair. A moment of imbalance that should not have happened. The spearman recovers.

He is too skilled to fall to a single mistake. But the damage is done. His rhythm is broken and a few opponents move to take advantage. Within minutes, only two remain; the spearman and the body refiner. The body refiner with quick feet, Lu Fan—moves. He flows around the spearman's attacks like water around stones. Just always slightly ahead of where the spear is pointing. The spearman grows frustrated. He commits to a heavy thrust, putting his full weight behind it. Lu Fan is not there.

He steps inside the spear's reach. His palm meets the spearman's chest. The spearman's eyes widen. He stumbles backward, loses his balance, and falls off the platform. The match is over. Lu Fan stands at the edge of the platform, his breathing steady, his expression triumphant. He pumps his fist as the victor of his match. I turn to look at Ling'er. She is already looking at me. Her eyes are wide. Shining. I can almost hear what she's thinking.

'Truly, Master has profound insight.' I make a mental note: when we return to the sect, I will actively dissuade any disciple from picking up the spear. It is a fine weapon, but I do not want to find out if the curse is truly a curse. I cash my bets while I'm here. I lost a decent chunk betting on Mu Jianyu, but the winnings from the subsequent rounds and Lu Fan were more than enough to cover it. Two matches remain in the bracket to determine the last two slots for the top eight.

But my mind is already on the last group. Bao Gantian's group.

'Time to see what he's made of.'