Chương 47: The Summer Tournament

The tournament was announced on the first day of summer, and by the second day, every wall in Dragon's Rest seemed to hold a copy of the poster. Wei Chen read one in the Adventurer's Guild common room while he waited for a contract review. The wording was bold and inclusive: The Summer Tournament of Dragon's Rest. Open to all cultivators regardless of sect, house, or origin. Prizes include gold, rare materials, and the personal favor of the City Council.

Beneath the promises, in smaller print, were the rules: no lethal techniques, no poison, no artifacts above the third spiritual grade, and withdrawal upon three counts from the judges. He folded the notice and considered it. Fighting in public was the opposite of caution. Every strike would be observed, analyzed, remembered. The Alchemist Guild already resented him. House Vane already watched him. And somewhere in the city, perhaps, there were eyes that could recognize what he truly carried.

But there were reasons to enter that balanced the risk. His Thousandfold Palm fragment needed testing against live, skilled opponents. Sparring in his workshop told him nothing about timing under pressure. The technique was incomplete and dangerous; he wanted to know its limits before his life depended on them. A respectable tournament finish would also raise his adventurer rank faster than warehouse contracts. Iron rank opened better maps, better resources, and bounties beyond the city walls.

The road to the Eastern Reaches would not wait forever. And Lin Mei had suggested, three nights prior over tea in her family's garden, that the tournament drew observers from outside Veritas. Some of them might be useful to someone with your interests. She had not explained. She rarely did. Wei Chen registered the next morning under his own name. The clerk wrote it without comment, assigning him a number and a preliminary bracket.

"First round is in three days," the man said.

"Don't be late. Late is forfeit." The tournament grounds occupied a converted parade field near the Council Spire. Wooden bleachers rose on three sides; the fourth held a tiered pavilion for judges and nobles. By the time Wei Chen arrived for his first match, the smell of roasted nuts and sweat hung over the crowd, and vendors called out bets in half a dozen dialects. His first opponent was a disciple of the Iron Thorn School, perhaps seventeen, lean and nervous.

His opening move was a flurry of hand strikes that left pale afterimages. The crowd made appreciative noise. Wei Chen watched the rhythm, found the gap between the fourth and fifth strikes, and stepped inside. One palm to the shoulder, angled to unbalance rather than injure. The boy stumbled past him, caught himself, and turned with new wariness. They circled. The disciple attacked again, faster this time, a spinning kick followed by a blade-hand strike that hummed with qi.

Wei Chen moved half a pace, let the strike pass his cheek by the width of a finger, and placed his open palm against the boy's ribs. A short pulse of qi, carefully measured. The disciple folded, gasping, and sat down hard on the sand. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

"Winner," the announcer called, with less enthusiasm than the crowd had shown.

"Wei Chen, by submission." He left the stage to scattered applause and confused murmurs. The match had lasted less than a minute. To the spectators, it must have looked anticlimactic—one boy falling over while another barely moved. That was the point. Visible effort created memorable stories. Invisibility was its own kind of defense. The second round came the following morning. His opponent was an independent cultivator in her twenties, scarred across the jaw, with a reputation for breaking bones.

She feinted with her hands while her foot swept for his ankle. Wei Chen read the deception in her weight shift, let the sweep pass, and struck the back of her knee. She dropped, rolled, and came up with a knife-hand aimed at his throat. He caught her wrist, redirected the force downward, and applied pressure until the joint signaled submission. She yielded with a grunt of reluctant respect. Again, the judges looked unimpressed. The tournament favored spectacle, and Wei Chen's fights offered none.

By the third round, names began to matter. His opponent was a Twin River Sect disciple whose techniques revolved around water-aspect qi: flowing movements, sudden bursts of force, a style that looked beautiful even when it failed. He opened with a wave-like palm sequence that would have swept a lesser fighter off his feet. Wei Chen rooted himself, absorbed the push, and answered with a single straight strike to the chest. The disciple's guard collapsed. He staggered back, winded, and the judges counted him out.

Afterward, in the competitors' enclosure, the young man found him.

"What style is that?" he asked.

"I've never seen forms so... still."

"Old family technique," Wei Chen said.

"Not very interesting to watch."

"It doesn't need to be interesting. It needs to win." He bowed more deeply than victory usually earned, and walked away. Wei Chen watched him go. Old family technique. It was not the truth, but it was plausible enough to redirect curiosity. The quarterfinals matched him against a champion sponsored by House Vane. The man was called Hao Renshu, a bronze-rank adventurer with broad shoulders and a face that looked like it had been broken and healed badly.

He entered the stage to cheers from a section of the crowd wearing crimson ribbons. House Vane had money, and money bought noise. Hao did not underestimate him. He approached with hands raised, feet sliding in careful arcs. He had watched Wei Chen's earlier fights. He knew direct attacks ended badly. Instead, he applied pressure. He circled, threw probing strikes, retreated before commitment, trying to force Wei Chen to chase him into a mistake.

If Wei Chen would not come to him, he would make the stage small with feints and controlled aggression. For two minutes, they danced. Hao's strikes grew closer each time, measuring distance, testing reactions. The crowd grew restless. Wei Chen let Hao believe he had found the range. When the next probing hook came, he did not evade cleanly. He let it brush his shoulder, shifted as if off-balance, and Hao committed—a heavy cross aimed at the jaw.

Wei Chen slipped under it, stepped into Hao's center, and drove an elbow into the hollow beneath his ribs. At the same moment, he released a pulse of qi through the point, enough to steal breath and balance. Hao Renshu went down on one knee, then both. He tried to rise, failed, and stayed there while the count reached three. The crowd was silent. Then, from the House Vane section, someone booed. The sound spread uncertainly. Most spectators simply stared, unsure what they had witnessed.

Wei Chen bowed to his opponent, bowed to the judges, and left the stage. He had reached the semifinals. He had defeated a House Vane champion with a technique so contained that half the audience would later insist the match had been fixed. Attention was accumulating now, layered like sediment. Sooner or later, it would bury him or carry him forward. He cleaned his hands and waited for the next round