On Crimson Dust Tournament day.
The day the Crimson Dust Tree ripened, the sky itself seemed restless.
A faint red haze hung over Kiang Forest long before sunrise. The air carried a metallic scent, thick with earth-element essence slowly reaching its peak. Spiritual beasts had already retreated from the inner clearing, as if instinct warned them that something monumental was about to unfold.
At the center of the clearing stood the tree.
Its bark, once dark and muted, now pulsed with deep crimson veins. Fine cracks traced along its trunk, glowing faintly like molten lines beneath stone. With each passing moment, specks of red dust shimmered at its crown—waiting.
Around the clearing, a stone platform had been erected.
Neutral ground.
The magistrate had spared no effort to ensure the duel appeared "civilized."
On one side stood the Felix Mercenary Group.
On the other, the Letinca Mercenary Group.
At the forefront of Letinca stood their leader, Rhaziel.
Tall. Refined. His armor was lighter than Khamas', but no less expensive. His smile carried the kind of confidence born not from desperation—but from preparation.
Opposite him stood Khamas.
Solid. Unmoving. Like a wall that had weathered too many battles to bother posturing.
Rhaziel's lips curved faintly.
"Khamas," he said lightly, "I trust your group is prepared."
Khamas' gaze did not waver. "Felix does not arrive unprepared."
"Of course," Rhaziel replied smoothly.
"Though I must admit, I was surprised to hear you've outsourced your confidence."
His eyes drifted briefly toward Sogen.
A subtle jab.
Khamas did not bite.
"We invest where it is profitable."
Rhaziel chuckled softly. "Let us hope your investment yields returns."
Neither man raised his voice.
Neither insulted openly.
Yet the air between them sharpened with every word.
Nearby, the magistrate cleared his throat loudly.
"Enough," he declared. "This duel is sanctioned under town's authority. Three representatives from each group. The victorious faction claims cultivation rights beneath the Crimson Dust Tree."
His gaze swept across both sides.
"Begin."
First Duel — Siana vs Varek
Siana stepped onto the platform first.
Her armor was light, designed for mobility. Her sword gleamed faintly with wind-element resonance.
Across from her stood Varek .
Broad-shouldered. Silent. His gauntlets bore heavy reinforcement, fists his chosen weapons.
Both were Earth Realm, Fifth Stage — mid level.
Equal in cultivation.
The signal was given.
They moved at once.
Steel met reinforced fist with a sharp metallic crack. Siana's blade danced in precise arcs, her footwork fluid and aggressive. Varek responded with grounded force, each punch distorting the air.
Dust exploded beneath their steps.
Sparks scattered.
The battle was fierce.
Siana's technique was refined— fundamentals woven with mercenary practicality. She pressed Varek back twice, forcing him to defend rather than attack.
But Varek endured, he was no less.
His fists began glowing faintly—white light wrapping around his knuckles.
A White-Class Fist Technique.
The impact of his next strike sent a shockwave through the platform.
A ripple of astonishment swept through the crowd the moment Varek unleashed the White-Class technique.
The arena, once filled with clashing steel and roaring spectators, fell into a brief, stunned silence.
"A White-Class technique…?"
"He actually has one?"
The murmurs that followed carried unmistakable shock—no longer doubt, but raw disbelief.
In their eyes, a White-Class technique was already something extraordinary even though it was a low grade, far beyond what most could ever obtain. Even seasoned fighters would treat such power as a trump card.
And yet… what unsettled them wasn't just its presence.
It was how Varek wielded it.
The moment the technique came alive, the rhythm of the battle shifted completely. Every movement became sharper, every exchange more oppressive—as though the flow of the fight itself had bent to his will.
This wasn't merely the strength of the technique.
It was mastery.
Varek stood at the center of it all, composed and unyielding, as if the outcome had been decided the instant he chose to act.
Siana staggered.
She recovered, retaliated—but the rhythm had shifted.
And then—
A single misstep.
Varek's fist struck cleanly.
The force launched her off the platform, crashing beyond the boundary line.
Silence.
Felix's side tightened.
Siana rose slowly.
Uninjured.
But defeated.
Sogen, watching from below, narrowed his eyes.
During the fight, Varek had pulled back twice.
His strikes had angled away from fatal points.
He had been holding back.
When he sent her flying, there had been something in his gaze.
A flicker.
Regret?
It vanished instantly.
But Sogen had seen it.
The perception came not from guesswork.
It came from the E-grade talent he had absorbed from Vilkan's group—
Emotion Trace.
Second Duel — Gale vs Malric
Next stepped forward Gale.
His opponent: Malric.
Both Earth Realm, Fifth Stage — peak level.
This battle was faster.
Gale's sword technique emphasized precision and timing. Malric's spear flowed like a serpent, constantly adjusting angles.
They clashed repeatedly, neither giving ground.
Gale found an opening—
But Malric's body twisted unnaturally, as if he had predicted the strike before it happened.
D-Class Talent: Movement Perception.
Combat-oriented.
Rhaziel had invested well.
Malric countered with the same White-Class technique Varek had used.
His spear lashed forward, infused with the very same White-Rank technique Varek had once wielded. Though originally crafted for a different weapon, the technique adapted seamlessly—its power bending to the will of its user. In the hands of a true combatant, such skills were never bound by form, only by mastery.
A second surge of astonishment rippled through the arena as another White-Class technique flared to life.
Gasps echoed from every corner.
"Another one…?!"
But the shock did not last long. Sharp-eyed spectators quickly noticed the truth.
"…No. It's the same technique."
Recognition spread, followed closely by a deeper kind of surprise.
The technique—Varek's technique—was flowing through a different form, a different rhythm, yet its essence remained
unchanged. It adapted seamlessly, as if it had never belonged to a single style to begin with.
A murmur rose.
"A multi-style compatible technique…"
Such techniques did exist—but almost all of them were low-grade, valued more for flexibility than power. Yet here stood a White-Class technique, bending across fighting styles without losing even a fraction of its might.
That alone was enough to overturn common sense.
In this place, even the lowest-grade techniques were treated as priceless treasures. For most, witnessing a White-Class technique was not just rare—it was something that might never happen in their entire lifetime.
And yet today, they were seeing it… twice.
The crowd's expressions were unified in awe, their earlier composure long shattered.
But not everyone shared the same emotions.
On one side, Lentinca's faction erupted into celebration. Smiles spread wide, laughter spilling freely as they mocked the stiffened ranks of Felix Mercenary.
On the other, silence weighed heavily.
The members of Felix Mercenary stood in quiet despair. They understood it clearly—the tide had turned beyond recovery. What had once been an opportunity was now slipping through their fingers.
Defeat was no longer a possibility.
It was inevitable.
Yet amidst the gloom, one figure remained unmoved.
Sogen.
While others drowned in despair, his gaze stayed sharp and steady, fixed not on Varek—but on Yufeng, their third opponent.
Calm.
Calculating.
Analyzing.
Match between Gale and Malric continued.
Then suddenly a heavy thrust struck Gale's guard, shattering his balance.
Gale was forced off the stage by the narrowest margin.
Defeat.
Two losses.
The moment Gale fell, the last thread of tension snapped.
Lentinca's side erupted.
Cheers thundered through the arena, louder than before, swelling into a tide of triumph.
Laughter followed close behind—sharp, unrestrained, and merciless. What began as celebration quickly twisted into open mockery.
"Heh… the tiger we were warned about—"
"—turned out to be nothing more than a cat."
The words carried, clear and deliberate, cutting across the battlefield like a blade.
A wave of suppressed chuckles rippled through the Lentinca crowd, their confidence now bordering on arrogance.
On the opposing side, silence answered.
The members of Felix Mercenary stood rigid, their expressions darkening. Shame crept across their faces, heavy and inescapable, as the weight of defeat pressed down on them.
No one spoke.
No one dared to.
The contrast between the two sides could not have been sharper—one basking in victory, the other sinking into quiet humiliation.
Even Siana's jaw tightened.
On paper, they had lost.
Two victories secured Letinca's claim.
The Crimson Dust Tree pulsed brighter in the background.
Time was running thin.
Now, all eyes turned toward the magistrate.
On Lentinca's side, anticipation crackled in the air. Smiles lingered, confidence unshaken, as they stood waiting—certain of what would come next. To them, the outcome was no longer in doubt; it was merely a formality awaiting declaration.
Victory was already theirs.
They simply waited to hear it spoken aloud.