The six days leading up to the competition passed in a haze of deep meditation and grueling spear drills. Within Hanyuan's dantian, the silver thread had grown slightly thicker, pulsing with a faint but steady light. He was still far from reaching the Second Layer, yet he felt more attuned to his body than ever before—each breath, each movement flowing with quiet clarity.
On the morning of the Year-End Competition, the Bai Clan estate awoke in celebration. Drums thundered through the courtyards, and silk banners fluttered in the cold wind like wings of living color. Hanyuan stepped out of his room dressed in fresh white robes, the Ice Phoenix crest on his chest gleaming beneath the morning sun.
He met his parents in the Main Hall.
Bai Feng stood tall in flowing azure robes, his presence vast and commanding, as though the space itself bent subtly around him. Lin Ruo, usually gentle and reserved, looked striking in a shimmering silver dress that caught the light with every step she took.
"Hanyuan," his mother said softly, reaching out to straighten his collar. Her eyes were clouded with unmistakable maternal worry. "You don't need to win against Xueling. She's been training in the Frozen Grotto for weeks. Don't put too much pressure on yourself, alright?"
"A man should have ambition, Ruo," Bai Feng interjected, giving his son a firm thumbs-up and a broad grin. "Hanyuan has worked harder than anyone I've seen. Let him test his limits."
"Feng, he's only a child!" Lin Ruo snapped, her voice hushed but sharp. "What happens to his pride if he's humiliated in front of the entire clan? I don't want to see his self-esteem shattered."
Hanyuan looked at his parents, his obsidian eyes calm and steady. He clenched his fists, feeling the familiar callouses he had earned through countless hours of training. "If I lose, Mother, I can only blame my own lack of ability. Don't worry about me. Even if I fail today, I'll still be at the training grounds tomorrow at dawn. The spear doesn't care about a single loss."
Bai Feng beamed with pride. Lin Ruo let out a quiet sigh and rested a hand against her son's cheek. "You've grown up too fast," she whispered.
"Let's go," Bai Feng said, his voice shifting into a professional, authoritative tone. "The Elders and disciples are waiting."
They made their way toward the western end of the estate, where a massive stone arena had been carved directly into the hillside. Thousands of clan members—branch families, core disciples, and elder statesmen alike—filled the tiered seating. At the highest point stood four grand chairs overlooking the platform below. These were the seats of the Four Pillars, the Mortal Core masters of the Bai Clan.
On the far left sat Elder Wei, rigid as a spear, his weapon resting across his lap. Beside him was Elder Ling, unusually sober as he stroked his goatee and surveyed the crowd with sharp eyes. The central seat remained empty, reserved for the Patriarch. The final chair was occupied by Elder Zhang. The Old man leaned heavily on a black walking cane, his half-lidded eyes appearing asleep, yet a suffocating pressure radiated from him, making the air itself feel heavy.
Bai Feng took his place in the central seat and rose to his feet. The murmuring crowd fell silent at once.
"Today," Bai Feng's booming voice echoed across the arena, "we witness the fruits of your labor. The path to the summit is paved with sweat and blood. Those who achieve outstanding results will be rewarded with superior techniques and additional spirit stones. Those who do not—do not despair. Use this day to uncover your shortcomings. Now, let the youngest generation show us the future of the Bai Clan!"
A stern-faced referee in his thirties stepped onto the sand-covered arena floor.
"First match: Bai Minghan versus Bai Long!"
Bai Minghan emerged from the crowd of disciples, his complexion pale. Faint bruises from Elder Ling's willow switch were still visible beneath his robes. His opponent, Bai Long, was a stocky youth from a branch family renowned for their brute strength. Possessing a four-star Earth affinity, Bai Long wore a smug, confident grin as he rolled his shoulders.
Hanyuan watched from the edge of the platform. His gaze briefly shifted to Xueling, seated several rows back among the elite disciples. She wasn't watching the stage at all. Instead, her icy blue eyes were fixed squarely on him—cold, sharp, and unyielding, like drawn blades.
"Begin!" the referee shouted.
Minghan drew a slender training sword. His hands trembled for a heartbeat, then he glanced toward Hanyuan. Something seemed to settle within him, as though he remembered the lecture Hanyuan had given.
"Come here, wine-thief!" Bai Long roared, charging forward like a raging bull.
Minghan didn't retreat. He stepped aside, his movements unexpectedly fluid. but the truth was cruel. Minghan had lost in only ten exchanges.
He left the arena with his head bowed so low that his chin nearly brushed his chest. He didn't dare glance toward the high seats; he could feel Elder Ling's purple-faced fury searing into his back like an invisible brand. Though Minghan possessed greater talent, Bai Long's calloused hands and steady breathing told the simple truth—unyielding hard work had crushed lazy potential.
"Winner, Bai Long!" the referee shouted.
The cheers were muted. A few disciples shook their heads in disappointment as Minghan disappeared into the crowd.
Several bouts followed in quick succession. The tension gradually ebbed, and the arena filled with idle chatter once more as disciples ate spirit fruit and debated past matches. Then, without warning, the air grew heavy. Conversations died mid-sentence, as if smothered by an unseen hand.
"The final match of the preliminary generation," the referee announced, his voice ringing clearly, "Bai Xueling versus Bai Hanyuan!"
Xueling glided onto the stage like a swan descending upon frozen waters. Her robes were immaculate, untouched by dust, and a chilling aura clung to her form. She did not draw her sword at once. Instead, she fixed her gaze on Hanyuan, her eyes filled with pure, concentrated venom.
Hanyuan stepped forward, the silver-lined iron spear Elder Wei had given him resting solidly in his grip. Its weight felt familiar—comforting, even.
"Surrender now," Xueling said, her voice carrying effortlessly across the arena. "Kneel and admit that your meager talent is no match for mine. If you do, I may allow you to leave this stage without scars. If you don't…" Her lips curled into a cruel smile. "I'll make sure everyone witnesses the 'genius' son of the Patriarch bleeding in the dirt."
Hanyuan did not reply.
He slid smoothly into his starting stance, the iron tip of his spear leveled directly at her throat. His knuckles whitened around the shaft, his anger a cold, focused fire beneath his skin.
"Begin!"
Xueling moved.
She became a blur of blue silk, her sword flashing as she struck. "Slash!"
The blade hissed through the air, aimed straight for Hanyuan's chest. He retreated_toggle just an inch—the width of a hair—and his spear answered with a sharp whistle.
Clang!
Iron met steel. The shock rattled Hanyuan's arms, but weeks of training under crushing weights bore fruit. Before Xueling could reset her stance, his spear blurred forward.
Sou! Sou!
Two rapid thrusts.
Xueling deflected the first with ease—but her eyes widened as the second slipped past her guard. The spear tip grazed her waist, tearing silk and leaving behind a thin crimson line.
"You… you dared to draw my blood?" Xueling's face twisted into a mask of fury. "I'll kill you!"
Her Qi exploded outward in a violent surge. Frost bloomed across the stage, and her aura spiked so sharply that even the outer disciples gasped.
"Second Layer of Qi Refining!" Elder Wei shot to his feet, his hand gripping the balcony railing. "Impossible—she was only testing a few weeks ago!"
Elder Zhang let out a dry, rattling chuckle, leaning on his black cane. "Talent plays a role, Elder Wei. But I also gave her a Nine-Leaf Purity Pill. It cleansed her meridians and gave her the final push. When heaven grants talent, we must grant resources."
Bai Feng's hands clenched around his armrests until the wood creaked and splintered. His gaze never left the stage as his son was driven backward.
Hanyuan blocked the next strike—but the difference was immediate. His hands went numb, the impact sending a brutal vibration through his bones.
Second Layer… he realized, his obsidian eyes darting as he struggled to track her movements.
Xueling pressed the attack without mercy. Three lightning-fast strikes crashed down. Hanyuan parried, parried, then ducked, his muscles already screaming in protest. He narrowly evaded a horizontal sweep—only for Xueling to twist mid-air, her blade flashing from an impossible angle.
Squelch.
"Cough—!"
Hanyuan staggered back as blood sprayed onto the sand. A deep, jagged wound gaped across his chest, his white robes soaking crimson.
Why? The thought screamed through his mind as cold sweat drenched his back. I trained in the forest. I hunted the bears. I pushed myself until my hands bled. Why is she still stronger?
The answer tasted bitter.
The pill. The resources. The cruel imbalance of a world where a seven-star genius favored by an Elder could leap past a six-star cultivator who relied solely on effort.
"Die, you mongrel!" Xueling shrieked, her sanity unraveling at his refusal to fall.
She lunged in blind fury, overextending. For a fleeting microsecond, her weight shifted too far forward—a mistake she would never have made with a clear mind.
Hanyuan saw it.
He had little Qi left, but he poured everything into his waist. Dropping low, he swung the blunt end of his iron spear in a wide, desperate arc.
CRACK!
The heavy iron smashed into the side of Xueling's head. She let out a strangled sound, her eyes rolling back as her body wavered on the brink of collapse.
But she did not fall.
Pain ignited something dark and feral within her. Instead of retreating, she shrieked—a sound devoid of humanity—and raised her sword with both hands. She brought it down in a brutal executioner's strike, aiming to sever the arm holding Hanyuan's spear.
"That is enough!"
The air solidified.
A golden-azure blur appeared on the stage, faster than sight.
Cling!
The sound was soft, almost insignificant—like a needle striking metal. Xueling's sword froze midair.
Bai Feng stood between them, his expression cold and wrathful, holding the edge of her Qi-infused blade between two bare fingers.
The pressure radiating from him was overwhelming. Disciples in the front rows felt their hearts stutter in their chests.
"The match," Bai Feng said, his voice echoing like a Imperial decree, "is over."