At dawn, the arena changed.
Not in shape. In silence.
The crowd returned early, but they didn't roar. They whispered. They watched. As if afraid that too much noise might fracture the moment.
The formation screens hovered above the stone like waiting eyes. The banners of the great clans and sects hung motionless in the windless air. Even the sky seemed to dim, clouds veiling the sun in a soft, silver hush.
Then the arena floor shifted.
Not visibly—but spiritually. The qi density thickened, folding in on itself like breath held too long. The stone beneath the contestants' feet pulsed faintly with ancient formation lines—veins of power etched by hands long dead.
This was no longer a proving ground.
It was a crucible.
The announcer stepped forward, his voice steady but subdued.
"The Final Round will proceed as follows. Each of the twenty cultivators will face the other nineteen. Victory is determined by incapacitation, surrender, or ring-out. Death is forbidden—but not always avoidable."
A pause. A breath.
"The first match will begin in one hour. The order has been drawn."
He raised a second scroll—this one sealed in black wax.
"The first duel: Rana Flare of the Ember Clan… versus Veykan Veylan of the Veylan Confederacy."
The silence broke.
Not with cheers—but with murmurs. Sharp, uncertain. The first match wasn't just a clash of styles. It was a statement.
The youngest flame of the Ember Sect… against the veiled blade from beyond the continent.
Rana stood slowly. Her white hair caught the light. Her breath was calm. Her flame didn't rise—it waited.
Across the field, Veykan smiled.
He didn't bow. He didn't speak.
He just stepped forward, and the air around him bent.
His qi didn't roar. It rippled—like a blade drawn too fast to see.
Jalen, watching from the upper tier, narrowed his eyes.
"That's no random draw," Jalen thought. "Someone wants to see what these two dark horses have in store. And if he should guess it's the royal family."
Rana stepped into the ring.
The formation beneath her feet lit with a soft white glow.
Veykan followed. His side pulsed violet.
The announcer raised his hand.
"Begin."
The moment the announcer's hand dropped, Veykan surged forward.
No flicker. No feint.
Just raw, blistering speed.
His blade came down like a guillotine—sharp, sudden, and aimed straight for Rana's throat.
She moved.
Not back. Not away.
She pivoted, flame spiraling from her heel, and the blade missed by a breath. Her counterstrike came in the same motion—
"Dual Phoenix Flame Pulse."
The first pulse struck his shoulder, disrupting his qi flow. The second followed instantly—a spear-like thrust of condensed flame qi that pierced his aura and sent him skidding across the stone.
He twisted mid-air, narrowly avoiding the blow, and landed in a crouch. The stone beneath him cracked.
Veykan didn't move like other cultivators. His steps didn't ripple with speed or stir the wind—they simply appeared, as if the space between positions had folded inward to meet him. He wielded spatial qi, and it showed in every motion: the stone beneath his feet never cracked from pressure, and his aura left no trail. Each movement felt like a skipped breath in reality, a quiet distortion where distance ceased to matter. Rana's flame chased him, but always arrived a fraction too late—striking where he had been, not where he was. Even the air around him seemed to resist definition, bending faintly at the edges like a reflection caught in warped glass.
Then he vanished again.
He came from above this time—blade spinning, aura flaring violet-black. The air screamed as he descended, qi laced with disruption, like a storm trying to unmake the world.
Rana leapt, flame bursting from her feet. She met him mid-air, fist to blade, and the impact sent shockwaves through the arena.
They didn't land.
They flew.
The formation allowed it—barely. The air shimmered with containment lines, but within them, the sky was theirs.
Veykan struck again and again—slashes that bent light, thrusts that fractured space. His style was jagged, unpredictable, like a broken rhythm that still found its beat.
But Rana's flame was everywhere.
It didn't block. It redirected.
Every time his blade neared her skin, a spiral of fire curved between them—tight, elegant, and perfectly timed.
"Ash Spiral."
The vortex of burning wind trapped him mid-motion, rotating with lethal force. He twisted free, but not before the flame had marked him—deep, quiet, and corrosive.
But she was sweating now.
His speed was increasing. His strikes were getting closer.
One slash grazed her sleeve. Another singed her braid. A third nearly pierced her shoulder—but she twisted mid-air, flame bursting from her palm to launch her sideways.
She landed hard, skidding across the stone, and exhaled once.
"He's getting faster," she thought before stepping forward again, flame coiling tighter around her limbs.
Veykan grinned—and unleashed a barrage.
He blinked behind her, struck low. She blocked with her knee.
He blinked above, stabbed down. She spun, flame shielding her back.
He blinked in front—and feinted.
She didn't fall for it.
Her fist caught his shoulder, and for the first time, he staggered.
She followed—flame spiraling from her elbow, her knee, her heel. Every strike was a rhythm, every motion a verse. He blocked two. Dodged one.
The fourth hit.
A burst of white fire slammed into his chest, and he flew backward, crashing into the arena wall.
The crowd gasped.
He stood slowly, coughing, smoke rising from his robes.
And then—he vanished again.
But this time, Rana was ready.
She didn't chase.
She waited.
And when he reappeared behind her, blade raised, she turned—not with her body, but with her flame.
It flared backward, a whisper of ignition—and caught him.
Not his body.
His soul.
Veykan froze mid-strike. His blade trembled. His aura flickered.
His eyes widened.
"What… is this?"
In the stands, several old masters leaned forward.
They had seen hints of it before—subtle tremors in her opponents, strange falterings of will. Whispers of something deeper than flame.
But this… this was confirmation.
A soul flame.
And the only way that was possible—
"A flaming physique," one elder whispered. "And not just any flaming physique the rare soul type."
Another nodded slowly. "And it's already answering to her will."
Around them, sect leaders and patriarchs exchanged glances—some calculating, some alarmed.
Veykan dropped to one knee, gasping. His blade clattered to the stone.
And then—
He roared.
His aura exploded outward, tearing through the ignition. The air cracked. The formation lines above them flickered.
And his realm surged.
Early Gold.
Some lower-realm cultivators gasped in shock—but the old monsters, and Jalen, remained still. Unmoved.
Rana's eyes narrowed.
"So you have been masking your cultivation."
Veykan rose, eyes wild, aura violent.
"You want to burn my soul?" he growled. "Then burn with me."
He charged.
Faster. Harder. No more feints. No more tricks.
Just violence.
Rana blocked the first strike—but the second broke her guard. The third sent her flying. She caught herself mid-air, flame bursting from her feet—but he was already there.
She raised her arms—
Scorching Blanket.
A cloak of raging flame wrapped around her, expanding outward. His next strike collided with it and hissed into nothing. The cloak absorbed the impact, shielding her from the worst of his fury.
Her arms shook. Not from fear—but from the weight of holding back the fire that wanted to consume everything.
He struck again. And again.
She dodged, barely. Her sleeve tore. Her ribs cracked. Her breath hitched.
He raised his hand—and the sky darkened.
A massive qi construct formed above him—jagged, spiraling, like a vortex of blades and storm. It pulsed with killing intent.
"Fall," he whispered.
The vortex dropped.
Rana didn't run.
She closed her eyes.
And breathed.
A single bud of flame bloomed in her palm—small, delicate, perfect.
Infernal Bloom.
The flower opened, and the explosion wasn't loud—it was deep. A pulse of white-gold fire erupted outward, engulfing the vortex, the sky, the arena. The formation shattered. The stands shook. The crowd screamed.
The royal guards, who are between peak Enlightened realm and early star realm moved instantly—forming a barrier that shielded the spectators. Their auras flared like suns.
When the smoke cleared—
Veykan was still standing.
But barely.
His robes were burned to nothing despite his best effort to use his spatial qi to protect himself. His skin blistered. His blade was gone.
He took one step forward.
Then another.
Then fell to his knees.
He tried to rise.
The announcer's voice rang out—urgent, commanding.
"Stop! The match is over!"
He raised a hand, sensing the damage to Veykan's core.
"Any further combat will result in death. Victory—Rana Flare."
The crowd didn't cheer.
They stared.
Rana stood in the center of the crater, her flame flickering low, her breath shallow.
She didn't smile.
She didn't speak.
She just stood—barely.
And burned.