The arena dimmed around her, shadows cast in every direction. For a moment, it looked as if a second sun had ignited at the center of the dueling ring.
The temperature spiked.
The crowd gasped as the heat rolled outward—not in waves, but in pulses, like a heartbeat of flame. Spectators in the lower tiers flinched, shielding their faces. Even cultivators in the Mid Gold realm began to sweat.
High above, the royal guards moved instantly.
A dozen of them raised their hands in unison, channeling qi into the arena's perimeter. A second layer of formation lines flared to life—then a third. Rings of translucent light shimmered into place, sealing the heat within the dueling field.
"She's destabilizing the barrier," one guard muttered. "Reinforce the outer shell."
Another narrowed his eyes. "That's not flame. That's spirit fusion."
A third scoffed. "Impossible. She's only Peak Amethyst. You don't touch Spirit Fusion unless you've stepped into that realm. And she hasn't. She can't."
In the highest pavilion, the crown prince leaned forward slightly, his gaze narrowing.
In the eastern pavilion, Simon Flare's jaw tightened. Jana's hand gripped the railing, knuckles white.
Simon looked calm—but inside, he was reeling. That technique… she shouldn't be able to use it. Not yet.
"I need to stop her."
"No," Jana stopped him, her voice trembling. Though she feared what Rana was doing, she couldn't risk her husband's interference causing their daughter harm. "She chose this. Let her finish it."
High above, Jalen narrowed his eyes.
"That foolish girl," he muttered. "She's not at a realm where she can do spirit flame fusion just yet."
He didn't move.
He didn't intervene.
But his gaze sharpened.
"She's going to break herself."
And she was.
Even as her flame grew brighter, her body trembled. Her skin flushed with heat, veins glowing faintly beneath the surface. Her breath came in short bursts. Her meridians strained under the pressure, qi channels threatening to rupture.
But she didn't stop.
She stepped forward.
And the flame followed.
This time, her strikes cut through Jason's flame. Her palm met his shoulder, and his aura flared in pain. Her kick landed against his ribs, and his footing faltered.
Jason growled, his pride flaring hotter than his qi.
"You think you can burn me?" He spat.
He unleashed a barrage of high-level techniques—flaming spears, explosive waves, and a phoenix-shaped arc of fire that tore across the arena. The ground cracked. The sky trembled. Every clash of their fists sent shockwaves through the stands.
And though Rana looked untouched, her body was suffering. Each impact sent tremors through her bones. Her meridians screamed. Her breath shortened.
But she kept going.
Jason was slowing now. His aura fraying. His internal defenses couldn't fully block her flame. Even with his body reinforced by qi, her strikes left burns—deep, spiritual ones.
He roared and charged again.
She met him head-on.
And this time, he lost ground.
Desperate, Jason reached into his robe and drew a gleaming crimson ring—a mystic-level spirit tool. He activated it with a surge of qi, and a blast of condensed flame erupted from its core, slamming into Rana's chest.
She flew.
Her body spiraled through the air—flames sputtering, blood trailing like ribbons.
The wall loomed.
Then—
A blur.
A gust.
A figure materialized mid-flight with one arm, the other raised to shield her from the residual blast.
Jalen.
He landed softly, cradling her against his chest. The flames around her flickered, then dimmed.
Despite the pain, Rana smiled faintly. "You came."
"You reckless flame brain," Jalen muttered, scowling. "Why would you use a technique like that, knowing it could kill you?"
He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't care about the whispers, the stares, or the fear rippling through the sects. All of that meant nothing.
Right now, there was only her.
The crowd erupted—not with cheers, but with confusion.
"Who is that?"
"Where did he come from?"
"Was he in the stands?"
In the Vernon delegation, the Hewitt family narrowed their eyes. The higher-ups exchanged glances—silent, sharp, and knowing. No words were spoken, but the truth passed between them like a current. They all recognized him. And they all understood what it meant.
In the Erupt Family pavilion, elders stood abruptly. One of them clenched the railing.
"That boy… He's the one we've been hunting."
From the Shadow Sect, a figure in black leaned forward, voice low and cold.
"He's the one we want dead."
In the highest pavilion, the royal family and the top clans watched in silence. Their expressions were unreadable.
But their eyes lingered.
He looked average.
But something about him didn't feel right.
And not a single soul had sensed him enter the arena.