The procession from their pavilion wound down through the misty paths of the Salvaged Peaks, finally emerging onto a vast, open terrace. Before them lay the venue.
It was not a built stadium, but a titanic bowl carved directly into the living mountain. A sheer cliff face formed one towering wall, while the other sides sloped upward, terraced with viewing platforms and ornate pavilions. Through the very center of the flat, sandy arena floor, a narrow but deep river had been diverted to flow, its clear, rushing water cutting the battleground in two before disappearing into a culvert on the far side. The air smelled of wet stone, incense, and tense anticipation.
The pavilions housed the distinguished. Gen's eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned them.
On the eastern side, in a pavilion of dark wood and subtle silver, sat the Li Family. Among them, Gen and Liang recognized Li Zhan. The man sat with an immaculate, serene demeanor, his face a mask of polite disinterest as he gazed at the empty arena. His brother, the fiery Li Chen, was nowhere to be seen.
On the opposite side, in shades of somber grey and black, were the representatives of the Doom College. Duo Yi sat among their elders, her small frame looking almost swallowed by the formal robes, her posture perfectly straight, her eyes wide and curious as they scanned the crowd with unfiltered interest.
In the northern pavilion, resplendent in white and gold, were the delegates from Heaven's Gate. Prince Juo Si took the lead, his expression one of practiced, regal calm. Beside him, General Mearl stood like a statue of polished steel, her shining armor reflecting the pale mountain light, her gaze fixed ahead, seeing everything and nothing.
Gen and his group were guided not to the general stands, but to a central pavilion that jutted out over the arena's edge. It was shared with the Kai siblings. Lio Kai stood rigidly, his jaw tight, while Lia fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, her eyes darting toward the entrance tunnel. They were all waiting for the same person.
Further behind, the carved stone terraces were packed. Cultivators from a dozen minor sects, wandering mercenaries, and merchants who had paid a fortune for a glimpse filled the space with a low, incessant murmur. The air buzzed with impatient energy.
"I heard the shockwave from the Jiang Mountain shattered windows a hundred miles away," one cultivator in rough hides said to his companion, his voice carrying.
"A pity we missed it," the companion replied, adjusting a sword on his back. "To see the Immortal in his final moment… it would have been a lesson for the ages."
The first man snorted. "A lesson in how to die, you mean. If you'd been on that peak with your level of skill, you'd be a stain on the rocks. We're better off watching from here."
The murmurs grew, a rising wave of speculation and morbid excitement.
In the central pavilion, on the low table before Gen and his friends, sat a single object: a jar of unglazed clay, sealed with red wax. It was filled with a deep, golden wine that seemed to swirl with its own inner light. No one touched it. It was not for them.
Gen looked at the jar strangely, imagining Varja picking it up, draining it in one smooth, powerful motion.
He turned to Liang beside him, needing to pierce the tense silence. "After today, you shall turn seventeen. You're getting old now."
Liang laughed, the sound easing some of the stiffness in his shoulders. "Seventeen isn't old. It's the ripe age to finally roam the world properly."
Talking of age, Lorel tilted her head slightly downward, her long hair creating a curtain beside her cheek. Ever since she'd known Gen, the issue of their age difference had been a quiet, persistent thorn. Mainly because of Gen himself, who had, in their younger years, never let her forget she was the 'older' girl betrothed to him.
Noticing the change in his friend, Gen stood up, his eyes sharp. He pointed toward the arena entrance. "There he is."
Chubbs, with a piece of spiced meat still in his hand, lumbered to his feet, pointing without a care for decorum. "Yes! Varja has arrived!"
A figure descended from the cliffs above, not with a showy display of power, but with a heavy, gravitational presence. Today, Varja wore almost nothing. His defined musculature, a landscape of scarred ridges and corded power, was bare to the cold air. His usual simple robe and sandals were gone, replaced only by loose, dark martial pants. The single braided lock of hair on his otherwise bald head hung still. With an expert, effortless mastery of **Shidow** that manipulated the air as a solid stair, he landed in the center of the arena with a soft *thud* that vibrated through the soles of every spectator's feet.
The entire arena erupted into sound—shouts, cheers, murmurs of awe. The noise was a physical wall.
Prince Juo Si stood up from the Heaven's Gate pavilion. He did not shout. He simply raised a hand and waved it slowly, a regal, commanding gesture. The noise didn't cease instantly, but it died down in ripples, respect for his station quieting the crowd. His power was not what commanded the silence; it was the weight of his name, his role.
"Esteemed guests, cultivators of the Four Kingdoms and beyond," Juo Si began, his voice amplified by a subtle thread of **Shidow**, clear and cordial. "We gather at a pivotal hour. The shadow of the Damocles hangs over us all, a pain in the heart of our world. Today is not merely a duel. It is a declaration. A statement that the cultivators of this world are not broken, that we will rise to meet the sentence placed upon us." His words were careful, diplomatic, and they sent a thrill through the younger cultivators in the crowd, their blood heating with a sense of historic purpose.
"Prince Juo Si! You should be the one to lead the Four Kingdoms in this fight!" a young voice shouted from the terraces, carried away by the emotion.
Juo Si smiled, a practiced, humble curve of his lips. "No. This is a task for all the families of our realm. It requires the strength of the Li," he nodded toward the eastern pavilion, "the resilience of the Kang," his gaze swept to their empty seats, "the wisdom of the Doom College," a glance north, "and the unity of us all." The implication was clear: leadership was contested, and he was positioning himself as the unifier.
"But before the clash of principles begins," he continued, his tone shifting to one of solemn tradition, "it is custom for the Unbreakable Varja to drink before he fights."
His eyes found the central pavilion. "Miss Lia Kai."
Suddenly, Gen and his friends were the center of the world's attention once more. Lia stood up, her hands trembling faintly at her sides. She moved to the table and picked up the heavy golden jar. She looked at it as if it were a viper, her face pale.
"He is strong. He will be fine," Gen said to her, his voice low but firm.
Beside him, Liang added, "Do not worry. He is a Pillar."
Chubbs, ever her supporter, puffed out his chest. "Miss Lia, he is a lucky person. And with you here, he will have even more luck. Do not worry."
Lia took a deep, steadying breath. The jar felt immensely heavy. She was guided not by her own power, but by a gentle, external current of **Shidow**—a courtesy from an elder in the Li pavilion—that lifted her and carried her in a smooth, gliding arc over the river and down onto the sandy arena floor.
She walked the final steps to her father, who stood like a carved monolith. She held out the jar, her voice a whisper. "Father."
Varja looked at her. A genuine, quiet smile touched his lips—a rare, warm thing that softened the stone of his face. He took the jar from her hands, his scarred fingers dwarfing it.
His eyes lifted from Lia, finding Prince Juo Si in his pavilion. He held the prince's gaze for a long, silent moment. An unspoken communication passed between them, heavy with meanings Gen could not decipher. A gut feeling, cold and sharp, told Gen something was off. The ritual felt like more than a ritual.
Before he could grasp the thought, Varja raised the jar. He did not sip. He tipped his head back and swallowed the entire contents in one long, deep, uninterrupted sweep. His throat worked. The last drop fell. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent the empty jar spinning off to shatter against the far cliff wall.
With another wave of his hand, the same gentle current of **Shidow** lifted Lia and carried her back, depositing her gently in the pavilion beside a relieved Chubbs.
At the exact moment her feet touched the wood, the air in the center of the arena *warped*.
A figure appeared in the sky above the river. There was no flash of light, no roar of arrival. One moment, empty air. The next, an armored silhouette hanging against the grey mountain sky.
The moment the figure appeared, the entire atmosphere of the venue *shifted*. The murmurs, the nervous energy, the collective breath of the crowd—it was all crushed under a sudden, immense, silent pressure. It was as if the sky itself had gained density and settled upon their shoulders. People gripped their seats. Some hunched forward, breaths coming in short, suffocated gasps. The cheerful, anticipatory tension of moments before was gone, replaced by the visceral, choking weight of a Divine General's presence.
The figure looked down, its armored helm scanning the silent, frozen arena. A voice emerged, metallic, resonant, and laced with a bored, ancient malice.
"I am Nix," it said, the words dripping into the silence like cold poison. "Guardian of the Damocles."