As Kazel retracted his manifestation, the other prodigies followed suit. The spectral forms of their beasts faded into the ether, their presences lingering only in the whispers and murmurs of the astonished crowd. The energy in the coliseum had shifted completely—what was once mockery and amusement had turned into an air of intense curiosity and unease.
The announcer, still riding the momentum of the moment, raised his voice, "Now! Let's begin, shall we?"
The coliseum quieted.
The vast circular arena, which had been buzzing with cheers moments ago, came to a near standstill. Even the rowdy spectators held their breaths, anticipation thick in the air.
"Here is the game you will all be playing," the announcer continued, drawing every eye back to him. "The head disciples will each be given a number from one to seven."
A staff member walked through the line of prodigies, carrying a small tray of pristine white balls. Each one had a single number carved into its surface. One by one, the head disciples reached in and took their own.
Kazel casually plucked a ball from the tray, rolling it between his fingers before glancing down.
A sharp '7' was etched onto its surface.
He smirked. (I have a feeling I know where this is going.)
The announcer's voice carried on. "Now, as for the rest of you…" He gestured towards the mass of disciples who stood waiting with anticipation. "You will draw your numbers from this box. The numbers range from one to seven, matching those of the head disciples."
A massive wooden box, engraved with ancient carvings, was brought forth and placed at the center of the coliseum. One by one, the participating disciples stepped forward, reached inside, and retrieved their numbers. Some looked relieved, others seemed apprehensive, and a few exchanged glances with their respective head disciples.
Gradually, the crowd behind each prodigy took shape, their numbers nearly equal.
Kazel glanced over his shoulder, counting the figures behind him. A modest group, but they looked at him with eyes filled with uncertainty. Some had witnessed his earlier display, their hesitation obvious, while others still bore the remnants of their prior mockery.
He exhaled through his nose, smirking. (This should be interesting.)
The announcer clapped his hands, calling attention back.
"Now, head disciples, if you would… please face each other in the shape of a heptagon!"
The seven prodigies stepped forward, forming a wide, seven-pointed shape. Their expressions ranged from indifference to curiosity—though most, including Yuanggai and Salma, couldn't help but glance at Kazel with a mix of skepticism and intrigue.
The distance between them was tight—one step apart. Close enough to hear each other's breathing, close enough to feel the tension radiating from one another.
Kazel adjusted his collar lazily before cracking his neck. He could already feel the pressure, the weight of expectation in the air.
And he welcomed it.
The announcer's voice rang out with reverence. "Mr. Nobu, if you please."
All eyes turned to the slender man seated among the sponsors.
Nobu exhaled, rising smoothly to his feet. His movements were refined, deliberate—like a swordsman who had nothing to prove yet carried a blade that demanded respect. "Looks like it's my turn," he murmured before stepping forward.
Then, with a single effortless motion, he leaped.
His body soared high above the arena, his robes billowing as he reached for the sword at his sash.
Schink!
In midair, his blade was drawn, and before his feet could even touch the ground again—three and a half slashes carved through the coliseum.
The force of his strikes sent shockwaves through the air, an invisible pressure sweeping over the seven prodigies below. None of them had the chance to react. Their eyes widened, breaths caught in their throats as a sharp gust followed—the mere aftermath of his swordplay.
The ground beneath them split. Seven clean, precise fissures formed, cutting through the stone and marking the spaces between them.
Silence.
Then, a delayed reaction—their hair fluttered.
The sheer precision of the slashes left an aftershock, rustling their robes and ruffling their hair long after the attack had already passed.
Yuanggai clenched his fists, his muscles tensed. (I didn't even see when he drew his sword...! Only the aftershock...!)
Salma's usual composed expression faltered, her fox-like eyes narrowing as she bit the inside of her cheek. (That kind of control... If that had been aimed at us, would we even still be standing? No... he could have cut us all down before we blinked.)
Xie Lian, arms crossed, glanced at the others before exhaling softly. His Assault Owl integration granted her enhanced vision, yet even she had barely tracked Nobu's slashes. (That was beyond precision... It was absolute dominance.)
Mei Rong had involuntarily taken a half-step back before realizing what she'd done. She gritted her teeth, her butterfly-like aura shimmering subtly as she reasserted herself. (Damn... I hate sword cultivators.)
Batu, ever the solid wall, remained outwardly stoic, but his fingers twitched as if wanting to trace the cut marks on the ground. (How does one even train their swordsmanship to this level? One wrong movement and we'd be in pieces...)
Jin Shui's serpent-like gaze flickered with a mix of admiration and wariness. He tapped his fingers against his arm, whispering to himself. "Monstrous."
And yet…
Nobu's feet touched the ground, his landing as smooth as his takeoff. His sword slid back into its sheath with a whispering click.
But his brows furrowed.
His sharp gaze flickered across the seven head disciples before stopping on the last arrival—the boy draped in a regal shoulder cape, standing at ease amidst the aftermath.
Kazel.
Nobu's fingers subtly tightened around his hilt.
There was no shock in Kazel's expression. No hesitation, no wide-eyed admiration like the others. Instead, he had watched those slashes with a keen, almost knowing gaze. His stance remained unshaken. He had seen it.
Nobu's thoughts stirred. (Was it my imagination…?)
He had made sure his slashes were too fast to track, too sudden to react to. And yet, Kazel's demeanor remained composed, as if he had traced each stroke—where it started, where it ended, where it would have gone next.
His instincts told him something was off, but before he could dwell on it, the announcer's voice cut through the air.
"A marvelous display! Let's give Mr. Nobu a round of applause!"
The crowd erupted, breaking the eerie quiet. Cheers and shouts filled the coliseum, bringing back the usual energy.
Nobu's expression softened, and he allowed a small smile before nodding to the announcer. He turned on his heel, stepping back toward his seat.
But as he walked away, he couldn't help but glance over his shoulder once more.
Kazel still stood there—unmoved.
"The game is simple—be the last man standing in your slice, and you will advance to the final rounds!" The announcer's voice boomed across the coliseum, carrying a mix of excitement and menace. "Try not to kill if you can help it, but if you're afraid to die… then step out now!"
A ripple of tension passed through the contestants. Some cracked their knuckles, others adjusted their stances, eyes darting between the opponents that now shared their section of the battlefield. The weight of the challenge settled in, but no one moved.
"Let's begin!" Wurong's deep voice echoed. He lifted a heavy wooden mallet and—
BOOM!
The gong behind him exploded with sound.
"DAMN IT!" Pao Pao jolted in his seat, hands gripping the armrests as he shot a glare at Wurong. "You could've warned me!"
"My apologies," Wurong said, though there was barely a hint of remorse in his tone.
But the moment the gong rang, it was drowned by the roar of the crowd.
Excitement surged through the coliseum like wildfire. Spectators leapt from their seats, cheering, stomping, betting slips flying through the air. This was it. The real show was about to begin.
Each prodigy turned to face their group, eyes gleaming with determination, their presence commanding.
Kazel, standing at the edge of his marked slice, turned to meet the gazes of those assigned under him. Their eyes burned—not with reverence, but with hunger. Hunger for his defeat.
A smirk tugged at his lips. "I see that you all had a little discussion behind my back?"
One of the disciples from the Rising Stone Sect stepped forward, confidence oozing from his stance. "Don't take it personally. With a temporary truce, we can take you out first." He grinned. "I'm afraid your path to proving yourself stops in the first round."
Kazel let out a short laugh—sharp and amused. "Did you really think all six sects combined could defeat me?"
His words rang through the coliseum. All the prodigies turned. Their heads snapped toward him, their curiosity piqued. Some narrowed their eyes, others frowned—how arrogant could this boy be?
The disciple who spoke took a step forward, ready to continue—
But he never got the chance.
Before anyone could blink, Kazel moved.
A blur of motion. A slip forward. A flash of steel.
The Rising Stone Sect disciple's eyes widened. A choking sound left his throat as Kazel's sword had already found its mark, the cold blade buried deep in his neck. His lips quivered, trying to form words, but all that escaped was the gurgle of blood.
Kazel held his gaze, locking eyes with his prey. He smirked. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tore the blade away.
Blood sprayed. The body collapsed.
The entire coliseum froze.
The roaring crowd went silent. Every disciple, every prodigy, even the announcer—all stood still.
Kazel exhaled, spinning his sword before resting it against his shoulder. "This stench of fear is really inviting," he murmured, eyes scanning the others.
Weh's back straightened, his muscles tensed. His disciple—one of his own—had been killed in an instant. The sharp tang of blood still lingered in the air, the corpse barely hitting the ground before Weh clenched his jaw, his hands gripping the armrest of his seat.
Rage boiled in his chest.
His lips curled as he turned sharply to the side, his voice thundering across the second level. "Noel—!"
But then—he froze.
His pupils shrunk.
Noel was already staring at him. Face to face. Eyes locked.
That usual smirk was gone. Instead, a piercing, unshaken gaze bore into him, unwavering, unflinching—challenging.
Weh could feel it. The weight of it. The unspoken declaration of war.
Noel let the silence stretch, let the tension coil tighter.
"What is it… old friend?" His voice was low, mocking, carrying just enough venom to slice.