The last thing Ling Tian remembered was the orchard's ghostly trees. Then—pain. His body reforming itself on cold stone, the Fox's Paw pulsing like a second heart. Around him, the Violet Thunder Sect's banners fluttered in the dawn wind. Three days had passed. In his grip, a single peach stem, its fruit already devoured.
The roar of the crowd was a living beast, its hot breath washing over Ling Tian as he stepped onto the bloodstained arena stones. The scent of iron and sweat clung to the air, mixing with the acrid tang of activated talismans from previous matches. Across the fighting platform, Jin Feng spun his violet-edged saber with theatrical flourishes, the blade humming with the same arrogance that had once left Ling Tian coughing blood in the servant's quarters.
"Last chance to kneel, gutter rat." Jin Feng's smirk stretched wide as sect elders chuckled from their shaded pavilion. His violet robes, embroidered with silver thunderbolts, marked him as the Violet Thunder Sect's rising star.
Ling Tian rolled up his sleeves methodically, exposing the golden scales that had crept past his wrists overnight. The Nine-Heaven Dragon Art pulsed beneath his skin, a restless predator.
"Control it," he told himself. "Just enough to win. Not enough to be noticed."
The gong struck.
Jin Feng moved like lightning, his saber carving a purple arc through the space where Ling Tian's throat had been—but found only air.
Dragon Step: Silent Tread.
Ling Tian reappeared behind his opponent, close enough to smell the floral oils in Jin Feng's hair. His fingertip brushed the disciple's spine—not striking a meridian, but plucking it like a lute string.
"Thunderclap Fist—!" Jin Feng whirled, but his signature technique sputtered like a dying candle. His qi stuttered in his veins. Because Ling Tian hadn't blocked the attack.
He'd stolen it.
The crowd's cheers died mid-breath.
Feast of Memories
Jin Feng's knees hit the arena stones with a crack. His saber clattered as his muscles locked mid-strike, frozen by the afterimage of Ling Tian's touch. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he struggled to comprehend why his body wouldn't obey.
Ling Tian knelt beside him, his voice a dragon's growl layered over a servant's bitterness: "You broke three of my ribs last winter. Do you remember?"
Jin Feng's pupils dilated—not from fear, but confusion. Because he didn't remember.
And Ling Tian felt it the moment the memory tore free:
A winter night. The crunch of snow under boots. Jin Feng's heel pressing down on his chest. The snap of bone. The taste of copper and frozen earth. Then—
Gone.
The memory dissolved into golden light, absorbed by the Dragon Art. Jin Feng gasped, suddenly unsure why his saber felt unfamiliar in his grip, why his muscles refused to respond to techniques he'd practiced daily for years.
Murmurs spread through the crowd like wildfire:
"Did he just... absorb his technique?"
"That's demonic cultivation!"
"Look at his arms—those aren't normal scales!"
Ling Tian straightened, his scales burning brighter with stolen energy. "Next time," he said, loud enough for the entire sect to hear, "make your cruelty unforgettable."
Then he kicked Jin Feng out of the arena with a casual sweep of his foot. The disciple tumbled over the boundary line, landing in a heap at the feet of his shocked comrades.
Silence held for three heartbeats before the arena exploded into chaos.
The Violet Thunder Patriarch's Gaze
High in the elders' pavilion, Sect Master Mo's porcelain teacup cracked between his fingers, steaming liquid dripping onto his robes unnoticed. His eyes remained fixed on Ling Tian's scaled arms.
"That was no orthodox technique," hissed Elder Wu, his wispy beard trembling. "He's consorting with—"
"Demons?" Sect Master Mo's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Or simply inheriting what was always his by blood?"
Behind them, unnoticed in the shadows, a figure in black-and-crimson robes licked his lips. Xue Yao, the wandering cultivator who had arrived with the merchant caravan last week, traced the matching scales on his own forearm—mirroring Ling Tian's but darker, corrupted.
"Found you at last, little brother," he murmured, his voice lost in the crowd's uproar.
A junior disciple approached the elders' platform, bowing deeply. "Honored masters, the tournament physician says Jin Feng remembers nothing of his training. It's as if... as if someone scooped the knowledge from his mind."
Elder Wu's face purpled. "This is an outrage! That servant boy must be—"
"Allowed to continue," Sect Master Mo interrupted. "Unless you'd like to explain to the visiting sects why we disqualify a competitor for being too skilled?"
His gaze drifted to where the Crimson Witch sat among the honored guests, her lips curved in a knowing smile.
Qing'er Warning
Ling Tian found Qing'er waiting in the competitor's tunnel, her milky eyes tracking him despite their blindness. The scent of medicinal herbs clung to her robes—she'd been treating injured disciples again.
"You're leaking," she said bluntly.
He glanced down. Golden light seeped between his scales, pooling on the stone floor like liquid sunlight. The Dragon Art had grown harder to control since the orchard.
"It's nothing."
"Liar." She grabbed his wrist—and immediately yanked her hand back with a hiss. "You're burning through memories like kindling. What did you forget this time?"
Ling Tian opened his mouth to answer—then froze.
...What was her name again?
The realization hit like a blade to the gut: he'd lost the memory of his mother singing him to sleep. The lullaby she'd hummed every night until the massacre.
Qing'er's expression softened in a way that made his chest ache. "You don't remember asking me that same question yesterday, do you?"
A cold weight settled in Ling Tian's stomach.
She pressed something into his palm—a jade amulet on a leather cord. "Wear this. It'll slow the drain. Not stop it, but... slow it."
The amulet pulsed with a familiar energy. "Is this from the—"
"Orchard? Yes." Her blind eyes seemed to look straight through him. "Stop using the Dragon Art. Before there's nothing left of you to remember why you started this."
The Challenge
The tournament master's voice boomed across the arena:
"Final match! Ling Tian versus Xiao Yan, personal disciple of Sect Master Mo!"
The crowd erupted. Xiao Yan was everything Ling Tian wasn't—noble-born, handsome, the sect's golden child with his legendary Flame Emperor's Fist.
But as Ling Tian stepped back into the arena, Xiao Yan didn't assume his customary opening stance. Instead, he spat blood onto the stones between them—a formal challenge beyond the tournament's rules.
"I know what you are," Xiao Yan growled, his usual composure cracking. "And I won't let you drag our sect into your cursed revenge."
Ling Tian's scales flared in response to his opponent's rising qi. "Then stop me."
Xiao Yan's hands burst into azure flames. Not the violet thunder of their sect, but something older, wilder. The crowd gasped—this was no Violet Thunder technique.
From the elders' pavilion, Sect Master Mo's face went pale.
The gong struck.
Xiao Yan's fist became a meteor.
Ling Tian's hands became claws.
And high above, Xue Yao laughed like a man who'd just won a bet.