Chapter 38
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Chapter 38: The First Match
The martial arena fell utterly silent. Everyone held their breath, their breathing nearly halting.
“For the first round of the New Outer Disciples’ competition, East and West Halls will draw lots separately. Starting from the second round, remaining disciples will be shuffled and redraw until a final winner emerges,” Elder Lan’s voice echoed coldly across the plaza.
“This year’s format really differs. Before, each hall sent four disciples to the top eight before mixing. Now, shuffling fifty-plus fighters in the second round? Many hallmates will clash. Plenty of novices might perish today.”
“Elder Lan said combat stops once someone surrenders. Most will only get injured, not killed.”
“Surrendering isn’t always easy, junior. You’re too naive.”
Whispers spread, especially among older disciples who knew what awaited.
“Begin!” Elder Lan’s command rang out. He flicked his wrist, sending down streaks of white light and shadow that landed precisely in every New Outer Disciple’s palm.
Jade tablets!
Each carved from white jade bore numbers 1 to 62. Every disciple from both halls clutched one.
124 participants—62 per hall—would face same-numbered rivals. Only 62 would advance.
Ye Yun studied his “7” tablet, eyeing the West Hall group for his opponent.
“A weakling like you doesn’t deserve Number One. Hand it over—take mine instead!”
As others focused on their tablets, Duan Chenfeng’s voice barked. He gripped a West Hall disciple’s collar, slamming his own tablet against the trembling youth’s chest.
“I-I can’t decide this! Ask the elders!”
“You think elders bother with trifles?” Duan Chenfeng shoved him aside. The disciple seethed silently.
New disciples glanced up at the elders, expecting punishment for such audacity.
Elder Lan hovered above, ignoring the scuffle. “Fight order: lowest numbers first.”
Duan Chenfeng swooped onto Platform One like a raptor. “East Hall’s Number One! Come die quickly!”
An East Hall youth surged forward, face flushed with rage.
A hand clamped his shoulder. Qu Yiping’s voice murmured, “Duan Chenfeng’s cultivation eclipses yours. The cultivation path isn’t just about strength—it’s who outlives others.”
“Brother Qu…” The youth turned, anger fading.
“Survival matters most.” Qu Yiping’s tone dripped sincerity.
The youth nodded, leaping onto the platform with less grace but steady skill.
Ye Yun overheard, sneering inwardly. Qu Yiping wasn’t being kind—this was pure manipulation.
“Choose!” Duan Chenfeng roared. “Kneel and surrender, or become a corpse!”
The boy’s face flushed red again, his eyes burning with rage. Just as he was about to erupt, he abruptly steadied himself.
“Brother Duan, I ask for your guidance.”
Duan Chenfeng’s brow twitched in irritation. “How tedious.”
Before the words faded, he stepped forward like a bolt of lightning, appearing instantly before the boy. His palm struck out.
The boy gasped, shocked by Duan Chenfeng’s impossible speed. In desperation, he channeled spiritual power into his right palm and met the attack.
BOOM!
The moment their palms collided, an overwhelming force blasted through the boy’s arm, hurling him backward through the air.
Now he understood the chasm between them.
“I yield!”
The words sprang from his lips without struggle. His body crashed onto the platform an instant later.
Duan Chenfeng’s follow-up punch froze mid-air. He clasped his hands behind his back, glaring down at the fallen boy. “Should’ve crawled away when warned. Wasting my time.” He leapt off the platform and swaggered back to the West Hall ranks, chin raised.
West Hall disciples scrambled to clear his path.
Arrogant? Yes. But none could deny his right to be. What other West Hall disciple could casually slap away a peer who’d survived the Hall of Refining the Heart’s trial?
“Quicken your pace!” Duan Chenfeng snapped, flicking open a folding fan. “Drive those East Hall fools into the dirt.”
Surrounding new disciples wore expressions of muted disgust, biting back protests.
The number seven glowed on Ye Yun’s jade tablet. With eight platforms total, he should’ve competed alongside Duan Chenfeng. But Duan Chenfeng’s victory came too swiftly – his opponent defeated before Ye Yun even reached Platform Seven.
A West Hall disciple already stood waiting on the seventh platform. When Ye Yun landed before him, the boy’s eyes betrayed reluctant resignation.
“Brother Ye, your guidance please.”
He drew a subtle arc with his hands, stance formal.
Ye Yun studied him calmly. “Begin.”
Comparison revealed stark contrasts. Where Duan Chenfeng had been brutal, Ye Yun’s composed demeanor seemed almost kind.
“This technique,” the disciple blurted suddenly, “it’s a true Celestial Technique – Fiery Cloud Flame Hand. Extremely dangerous. Be warned.” He even offered a grateful nod.
Ye Yun’s gaze sharpened at the unexpected warning. He inclined his head. “My thanks. I’ll take care.”
The West Hall disciple’s expression smoothed into blank focus as spiritual power stirred within him. Most new disciples only learned basic cultivation techniques and crude combat skills. Celestial Techniques meant noble lineage.
Ye Yun stood motionless but ready, his own spiritual power circulating.
The disciple’s palms blazed crimson, flames licking between fingers. Heat waves rolled outward, intense enough to soften metal.
True Celestial Techniques required the Qi refining stage to unleash fully – when spiritual power could be projected beyond the body. Even this incomplete version dwarfed ordinary disciples’ capabilities.
WHOOSH!
Fire-wreathed hands surged forward, trailing scorching winds as they lunged at Ye Yun.
