Clouds pressed low against the sky, thick and bruised with coming rain. Though it was only mid-afternoon, the light had dimmed to a dusky gray, casting the arena in muted tones. The air hung damp and cold, soaking through fabric and bone alike. Even the flags barely fluttered now, heavy with moisture.

  Yet the crowd was burning—lit not by awe, but by outrage, thrill, the sick hunger for a spectacle.

  Murmurs hissed like steam from a boiling pot. Excitement, disbelief, resentment—all tangled into one volatile current. And at the centre, like a spark held too close to dry straw, stood Veylan.

  The four victors stepped onto the outer edge of the central stage. They did not approach—but their presence crowded the space all the same. Their gazes were locked on the boy in white, unblinking.

  To them, this wasn’t boldness. It was provocation.

  Their blood boiled.

  Lei Arin’s face twitched. His jaw clenched tight as his hand curled at his side. He was the grandson of the Second Elder, Lei Shuyan—someone born into weight and prestige. He had no fondness for Veylan. But he always made sure not to cause trouble either, why? Because one did not make waves near Rhen lightly.

  But now?

  That restraint cracked.

  “Don’t get too full of yourself, Veylan!” Lei Arin barked, his voice cutting through the chill air. “You think you’re the only one who can win in one move?”

  Lian Ruo chuckled lightly. His smile was soft, his tone even sweeter. “It seems this little brother doesn’t hold us in much regard,” he said, voice honeyed—yet his eyes were sharp as glass.

  Meng Tieshou, taller than the others, rolled his shoulders with a dry crack. “I don’t mind,” he said, a slow grin stretching across his face. “I was hoping for a real fight.”

  Veylan didn’t respond.

  He wasn’t looking at them. He’d felled three in three breaths. Now the last four waited. Like wolves waiting for a lion to blink. Na?ve.

  His eyes were on the elders. On the ones who would decide what this moment became.

  Varian’s mouth opened, breath pulled in for a reprimand—but before the words could form, Elder Ming’s voice cut cleanly through the silence.

  “Very well,” he said. “Let the final match be decided all at once. Saves time.”

  A ripple passed through the crowd. Whispers turned sharp. Eyes widened.

  Everyone understood: it wouldn’t be a free-for-all. Not really.

  Not after that declaration.

  It would be four versus one.

  Some of the eliminated Lei clan youths sighed, already mourning their futures—and now silently rejoicing on Veylan digging his own grave. Varian clenched his fist, wishing the stage would crack open and swallow Veylan whole.

  But not all.

  A few watched in silence—like Lei Shouren, who for ten long years had never once spoken to his discarded grandson. And now, he stared with a strange mix of distance and something else. Not warmth, but perhaps... weight.

  Director Lian and Chief Meng exchanged no words, but their gazes lingered. The rise of one like Veylan could shift more than status. It could shift power.

  And seated beneath the darkening sky, Xuanlan said nothing. But the stone beneath him was warm from where his hand pressed tight.

  He hated Veylan—not because he’d won.

  But because no one was looking at him.

  Elder Fenhai, robed in white, stepped forward. His voice, calm but weighty, rang out over the arena.

  “Final round. Begin.”

  It was as if a wire snapped.

  The four moved instantly—no hesitation, no need for words. Their coordination was too smooth to be coincidence. Whether pride or strategy drove them, the result was the same: a full assault on the lone boy at the centre.

  But Veylan didn’t budge.

  Then—he moved. The damp stone hissed beneath his step.

  His feet slid like smoke across the damp stone. His speed was shocking—his body light, his momentum sharp, refined. Lei Arin’s palm struck where he had just been, slicing through air. Meng Tieshou’s massive arms swung wide, but found nothing. Veylan weaved and ducked—not retreating, but slicing through their formation like water through cracked stone.

  Then his fist found Tieshou’s gut.

  A dull thump echoed, followed by a wheezing grunt. Tieshou stumbled back ten paces, boots dragging stone, before he dropped to one knee—blood dribbling from his lip. He looked up, grinned.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!”

  And then he charged again.

  Veylan’s expression barely shifted. This wasn’t like his earlier matches. His opponents were strong—stronger than before. Tieshou’s skin was tough like cured leather. Lian Ruo’s movements were sharp and unpredictable. And still, Veylan didn’t doubt. Not for a second.

  They hadn’t trained like he had. They hadn’t bled like he had.

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  Another step. Another opening.

  Crack.

  Yun Kel’s body jerked from the impact, then crumpled silently. The arena attendants rushed in and whisked him away. Veylan had already turned toward Lei Arin.

  His chest rose once—sharply, then settled. The cold air bit at his lungs.

  But his gaze never wavered.

  A kick like a coiled spring released.

  Arin’s body was flung back like a ragdoll, crashing into the stage edge with a sickening roll. His limbs sprawled like broken branches. The Second Elder, Lei Shuyan, was already there, robes fluttering as he knelt beside his grandson. His eyes blazed with fury as he stared at Veylan—but the boy never looked back.

  Now, only three remained: Veylan, Lian Ruo, and Meng Tieshou.

  Ruo smirked, though his lips trembled slightly. “No wonder little brother has such a big mouth.”

  Veylan didn’t answer.

  Ruo attacked—kicks, feints, sweeping blows, all fast—but Veylan danced through them with calm precision. Then a low sweep caught Ruo mid-step. His feet left the ground.

  But before Veylan could press the advantage—

  A shadow loomed behind him.

  Tieshou. Arms raised. Coming down like a hammer.

  Veylan twisted. One, two, three, four—his fists crashed into Tieshou’s face like driven nails. The giant swayed, teetered... and fell. The stage shuddered as his body hit.

  Silence.

  Even the wind had forgotten how to breathe.

  Lian Ruo stood frozen. His fists lowered.

  “I admit defeat,” he said quietly.

  The storm broke in the crowd. Cheers, gasps, disbelief. But Veylan didn’t soak in their awe. Not outwardly.

  But something inside tilted—toward the warmth, the rhythm of praise. Like slipping back into a skin he’d almost forgotten.

  A tremor passed through Veylan’s shoulder. Small. Controlled.

  He straightened anyway. Before turning to look back at her.

  The applause continued—scattered at first, hesitant as if waiting for permission. But among them, one pair of hands clapped with sharp, deliberate rhythm. Liora. Her eyes shimmered, though her face remained composed. She didn’t cheer, not with the elders and outsiders watching—but the pride in her claps was unmistakable, striking through the din like flint on stone.

  Rhen exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His fingers had curled at his sides the entire match, but now they loosened. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He nodded once, as if confirming something to himself.

  Director Lian and Chief Meng—both caught between surprise and recalculation—glanced at each other. The storm-dark sky above seemed to press lower with weight as if echoing the shift that had just taken place.

  Chief Meng was the first to move. He strode toward Meng Tieshou’s unconscious form and knelt, checking his pulse with a practiced hand. “Still breathing,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. Then he looked toward Veylan—no smile, but a firm nod. “Formidable,” he said.

  Director Lian composed himself next, adjusting his robes and stepping toward Varian. “Congratulations, Chief Varian. With such talent in your branch, the future of the Lei Clan shines bright indeed.”

  Lei Shouren, unsure to feel pride or guilt, dipped his head in acknowledgement. “We are honoured by your praise. But Lian Ruo’s performance was commendable as well—truly worthy of the Pavilion name.”

  More murmurs rose from the stands.

  “Four against one… and he still won…”

  “What level is he? No ten-year-old should move like that…”

  “I thought only Ruo and Tieshou were worth watching—who is this Veylan?” said someone who didn’t belong to Lei clan.

  Elder Ming stroked his beard slowly, eyes unreadable. Finally, he gave a slow nod. “Better than I anticipated… much better. Hmph. I’ll send someone to take him to Jinling. Let the boy be tested where the real blades are sharpened.”

  That silenced the circle around him.

  Even the guards accompanying him on this journey straightened slightly. One of them narrowed his eyes at Veylan. Another gave a low whistle under his breath.

  A murmur rippled through the crowd.

  “To Jinling? That’s where the main Lei Clan resides…”

  “If he goes there—he won’t just rise. He’ll soar.”

  Xuanlan’s hand tightened at his side, knuckles whitening until the veins stood out like cords. His gaze bore into Veylan’s back, cold and growing colder by the second.

  “The results of the ceremonial trial are clear,” Elder Fenhai said, his voice steady. “From this day forward, Veylan of the Lei Clan shall be acknowledged as the foremost talent born of the Lei Clan among this generation.”

  The crowd erupted—cheers, applause, disbelief mingled in a single crashing wave.

  But then—SNORT.

  It echoed too sharply to be ignored. A derisive sound that cut through applause like a blade.

  “Hmph… number one prodigy of the Lei Clan?” Xuanlan’s voice was clear, loud, and venomous. He stepped forward, his smile a mockery. “You dare utter such nonsense in front of me?”

  The storm above finally cracked.

  The sudden silence felt like the breath before a storm.

  Clouds hung lower now, heavy and sullen, turning the sky a bruised grey. A damp chill crept through the air, clinging to robes and raising gooseflesh, yet the heat from the crowd had not lessened. Whispers died mid-sentence. Even the sound of shifting feet quieted as all eyes turned to the centre of the arena.

  Xuanlan stood tall, his pale face flushed with anger, his chest heaving faintly beneath his ornate robes. His fingers were clenched so tightly his knuckles gleamed bone-white.

  Across from him, Elder Fenhai blinked—once, twice—brows knitting in confusion. “Young master,” he began, his voice measured, “what I said… obviously did not include you. How could anyone compare to a bright sun like yourself?”

  A flicker of amusement passed through a few listeners—Fenhai’s tone walked the edge between sincerity and survival. But his words, beneath the surface flattery, were true. He had only meant those present here at Greenveil, not those of the main clan. Everyone knew that.

  Except no one dared explain it to the thundercloud that was Xuanlan.

  Elder Ming’s jaw tensed. He took a slow breath, visibly resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Of all people, it had to be this brat. Back in the main clan, Xuanlan’s arrogance was legendary—despite his middling talent, a result of being spoiled with spirit pills and rare medicines from birth. Even then, his cultivation barely kept pace with expectations. But it didn’t matter. His grandfather doted on him. That was enough.

  Ming’s lips parted to calm the boy. “Xuanlan, calm dow—”

  “You think I’m a fool?!” Xuanlan’s voice cracked like a whip through the air. “You think I can’t understand what’s being said around me?!”

  The crowd flinched.

  On the stage, Veylan’s expression didn’t change. He stood still, breath slow but measured, chest rising and falling beneath his slightly scuffed robes. His limbs were relaxed, but his eyes—those dark, watchful eyes—tracked every movement. He didn’t speak. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t yet know what to say. In his previous life, praise came with trophies and laughter—not knives hidden in words.

  He had no experience with this kind of game. Not in this life. And in his last, such things were left to his mother. His world had been forged in violence, not politics.

  But there were others who understood. Rhen was already on his feet, moving quickly, Liora trailing close behind. He stepped forward and bowed deeply to Elder Ming. “Senior, this… this is all a misunderstanding. We—we meant no offense. It’s—”

  Xuanlan's voice sliced through his plea.

  “Misunderstanding?!” His eyes burned. “Your little branch clan really thinks too highly of itself! First you claim one of yours is above us—and now you call it a misunderstanding? What gall!”

  Rhen's lips parted again, but before a word could form, Xuanlan raised his hand.

  “Touch your tongue again, and I’ll have your teeth pulled,” he snapped.

  The eight guards, from Main Lei Clan, didn’t know how to react. Their silence, up until now, had been the silence of swords unsheathed. Now, they looked to Elder Ming.

  Ming said nothing.

  That silence was permission enough.

  In perfect synchronicity, the guards stepped forward, their hands resting on their weapons, ready—not to kill, but to make a point.

  Rhen froze, fists tightening at his side.

  Xuanlan’s gaze swung back to the stage.

  “Very well,” he said, descending the first step. Each movement was deliberate, practiced, performative. “You say it’s all a misunderstanding. Fine. I’m no bully.”

  He reached the platform, the faint thud of his boots against the wood echoing in the hush.

  “But your words have already pitted this rat against the heavens.”

  His eyes locked with Veylan’s.

  “To settle this…” His hand flexed at his side. “…we fight.”

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  Destiny Reckoning. It’s set in the same universe, and you definitely don’t want to miss it, because the stories will eventually crossover.