"You rely entirely on speed to mask the glaring holes in your foundation. Your footwork is sloppy. Your shoulders are tense. You telegraph your strikes a full second before you move."

"Shut up, you arrogant brat!" the senior roared, lunging forward, his twin blades glowing with wind-attribute Qi. "Twin-Cyclone Slash!"

Lu Jianheng finally uncrossed his arms. His eyes narrowed.

’He telegraphs his moves like dough rising,’ Ji’an’s voice echoed in Lu Jianheng’s mind.

Lu Jianheng flushed a faint, embarrassed red at the memory, but his body moved with instinctual, lethal precision. He didn’t draw the blade.

He stepped inside the senior’s guard, mirroring the exact, fluid pivot Lin Ji’an had used on him in the herb garden.

"Too wide," Lu Jianheng criticized harshly.

He drove the heavy, blunt end of his scabbard directly into the senior’s solar plexus. The wind Qi shattered instantly.

The senior gasped, the breath driven entirely from his lungs, and collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach.

"Match concluded! Lu Jianheng advances!"

Lu Jianheng didn’t even look at his fallen opponent. He turned on his heel, his white robes snapping sharply in the wind. He marched to the edge of the ring, facing the sidelines.

He didn’t wave like Gu Zhiwei. He stood there, his posture impeccably straight, and cast a haughty, glaring look directly at Lin Ji’an.

He raised his chin, tapping the hilt of his sword once, his eyes flashing with a defiant challenge.

’Did you see that? Flawless footwork. No spatulas required for a proper fight! His glare screamed across the distance.

Exceeding his expectations, Ji’an just popped another melon seed into her mouth, chewing slowly as she met his glare. She raised an eyebrow, then gave a slow, exaggerated nod of faint, patronizing approval.

Lu Jianheng’s ears turned brilliant crimson. He huffed loudly, turning away and marching down the stairs, looking incredibly annoyed but secretly, deeply satisfied.

In Ring Three, the atmosphere was completely different. It felt less like a martial arts tournament and more like a high-stakes, exclusive gala.

Wen Shiru, the Merchant Prince, was currently evading a barrage of heavy earth-spikes launched by his opponent.

He wasn’t dodging with frantic leaps; he was gliding through like an elegant snake. Every step he took was measured, leaving faint, golden footprints of Qi on the black stone.

"Senior Brother Zhao," Wen Shiru purred, snapping his golden fan open to casually deflect a stray shard of rock.

His smile was elegant, polite, and thoroughly condescending. "Your output of Earth Qi is impressive, but terribly inefficient. You are burning through your reserves with zero return on investment."

"I’ll show you a return then!" Senior Brother Zhao bellowed, slamming both hands onto the arena floor to summon a massive, shifting quicksand trap beneath Wen Shiru’s feet.

Wen Shiru chuckled softly as he flicked his wrist.

Three ancient, glowing golden coins flew from his sleeve. They didn’t strike his opponent; rather, they embedded themselves into the arena floor at specific, geometric points around the quicksand.

"The Dao of Commerce dictates that all energy must balance," Wen Shiru lectured smoothly, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "Array: Golden Binding Ledger."

The three coins erupted with blinding golden light. Threads of dense, metallic Qi shot out, weaving together into an intricate, unbreakable net that bypassed the earth magic entirely and wrapped tightly around Senior Brother Zhao, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him three feet off the ground.

Zhao struggled wildly, but the golden threads only tightened, sapping his Qi to fuel the array.

"I submit! I submit!" Zhao choked out.

"Match concluded! Wen Shiru advances!"

Wen Shiru smiled, flicking his fan closed. The golden coins flew back into his sleeve, releasing his opponent.

As he walked toward the exit stairs, the female disciples in the stands shrieked in admiration. Wen Shiru paused at the edge of the ring.

He offered a charming, practiced bow to the cheering crowd, ensuring they got a good view of his handsome profile.

Then, he turned his head specifically toward Ji’an’s bench. He flashed a brilliant, conspiratorial smile, and with the utmost, shameless elegance, he winked at her.

Ji’an nearly choked on a melon seed. She coughed, beating her chest, staring at the Merchant Prince in disbelief.

’Is he flirting with me?!’ Ji’an panicked, her eyes wide. ’I’m dressed as a guy! He thinks I’m a guy! Why is this damned capitalist winking at me?! Does he want to charge me interest on the air I’m breathing?!’

.

.

.

The first three matches had ended in record time. The crowd was buzzing, with their adrenaline running high.

But as the gong sounded for the fourth and final match of the first block, the cheering abruptly died down. A heavy, palpable tension descended over the Jade Terrace.

"Ring Four," the Head Elder announced, his voice carrying a note of solemnity. "Xie Wangchen versus Mo Wuchen. Participants, please enter the ring."

From the western stairs, Mo Wuchen ascended.

Mo Wuchen leaned heavily on the handrail, coughing delicately into his white silk handkerchief.

His willow-green robes fluttered in the wind, making him look incredibly fragile. His amber eyes were wide and filled with a tragic, helpless reluctance.

The crowd, especially the senior sisters who had just tended to him in the plaza, cooed in sympathy.

"He’s still sick from the Lower Realm!" "It’s so unfair! He has to fight the Ice Demon while he’s unwell!" "Brother Mo, just surrender! Don’t let him hurt you!"

Mo Wuchen reached the center of the ring. He looked across the black stone, offering a weak, trembling, utterly coquettish smile to the empty space in front of him.

"Senior Brother Xie," Wuchen’s voice was a soft, melodic whisper that carried perfectly to the edges of the arena. "I know my cultivation is lacking. I know my body is currently frail. I only ask that you..."

Mo Wuchen’s words died in his throat.

The temperature in the arena didn’t just drop; it plummeted to an apocalyptic, soul-freezing absolute zero.