Flame Patriarch Lei Weiyuan’s expression turned curious, his gaze shifting to the disciples that had convened around a lightly elevated platform. White lines had been painted along the perimeter of the makeshift arena, clearly demarcating the confines within which the duel could permissibly take place. The spectators wore sheepish expressions on their faces instead of dejected or conflicted ones, their attention seemingly captivated by the two disciples that stood in the center of the arena.

“As you wish, Grand Patriarch,” Lei Weiyuan nodded, and the two cultivators gently took to the sky. Only a few moments later the two powerful cultivators hovered over the Sparring Stage, the tension in the atmosphere spiking as the wary disciples slowly angled their sight upward, none daring to directly meet Yao Shen’s thoughtful brown eyes.

The smile on Yao Shen’s face grew slightly as his eyes fell on the two combatants, long having scanned them with his divine sense. The color drained from their faces when they found the terrifying Soul Emperor’s gaze locked on to them, body lightly trembling as they gave the Flame Patriarch beseeching looks, wondering how they had offended Yao Shen.

Yao Shen’s hand moved, and the disciples immediately flinched. A burnished, metallic spear was withdrawn from his spatial ring.

“Do not be afraid, children,” Yao Shen’s serene voice echoed out, as he balanced the spear in his cupped hands; in a clearly noncombative posture. “I was merely intrigued by your duel and wished to add to the wager.”

The two disciples immediately sighed out in relief, inadvertently exchanging glances with one another. Surprise was reflected upon their faces, for neither had expected such an outcome.

Of course, Yao Shen was not truly interested in seeing two Qi-Formation disciples spar, a duel at that level was no different than play-fighting in his eyes. Instead, he was intrigued in the disciples themselves and what they represented. On the left, was the first among them to recover his composure, a young boy that could not be over fifteen, perhaps sixteen years of age. His sword glinted under the afternoon sun, its brilliant sharpness accentuated under the golden rays of light. His crimson robes bore an insignia that his foe did not, the strokes of ink spelling out the surname ‘Cui’. If there were any doubt remaining, the hushed whispers of the spectators had spoken of a ‘Young Master’, whom upon many a young disciple had wagered part of their meagre wealth upon.

It was unsurprising that even entertainment in the Sacred Flame Palace seemed to revolve around combat, and whilst gambling was not a virtue of the Righteous Path; the Sect administration was wise to allow the disciples atleast some outlet to blow off steam.

Opposing him, was an older opponent; easily two years elder to the Cui Family’s young master. His weapon of choice was a scimitar, one that had clearly seen heavy use. It’s edge, while not dull, paled in comparison to his adversaries’ and its curvature already evincing a light warp.

Yao Shen lightly flicked the spear in his hand, causing it to land just outside the bounds of the sparring stage, digging into the soft earth.

“That is a peak foundation establishment level artifact, a reward for the victor from my side,” Yao Shen’s proclamation caused a buzz of excitement to run through the crowd, some giving the spear covetous glances while others eyed the arena with building anticipation, slightly less intimidated by Yao Shen than they were earlier.

Yao Shen’s gaze shifted to a Guardian, who seemed baffled by the sequence of events. He sent a message to him via his Divine Sense, commanding him to commence the duel.

The Guardian nodded, seemingly to no one in particular, tightening his grip upon the mallet that was held in his right hand before striking a large beast skin drum.

A powerful reverbation echoed out as the mallet struck the drum’s center; the sound generated by the impact to easily deafen a mortal on the spot. A few seconds passed, before the drum was struck again, and this time the spectators joined in, stomping their feet in unison with the drumbeat. Each subsequent strike that followed was marginally faster than the last, the tempo rising with every passing breath.

Amidst the din, a bead of sweat trickled down young master Cui’s forehead. His grip on his sword unconsciously tightened and the cultivator found that his pulse was racing, swayed along with the rising tempo of the drumbeats. Not once had his gaze fallen upon Yao Shen’s wager, the spear artifact, for the Cui Family did not lack foundation establishment level artifacts. However, his rapid, shallow breaths indicated that he faced a different kind of pressure, a burden that his foe was all but oblivious to.

For the one presiding over his duel was not a Core Formation master, nor was he a Nascent Soul grandmaster. He was a Soul Emperor, and in that moment it did not matter if Yao Shen was a former enemy of the Sacred Flame Palace. It was an honor to have his duel witnessed by Yao Shen, but it was not the thought of earning Yao Shen’s favor that drove him. The very reputation of the Cui Family hanged in the lurch, a damocles sword that hung over his head. Victory would be rewarded, but defeat? As a member of the legacy families that govern the Sacred Flame Palace, defeat to an outer sect disciple that had been a mortal not too long ago was not an acceptable outcome.

“You will win,” His Great-Grandfather’s calm voice sounded out in his mind, the absolute certainty in his tone immediately easing the boy’s expression. His Great-Grandfather, a Nascent Soul Elder, had not promised him a great reward for his victory and neither had he offered last-minute guidance to prevent him from losing. It was only three, brief words, yet that was all he needed to hear.

For he was Longtian Cui and greatness was not demanded from him. It was expected.

Opposing him, his foe, an outer disciple who went by the name Zhengwei, found his gaze flickering between young master Cui and the spear that was only separated from him by a dozen meters.

Though he was not immune to the uncertainty bubbling in his gut, the beating of the drum was also met with a growing anticipation. Today might have been a dark day in the history of the Sacred Flame Palace, but for Zhengwei; the sun seemed to shine a little brighter, it’s radiance finally reaching the forgotten corners of the world. To him, it did not particularly matter who ruled the Sacred Flame— for whilst he might share a sect with the legacy families, they remained worlds apart. Everything he owned, he had earned, unlike the pompous young master that had drawn a blade against him.

The propaganda of the Sacred Flame Palace had not infected him, for it had been only a few years since he had arrived at the sect. Indeed, while he had shared naive dreams of becoming an unrivalled cultivator that stood upon the peak of the world, that had soon been washed away by the ground reality of life in the outer sect. The blade he wielded was won from another, after a hard fought duel. The scimitar technique he employed was something he had cobbled together himself, pieced by borrowing from the common sword techniques the other disciples employed— for the instructors seemed content to do the bare minimum, trusting the wheat to separate itself from the chaff. Outer sect disciples were not worthy to receive individual instruction, and most were lucky, even grateful, to receive a few pointers. His success had been met with treachery, from his own brothers and sisters. Once mortals, now cultivators, a group of outer sect disciple attempted to gang up on him, jealous of his rapid progression— that day, Zhengwei had realized that he could trust no one in the wretched continent that Ionea was. He had subdued them at the cost of a broken rib, dishing back twice the punishment he himself had taken— and from then on, none had dared to cross him.

Just like today, he would subdue the Young Master of the Cui Family, and make them realize that he, Zhengwei the nameless, an orphan, a once mortal, was worthy of their attention. The spear glinting in the corner of his vision was a boon that had literally fallen from the skies, and if he won, he would enter the sights of the strongest cultivator in the Azlak Plains.

It was at that moment that the drumming reached its crescendo, the two fighters locking sights as their muscles tensed up.