The elder’s declaration crashed through the hall like a decree of heaven itself.
"All who endure this trial," he continued, his eyes gleaming like cold stars, "will earn the right to ascend to Soaring Dragon Peak. There lies the true test—the Spear Ancestor’s legacy. Fail here, and you will never set foot upon it."
A storm of emotions broke out among the disciples. Some clenched their fists so tightly that blood welled at their knuckles. Others paled, already feeling defeat before a single strike was exchanged. And yet, in the eyes of a few—the chosen few—burned a fire that could not be dimmed.
The elder’s palm swept through the air, and from the tiles below rose a formation—an ancient dueling stage of carved jade, its surface etched with runes of suppression. The arena pulsed faintly, sealing the space so that stray qi could not ravage the spectators.
"Step forward in pairs," the elder commanded, his voice like thunder muffled by stone. "Show me your spear. Show me your will."
The first two names were called.
Two disciples leapt onto the stage—one a youth with sharp eyes and crackling lightning affinity, the other a steady-faced girl whose spear shimmered with a faint, earthen glow. They saluted briefly before their spears clashed with a sound that split the silence.
Sparks flew. Lightning met stone. Qi roared in tides.
The girl’s defenses held for a time, her spear sweeping in grounded arcs, but the boy’s lightning was relentless, each strike sharper, faster, more domineering. Her guard broke in less than ten exchanges, her spear wrenched from her hand and sent clattering to the ground.
The elder’s voice was cold, final."Defeat. Step down."
The girl staggered, bowed, and left the stage. The victor stood tall, pride swelling in his chest—though he dared not glance toward Tian Lei’s calm figure.
One by one, more disciples were called. Some fought fiercely, exchanging dozens of blows before one faltered. Others were crushed within heartbeats, their spear arts shattered like glass before iron.
With every match, the air in the hall grew heavier. The weak fell aside. The strong advanced.
But through it all, two names remained unspoken.
Tian Lei.Long Aotian.
Their turns had not yet come.
And so, as sweat dripped, as spears clashed, as cries of victory and despair filled the air, every heart waited—for the duels that would decide not just the phase, but perhaps the destiny of the legacy itself.
The stage barely cooled before the next two disciples vaulted onto it.
A boy with veins of flame running through his arms, eyes alight with reckless fury. Opposite him, a thin, pale youth whose aura shimmered like flowing water.
Their clash was chaos made art. Fire roared in sweeping arcs, the boy’s spear igniting the very air, while the water-wielder danced between waves, redirecting heat into mist that veiled the stage. Steam hissed, vision blurred, and for a moment it seemed evenly matched.
But fire devours faster than water defends. With a roar, the flame-bearer broke through, a blazing thrust sending his opponent staggering out of bounds. The elder’s voice was curt:
"Victory. Step aside."
The flame youth withdrew, chest heaving, his pride burning hotter than his qi.
Another pair followed.
This time—a clash of contrasts. One wielded thunder, his movements a storm of unrestrained force, while the other, a girl cloaked in faint golden light, fought with calm precision. Every time his spear struck like lightning, hers rose like dawn, deflecting with a radiance that illuminated the hall.
The duel stretched long. Sparks of thunder clashed with beams of light, and for a time neither yielded. Gasps rippled among the crowd as the golden girl forced her way through, her radiant arcs cleaving the storm. With a final, decisive strike, she shattered his defense and sent him sprawling.
"Victory," the elder intoned, his gaze briefly softening as he regarded her.
The hall was alive now—cheers muted by awe, envy sharp in the air.
Match after match followed. Spears of stone clashed with vines of wood; blades of wind split against shields of earth. Some duels ended swiftly, one intent overwhelming another in mere heartbeats. Others dragged on, fierce battles where sweat mingled with blood before a victor emerged.
Yet no matter how dazzling, no matter how fierce—the crowd’s eyes always drifted back.
To Tian Lei, who sat with calm detachment, his spear resting across his knees.
And to Long Aotian, his aura subdued but sharp, like a blade still in its sheath.
The matches cycled on, but the hall’s rhythm had shifted. Victories were cheered, defeats pitied, yet none held the weight to eclipse the two names left untouched. Every duel became, in truth, a countdown.
A disciple of earth battled one of wind, their clash a spectacle of crushing weight against elusive speed. The stage cracked, tiles shattered, but in the end the wind disciple slipped through, striking like a falcon to claim victory.
The crowd stirred, but eyes flicked sideways again. Always sideways—toward Tian Lei’s still form, and the quiet storm in Long Aotian’s stance.
Another fight: wood against fire. Vines lashed, flames roared, and the smell of char filled the hall. The fire-wielder won, but his triumph was brief, barely noted before attention bled back to the waiting prodigies.
The elder said nothing. He did not rush, did not name the inevitable yet. He let the tension ferment, let the disciples’ nerves stretch thin, until the silence between duels was nearly unbearable.
Even the victors of earlier matches felt their pride dim under the shadow of what loomed. Their triumphs, once sweet, now tasted hollow.
At last, after yet another clash ended in a weary stalemate, the elder’s gaze swept the hall. His voice dropped, carrying like iron through the chamber.
"Enough delay. The time for games is past."
A ripple ran through the disciples. Backs straightened. Breaths caught.
The elder’s hand rose, and his words cut the air like a blade:
The chamber erupted in whispers, excitement sharpening into anticipation.
The spear prodigy moved with quiet certainty, his steps unhurried, his aura pressing down like a storm contained in a vessel. His eyes did not wander. They did not seek Tian Lei, not yet. Instead, they locked on the stage—claiming it as his own before his spear had even moved.
The elder’s second word followed, just as heavy.
"Your opponent—step forward."