The next announcement rolled across the tournament grounds, calling for Zhang's presence in the arena. The older boy pushed himself up, dusting off his robes as he turned to his friends.
"I'll be back in a minute," he declared, his gaze sharp and focused.
Ying tilted his head, considering Zhang's calm expression. His lips twisted into a cheeky grin, "Sure, just remember Zhang, don't go taking a nap in the middle of the battlefield like Jin."
A ripple of laughter passed through the trio. Zhang shook his head in amusement, acknowledging the jest with a smirk. "Don't worry, I plan on leaving the dramatics to Jin."
The arena thrummed with anticipation as Zhang and the younger participant squared off. The opponent was a stout youngster, perhaps no older than thirteen, a fiery determination blazing in his eyes. This would not be a battle of matched powers, but rather, a display of practiced skill and technique.
With a respectful bow to his opponent, Zhang got into his stance, his aura humming in the quiet before the storm. The younger practitioner, a lad named Luo, nervously stepped forward. His technique was simplistic, and undeveloped—powerful blasts of raw Qi that shot towards Zhang, unrefined and wide. Each blast missed its mark by considerable distance, yet Zhang moved with careful precision, sidestepping each blow with an almost dance-like grace.
Zhang didn't retaliate, instead choosing to display a measured calm. He shifted, dodged, and wove around Luo's attacks, allowing the boy to exhaust himself. The spectators watched as Zhang evaded blow after blow, his movements not just avoiding the blasts, but subtly guiding Luo, teaching him about positioning, timing, and control.
After a few minutes, Luo's attacks began to slow. He panted, his small body already taxed by the exertion. He staggered forward, attempting one last desperate blast, only for his legs to wobble beneath him.
Then Zhang moved.
With the swiftness of a rushing stream, he closed the gap, his hand reaching out to lightly tap Luo's forehead. It was a gesture more than a blow, a clear indicator that had this been a real fight, Luo would have been defeated.
The crowd was silent for a beat before a wave of applause erupted. Zhang had won without landing a single blow. His display of technique and patience stood as a lesson for all the young cultivators present. The older cultivator extended his hand to the younger one, helping him up with a friendly smile.
As the applause continued, Zhang turned to the crowd and offered a respectful bow, his face impassive, yet acknowledging the praise. The young boy Luo, despite the defeat, held his head high, gratitude shining in his eyes as he bowed deeply to Zhang. The older cultivator gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder before turning to leave the arena.
The announcer's voice boomed out once again, echoing around the packed tournament grounds, "Victory to Zhang Wei! A lesson in skill and patience!"
The crowd erupted into cheers, echoing the sentiment, as Zhang calmly exited the arena, his demeanor steady as ever. As he approached the stands where Jin and Ying waited, there was an air of satisfaction around him. He'd not only secured a victory but taught a valuable lesson to a promising young cultivator. The future of their craft was in the hands of these young ones, and today, he had played a small part in shaping it.
Zhang made his way over to where his friends were eagerly waiting. Jin clapped him on the back, grinning from ear to ear, while Ying gave him a knowing nod, unable to suppress his own grin.
"Smoothly done, Zhang," Jin said. "Looked more like a dance than a battle!"
A dull roar filled the tournament grounds, signaling the commencement of the next round. But for Jin, the world outside was slowly tuning out, his focus turning inwards. He began to analyze his physical state, feeling out the depths of his weariness.
With each round designated to last 15 minutes, he calculated he had about four hours before his next fight. It wasn't a lot of time, and the reality of his situation began to set in - he couldn't afford to execute any more of his newly derived functions for his next battle.
A sense of trepidation curled in his stomach, but he forcefully tamped it down, focusing instead on the sluggish flow of his energy. As a practitioner, he knew his limits, and he had pushed himself hard in his fight against Xue Fang. Now he was paying the price.
His mind wandered back to the plan he had shared last night, the pull-push technique. But the wave of exhaustion that had washed over him after sending the cat flying was still fresh in his mind. His energy had drained more than he'd expected, too quickly, too steeply. A sobering thought.
"I just need to take it easy," he muttered to himself, trying to inject some optimism into his thoughts. His next opponent remained a mystery. Jin could only hope they weren't going to be as formidable as he feared. He slumped back in his seat, closing his eyes as he let the noise of the tournament wash over him, a sense of resigned determination settling over him
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A sudden nudge jerked Jin from his introspective state. He looked up to see Ying's expression tightened in a scowl.
"Look, it's Feng," Ying muttered, his eyes fixed on a figure entering the arena. There was an air of arrogance radiating off him, like an invisible shield, repelling and attracting attention in equal measure.
The announcer's booming voice echoed through the tournament grounds, breaking through the hum of the audience. "Ladies and Gentlemen, next up is a match you've all been waiting for! The prodigy from the prestigious Crimson Lotus Sect, Feng Huo!" A wave of applause echoed around the grounds. "Versus our very own Li Hu, the Mountain Fist!"
Feng offered his opponent a disdainful sneer, completely ignoring the extended hand of the less known combatant. As the bell tolled, a signal unleashing the whirlwind of battle, Feng surged forward. His steps were fluid, his movements almost a dance, an elegance that defied the lethal potency inherent in his strikes. Each stride seemed a study in controlled strength, the type of martial prowess only attainable after years of tireless refinement.
Feng’s target, Li Hu, had barely time to register the encroaching danger. His stance was firm, hands clenched tight and ready, eyes wide with a mix of apprehension and excitement. But nothing could prepare him for the swift onslaught that Feng represented.
A palm strike, seemingly unassuming, was suddenly everything in Li Hu's world. It came with the grace of a swooping hawk, the power of a breaking wave. Launched with a perfect twist of Feng's core, it crossed the space between them faster than a falcon's dive.
Li Hu tried to raise his guard, his own technique - the Mountain Fist - ready to meet the attack. But Feng’s strike was like a venomous serpent, too swift, too precise. It slipped past Li's defenses with an eerie ease, landing squarely on his chest.
The impact echoed across the grounds, a thunderclap in a clear sky. Li Hu was sent sprawling, skidding across the sandy surface of the arena, a marionette with its strings suddenly cut. His breath escaped him in a gasping rush, eyes wide in shock and pain, unable to rise again.
Ten seconds later as Li Hu was still laying on the ground, the referee quickly announced, "Feng Huo is victorious!" The declaration came less than thirty seconds after the start of the match. Feng turned away from his downed opponent without a second glance, walking off with a smirk etched onto his features.
A hushed silence filled the crowd, a stark contrast to the previous uproar. Every practitioner in the audience felt the dread and anticipation settling in their bones – Feng Mian was the one to beat.
Next came a pair of fighters who walked the middle path of talent. Each had their share of skill and discipline, but none boasted a singular ability that could turn the tide of the match on its head. Their battle was a contest of fundamentals, a dance of punches, blocks, and kicks that was both grueling and unyielding. It was the kind of match that reminded the crowd that sheer will and perseverance often were just as impressive as any flashy technique.
Following their drawn-out battle, two more fighters took to the stage. They were unknown to most, their names stirring no waves of recognition amongst the crowd. They were the dark horses, the wild cards, the ones people overlooked, making their clash one that was filled with an air of mystery.
The crowd watched as these two unknowns waged their silent war, neither giving an inch as their energies clashed and wove around each other in a beautiful, deadly ballet.
But it was Qi Ming's turn that had the crowd on their feet. A fighter of considerable skill, Qi Ming was known for his unique style that relied heavily on his crafted devices. He was a scriptweaver, a fusion of martial artist and craftsman, and his battles were always a spectacle to behold.
As he stepped onto the arena, the crowd watched in awe as he unclasped a series of small devices from his belt. Each device was a marvel, crafted with an artisan's touch and an engineer's mind.
When Qi Ming's opponent was announced, a collective gasp swept through the crowd. The figure that stepped forth was but a boy, his face barely kissed by the first hints of adolescence. The sight of the young competitor against the seasoned and uniquely talented Qi Ming sparked an array of emotions within the crowd. Some were awed by the young one's bravery, while others grimaced at the perceived mismatch.
Qi Ming, for his part, studied his opponent with a thoughtful expression. His gaze then dropped to the various devices at his belt. The crowd held their breath in anticipation. Then, Qi Ming's hand moved, selecting a small, innocuous-looking object.
With a flick of his wrist, Qi Ming sent the device flying, its trajectory calculated and precise. As it hit the ground before the young boy, a puff of smoke billowed forth, followed by an eruption of colorful streamers and a high-pitched whistling sound.
The crowd stared, open-mouthed, at the spectacle before them. The boy, startled by the sudden explosion of sound and color, instinctively dropped his guard, covering his ears and shutting his eyes tight. Seizing the moment, Qi Ming lunged forward and with a gentle tap to the boy's shoulder, sent a soft current of energy through him, causing him to lose balance and fall out of the boundary.
As Qi Ming was announced the victor, the crowd erupted into a mix of laughter and applause. The device, it turned out, wasn't an offensive weapon, but a simple distraction. A firework of sorts, one that Qi Ming had used to teach a gentle, yet impactful lesson about the unexpected nature of battles to the young practitioner.
"And now," the announcer's resonant voice echoed throughout the tournament grounds, "we have Ying, a country lad with no notable backing against a local, Jian Zhong, known for his formidable strength. This ought to be an interesting match-up!"
A cheer erupted from one corner of the spectators, louder than the rest. Ying rose from his seat, flashing a grin at his friends. His eyes shone with both anxiety and excitement, as he nodded at Zhang, Bao, Han, Lei, and Jin. This was his moment, his first real test. He was ready.
"Good luck, brother!" Zhang called out, clapping his hands on Ying's shoulder before he stepped away. A brief smile curled on Zhang's lips – a rarity.
Han and Lei roared their support, their voices a tandem of brotherly encouragement. "Give 'em hell, Ying!"
Bao, Ling's steady and quiet boyfriend, raised a hand in a supportive gesture. Even in his quietness, his faith in Ying was apparent.
And Jin, still recovering, managed to muster a cheer. "Knock them out, Ying! But not with your looks!"
Laughter echoed in their little circle, Ying's nervousness easing at the camaraderie. With one last look at his friends, he strode forward, ready to face whatever came his way. His family, his friends, were behind him.