Aaryan turned away from Devika’s unconscious form and stepped off the stage.

Silence clung to the air like a thick fog, the once-boisterous crowd frozen in disbelief.

The nobles who had scoffed at him moments ago now watched with wide eyes, their smug expressions replaced with uncertainty.

"He... he won in a single move?" someone finally whispered.

"That speed... I didn’t even see him move!"

The murmurs quickly swelled into an uproar.

"What level of Anima stage is he?"

"He must be at least Third Stage! Maybe even Fourth!"

"Nonsense!" another voice snapped. "He’s just a commoner! How could he possibly have advanced that far?"

"If he’s not at that level, then how did he do that?"

While the nobles scrambled for an explanation, another section of the crowd—one often drowned out by the arrogant voices of the elite—began murmuring as well.

"I knew it," a lean young man said, gripping his friend’s shoulder. "I told you he wasn’t normal! That wasn’t luck—that was skill!"

"Right?" another agreed, his voice hushed yet excited. "He moved like a ghost. If you blinked, you missed it!"

"Maybe… just maybe, someone like us can stand against them," a young woman whispered, watching Aaryan with cautious hope.

Not all commoners spoke up. Many knew better than to openly defy the nobility, but even among them, quiet admiration flickered like embers waiting to catch fire.

One older man shook his head, rubbing his chin. "That boy fights like someone who’s been in real battles. Not those controlled duels nobles play."

Meanwhile, not every noble was so quick to dismiss Aaryan’s victory.

A few younger nobles remained quiet, their gazes lingering on Aaryan, deep in thought. They had watched Devika fight before—her techniques were sharp, her strength undeniable.

And yet, Aaryan had ended it in an instant.

A noble youth in dark blue robes muttered, "If he’s just lucky, then why did Devika lose in one strike?"His companion, after a moment of hesitation, nodded. "There’s more to him than we thought."

Others, however, scoffed and turned their noses up.

"Hmph. Even if he’s strong, he’s still beneath us."

But the hesitation had been there.

On the elders’ platform, the Fourth Elder tapped her fingers against the wooden railing, her ink-dark tattoos pulsing faintly with energy. Her sharp gaze never left Aaryan’s retreating form.

"He doesn’t seem to have even broken through to the First Stage of Anima," she murmured, her voice laced with intrigue.

The Third Elder frowned. "That’s impossible. Even someone at the 2nd level wouldn’t be able to generate such force."

The Second Elder, arms crossed, let out a low chuckle. "You’re assuming he fights like a regular cultivator."

The Fourth Elder’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Then what is he fighting like?"

The First Elder finally opened his silver eyes, observing Aaryan closely as he walked past the defeated contestants without a hint of arrogance or pride.

"Like someone who has survived battles that should have killed him," he said, his voice calm yet carrying a weight that silenced the other elders.

For a long moment, none of them spoke.

Then, the Fourth Elder exhaled, shaking her head. "If he’s truly still at the Mortal stage... then this boy has far more potential than we thought."

Down below, Aaryan reached the contestant lineup, his expression unreadable. The others unconsciously shifted, making room for him.

Varun’s golden eyes burned with something unreadable—disdain, irritation... perhaps even the first flickers of unease.

Aaryan didn’t acknowledge him.

He had no need to.

Because the weight of the moment spoke for itself.

The arena buzzed with voices, the stunned silence finally breaking into heated discussion.

"She lost? Just like that?"

"How can this be? Devika is at the Second Stage of Anima! That strike shouldn’t have been enough to take her out!"

"I told you—there's something off about him. That wasn’t normal strength."

"He got lucky. That’s the only explanation."

"Lucky?" someone scoffed. "Then why hasn’t anyone else been that lucky?"

Among the noble spectators, scornful laughter rippled through the air.

But in the crowd’s lower sections, where the common folk stood, the whispers of admiration grew louder.

"He didn’t just win. He crushed her!"

"This is the first time I’ve seen a noble lose so utterly. Maybe… maybe the sect isn’t just for them."

A noble scoffs at Aaryan, and a commoner retorts, "If he’s so weak, then why did Devika lose in one hit?"

"Shhh!" a woman warned. "You want to get us in trouble?"

Still, a few braver souls couldn’t hold back.

A younger boy, no older than twelve, clenched his fists and grinned. "That was amazing!" he blurted out. "Brother Aaryan, you’re the best!"

Heads snapped toward him, but instead of shrinking back, the boy stood taller. His father sighed in exasperation, ruffling his hair before turning back toward the stage.

"It’s been a long time since someone gave these nobles a real reason to be afraid," the man murmured.

But not everyone saw it that way.

As debates raged, members of Varun’s group rushed onto the stage, lifting Devika's unconscious body.

One of them, a tall, broad-shouldered noble, cast a dark glare at Aaryan.

"You think this is over?" he muttered, his voice low and sharp. "Watch yourself, beggar. You won’t always get lucky."

Another noble, a girl with cold, calculating eyes, sneered. "Enjoy your little victory. You won’t get another."

Aaryan said nothing.

Words meant nothing to him.

But Varun?

Varun chuckled, stepping forward with his usual easy arrogance, yet his golden eyes gleamed with something colder.

"Impressive," he said, his tone deceptively light. "But if you make it to the final round… I’ll take care of you myself."

He smiled, but there was no humor in it. Only promise.

Before Aaryan could respond, one of the elders stepped onto the stage, raising his hand. A glowing orb appeared before him, swirling with flickering energy.

"There are three tokens within," the elder announced. "Two with matching numbers. One blank."

The crowd leaned forward, watching intently as the three remaining contestants stepped up.

Varun was the first to take a token. He turned it over, and his smirk widened. Number 1.

Yash followed, drawing his own. Number 1.

Aaryan reached in last, pulling out the final token. Blank.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then—

"Lucky again?" someone muttered.

A ripple of mocking laughter spread through the noble spectators.

"Hah! So this is how he’s getting by?"

"Luck can only take him so far."

"He’s just running from real fights!"

But this time, their laughter was not the only reaction.

"He’s already proven himself," a commoner woman muttered, shaking her head. "Do they really think his win against Devika was luck?"

"Exactly," a man beside her agreed. "They just don’t want to admit it. If a commoner beats a noble, then what does that say about them?"

The nobility’s scorn continued, but for the first time, voices in the crowd weren’t just mocking Aaryan.

Some were beginning to believe in him.

Varun let out a low chuckle. "Seems even the heavens wants me to end you in the final."

Before the taunts could grow louder, the elder’s voice cut through them like a blade.

"Enough."

The crowd fell silent.

The elder’s gaze swept over them, unreadable. "Luck… is also a form of power. All of you here are lucky. Born into wealth, into noble families. Do you think that was by your own strength?"

A hush fell over the younger nobles. Some averted their eyes. Others scowled, unwilling to acknowledge the truth.

The elder’s lips curved into a slight, knowing smile. "Had fate been different… who knows where you would be?"

The weight of his words settled over the crowd, but Varun only scoffed.

"Spare me the lecture," he muttered, stepping onto the stage. "Let’s get this over with."

Yash followed, cracking his knuckles as he faced Varun.

The referee raised his hand. "Begin!"

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The fight started evenly.

Yash was quick, his footwork sharp. He dodged Varun’s first few attacks, countering with well-placed strikes.

Then—he landed a clean punch to Varun’s jaw.

The crowd gasped.

A flash of surprise crossed Varun’s face.

Then his expression darkened.

In a blur, he attacked with vicious precision.

A knee to the stomach.

An elbow to the ribs.

A devastating palm strike that sent Yash reeling.

But Varun didn’t stop.

A brutal kick knocked Yash to the ground. Then another. And another.

The referee moved immediately, stepping between them.

"Enough!"

Varun didn’t move at first. His eyes locked onto Aaryan, his breath steady despite his anger.

Then, slowly, he stepped back.

"Winner—Varun!" the referee declared.

Varun turned, his golden gaze settling on Aaryan.

It wasn’t just a look. It was a warning. A challenge. A promise.

The crowd noticed and erupted with a clamour.

The moment the referee declared Varun the winner, murmurs spread like wildfire.

"He’s already looking at Aaryan."

"Of course. That’s his real target."

"Does he think Aaryan will even make it past him?"

"After all that luck? I doubt it."

While some helped Yash off the stage, his face twisted in pain, most eyes remained locked onto Varun and Aaryan.

A select few, mostly disciples from noble families, scoffed at Yash’s defeat. "Tch, he actually landed a hit and still lost miserably."

But the elders ignored the commotion, their expressions unreadable as they stepped onto the stage.

Their mere presence silenced the entire crowd.

Aaryan inhaled sharply as he was called forward.

As he stepped onto the stage, Varun’s stare never wavered—a sharp, unblinking pressure that Aaryan could feel even without looking directly at him.

The First Elder studied both of them, his silver eyes calm but piercing.

"Congratulations," he finally said, his voice carrying across the silent arena. "You have both overcome every challenge and proved yourselves."

A beat of silence.

Then—

The crowd erupted.

As expected, cheers filled the air for Varun.

"The rightful winner!"

"As expected of the son of the City Lord!"

"This was inevitable!"

But for Aaryan?

Jealousy.

Mockery.

Disdain.

"Overcome? Him?"

"He only won through sheer luck."

"He shouldn’t be standing there."

"If he faces Varun, his luck will finally run out."

They couldn’t openly speak against Varun—not with his powerful background—but Aaryan was different.

Weakness, in their eyes, was an unforgivable sin.

For the first time, Aaryan had felt something close to happiness when the elders congratulated him.

But as the crowd’s reaction washed over him, that feeling soured.

No.

He still wasn’t powerful enough.

If he were strong, they wouldn’t be mocking him.

If he were strong, they wouldn’t dare to look down on him.

The elder’s voice cut through the noise once more.

"The final round will begin shortly."

Aaryan’s thoughts swirled, his mind replaying the trial, the battles, the faces of those who still dismissed him as nothing.

Then—a thought struck him.

He exhaled, lowering his head in a respectful bow.

"Elders," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Before the final round begins… may I ask you to clear some of my doubts?"

The crowd stilled.

Even Varun’s expression flickered—just slightly.

For a moment, silence reigned.

The elders exchanged glances, their surprise evident.

In their presence, even the strongest cultivators tread carefully. Many of the most powerful figures in the empire would have their confidence shaken, their words measured, their thoughts cautious.

Yet, Aaryan stood there—calm, composed… and asking a question.

The crowd didn’t know how to react at first. The tension in the air was thick, their murmurs hushed.

Then, the mockery returned.

"What could a nobody like him possibly have to ask the elders?"

"He should be grateful he even made it this far!"

Aaryan remained unmoved.

The First Elder finally responded, his silver gaze unreadable. "Speak. What is it you wish to ask?"

Aaryan’s voice was steady. "What is the benefit of winning the final round?"

The arena froze.

Then—chaos.

The mockery exploded.

"HAH! Did he just ask what the benefit of winning is?!"

"He actually thinks he has a chance?"

"Maybe all that luck has gone to his head!"

Even Varun let out a scoff, arms crossed. But with the elders present, he refrained from speaking.

The elders, however, didn’t react as the crowd expected.

Instead of dismissing him, they studied him more closely.

Even now, with the entire arena mocking him, his clarity of thought remained unshaken.

The Fourth Elder was the first to respond, her gaze sharp but amused. "Naturally, the winner will be the champion of this selection. It is a prestigious title."

Aaryan nodded slightly, thinking over her words. Then, after a pause, he spoke again.

"Is there anything else?"

The mood shifted.

The other elders' expressions darkened slightly—not in anger, but curiosity.

One of them—his voice laced with a touch of sternness—spoke. "Are you… looking down on the title given by the Evernight Sect?"

The crowd went silent.

But Aaryan didn’t falter.

His expression remained calm as he met their gazes.

"I am not looking down on the title," he said evenly. "But if participation in the final round is not mandatory, and if it is only a title… then I will not participate."

Dead silence.

For the first time, even the mockery stopped.

Even Varun’s smirk vanished.

No one… had expected this.

At first—silence.

Then—chaos.

The arena erupted as if Aaryan had committed blasphemy.

"He doesn’t want to fight because he knows Varun will crush him!"

"After all that, he’s just a coward!"

The jeers grew louder, blending into a storm of ridicule. The crowd laughed, mocked, and pointed, their voices full of scorn.

Even some nobles sneered. "Tch, what a waste of an outer disciple spot."

The elders remained silent.

But it wasn’t because they were indifferent—they were shocked.

They had expected many things from this boy—but not this.

Their gazes sharpened as they turned to him, their thoughts shifting rapidly.

Then, without speaking, they began discussing—directly into each other’s minds.

"This boy… what is he thinking?"

"Don’t tell me he’s truly afraid?" one elder questioned, skepticism in his voice.

Another’s response was immediate. "No… it doesn’t feel like fear. There’s something else."

A third elder mused, "Most people in his place would fight just to prove themselves. Yet, he simply… does not care. Why?"

A brief pause.

Then—the First Elder finally spoke, his mental voice carrying absolute certainty.

"He is not afraid. Nor is he avoiding it."

The other elders listened closely.

"He simply believes a mere title isn’t enough for him to fight."

The discussion stilled.

The First Elder continued, his voice steady.

"Fighting is always dangerous. Even if he isn’t afraid, he does not see the point in an unnecessary battle."

"He doesn’t care what the crowd says. Or… perhaps he does, but he knows that even if he wins, it won’t change their opinions of him."

"It is hard to say what he truly thinks, but one thing is clear—this boy is interesting."

The other elders fell into contemplation.

Then, breaking the silence, the First Elder finally spoke aloud, his voice carrying over the entire arena.

"If you do not wish to fight, you may forfeit. But remember…" His silver gaze bore into Aaryan.

"People might think you are avoiding the fight."

Aaryan remained unshaken.

The crowd watched eagerly, waiting for him to crack.

Aaryan knew what they would say. He knew how they would mock him. But in the end, their words meant nothing. Power did not come from their approval—it came from something far greater. Something he had yet to reach.

Instead, he spoke calmly.

"People will always think something," he said. "But I will only fight when I believe it is worth it. I will not fight for others’ amusement."

The elders’ curiosity deepened.

They had seen prideful warriors, power-hungry nobles, reckless fools, and desperate dreamers.

But Aaryan?

He was none of those things.

And that… made him even more intriguing.

“You say that you don’t look down on the title given by the sect itself but your actions show the opposite” second elder tried to put some more pressure.

Aaryan remain silent. Nothing on his face.

"Are you rejecting the title because you think yourself above it, or do you believe you’ve already gained what you needed?" Third elder chipped in , adding more pressure to see if Aaryan crumbles.

Aaryan met the Third Elder’s gaze, his expression unreadable. The murmurs in the crowd had not yet died down, but he remained unaffected, his voice steady as he responded.

"I do not think myself above the title," he said, his tone neither defensive nor apologetic. "But I do not seek a title for the sake of having one. If it came with something that could aid my path forward, I would fight for it. But if it is only recognition, then I have no use for it."

He paused, letting his words settle. Then, his gaze swept over the gathered nobles, the envious stares, the mocking smirks. "No title will change how they see me," he continued, his voice quieter but no less certain. "And I do not fight to prove myself to those who have already decided what I am."

His eyes returned to the elders. "I fight when it is necessary. I fight when it matters. This—" he glanced at Varun, then back at the Third Elder, "—is neither."

As the First Elder observed Aaryan with an unreadable expression, the Fourth Elder’s sharp gaze flickered toward him.

For years, she had known him to be indifferent to most disciples, even the most talented ones. He evaluated them, guided them when needed, but never lingered. And yet—he had watched Aaryan.

Interesting.

She tilted her head slightly, her ink-dark tattoos pulsing faintly.

The other elders saw a boy rejecting the final match, a disciple with an unorthodox mindset. But the First Elder?

He sees something else.

Her lips curved just slightly, a knowing glint in her eyes.

Aaryan had drawn the attention of the one man in this sect whose interest truly mattered.

And that?

That was far more dangerous than any title.

Her voice rang out, her gaze sharp and unwavering. "Aaryan, what is your final decision?"

Before Aaryan could respond, Varun stepped forward, his golden eyes gleaming with contempt. His smirk was confident, but something in his gaze was colder than before.

Tch. I should’ve known.

He scoffed, taking another step closer, his voice dripping with ridicule. "You talk big, but in the end, you’re just a spineless coward."

His words were meant to provoke, to humiliate. But deep inside, Varun wasn’t satisfied.

This doesn’t make sense.

He had seen lucky people before—nobodies who stumbled into victories they didn’t deserve. But luck could only take someone so far. It couldn’t explain everything.

Not how he dodged Ren’s attacks without effort.Not how he defeated Devika in a single strike.Not how he never once lost control.

And now… he’s forfeiting?

Varun’s fingers twitched slightly at his side, his nails digging into his palm.

Is he really afraid? No… that doesn’t feel right.

Aaryan was calm. Too calm. He wasn’t making excuses, wasn’t trying to salvage his reputation.

Then why?

Why walk away from the final battle after coming this far?

For the first time, an unsettling thought crept into Varun’s mind—What if Aaryan truly believed fighting him wasn’t worth it?

That possibility made something burn inside him.

No. That’s impossible. He’s just putting on an act. He has to be.

Varun let out a chuckle, masking the sharp edge of irritation creeping into his thoughts.

"Did you finally realize your luck has run out?" he taunted. "Or maybe—" he laughed softly, "you just know that stepping into the ring with me would humiliate you beyond repair?"

But Aaryan only watched him silently, his expression unreadable.

Then—he spoke.

"Don't worry, Varun." Aaryan’s voice was calm, steady. "I'm sure you'll get your chance in the future."

Varun felt something cold coil in his chest—a sharp, biting sensation that he refused to name. His smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second before he forced it back into place.

What?

Aaryan turned to the elders, his voice cutting through the now-silent crowd.

"I will not participate further. I forfeit."

The arena erupted.

Mockery, laughter, outrage—every possible reaction exploded at once. But Varun barely heard any of it.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. His jaw clenched. Forfeit?

No.

This didn’t make sense.

Aaryan had endured everything so far—the ridicule, the battles, the scorn—and now he was just… walking away?

After coming this far? After standing at the edge of the final fight?

Varun's pulse pounded in his ears. This wasn’t fear.

He had seen cowards before—fighters who bent under pressure, who made excuses, who clung to whatever dignity they had left by pretending they were too good to fight.

But Aaryan… he wasn’t making excuses. He wasn’t trying to salvage his reputation. He wasn’t afraid.

Then why?

Varun's golden eyes locked onto Aaryan, searching, dissecting, trying to understand.

He had assumed that, in the end, Aaryan would reveal his limits. That when backed into a corner, he would fight desperately—just like all the other commoners who thought they could rise above their station.

But he wasn’t desperate. He wasn’t even resisting.

He was simply walking away, as if none of this mattered.

And that thought burned more than Varun wanted to admit.

Is that it? Do you think this fight isn’t even worth your time?

His breathing was steady, but his fists clenched tighter. Damn it.

For the first time, he wasn’t satisfied.

He should be enjoying this—should be laughing, mocking, basking in the fact that Aaryan had bowed out before even facing him.

And yet—

The victory felt hollow.

Because luck didn’t bring him this far.

So why was he walking away now?

What is he thinking?