Chapter Eighteen: The Grand Tournament Begins
While the disciples below were eagerly chatting amongst themselves, the elders and stewards were doing much the same. Flanking the central square platform were two rows of arched, suspended viewing stands—much more lavish than those of the disciples, to say the least. There were several hundred seats in all, each occupied by cultivators of the Golden Core and Nascent Soul stages. At the very highest row sat the seven Peak Masters, including Sect Master Nangong Kang.
“This year’s batch of disciples is quite impressive as a whole,” one remarked.
“Indeed. Though there’s none of the usual flag-waving and shouting, the sheer presence on display surpasses past years by a wide margin.”
“Your precious disciple has reached the ninth rank now, hasn’t he? I’m envious.”
“What’s there to be envious of? It’ll still be no small feat for him to make it into the top hundred this time.”
“Nangong, what’s up with your grandson? Didn’t he get enough sleep? Why show up with such dark circles under his eyes?”
“He was making a fuss early this morning, claiming a stomachache so he couldn’t compete. I had to give him a bit of a lesson.”
“Well, don’t just talk about mine. Isn’t your own little one, who always thinks he’s the handsomest in the world, sitting there now looking like he’s lost the will to live?!”
...
“By the way, Old Five, where’s your little chubby? Haven’t seen him around these past few days.”
“That’s right—he can’t go a day without causing some trouble. How is it that on such an important day, he’s nowhere to be seen?”
Old Five assumed an air of calm, squinting his eyes and letting his gaze sweep challengingly over his old friends, shaking his head but offering no reply. His smug expression made the others grind their teeth in frustration. Were it not for the crowd of disciples present, they would have given him a good thrashing then and there.
The sun climbed higher, and the chimes of a bell resounded through the air. Sect Master Nangong Kang rose, spreading his hands in a gesture that instantly brought silence to the entire arena.
“This grand competition differs from those of previous years; its importance needs no further elaboration,” he declared. “All participating disciples, remember: it is acceptable to do your utmost in battle, but never to endanger lives. Victory or defeat shall be decided when one party yields or loses consciousness.”
“All disciples will draw lots according to their junior, intermediate, or advanced rank numbers to determine their matches. Those who draw the top ten slots may challenge any higher-ranked senior for placement, but only once.”
“The number assigned to you at registration is your competition number…”
All the contestants, even those seasoned disciples who had participated two or three times before, listened intently.
After the time it took to drink a cup of tea, the Sect Master suddenly formed a seal with his hands, and the central platform—stretching thousands of meters—broke apart into over a hundred smaller dueling platforms, each marked with a unique number.
“The Internal and External Disciples’ Grand Competition of the Misty Sect now officially begins!”
With the Sect Master’s final proclamation, many disciples in the audience could be seen trembling, whether in their hands or legs; beads of cold sweat dotted more than a few foreheads and palms. Some were overexcited, others a touch nervous—emotions ran high.
No sooner had the Sect Master resumed his seat than a hundred or more elders and stewards leapt down, each taking their place as a judge at the appropriate dueling platform. Above each stage appeared a floating screen, which would randomly display two matching numbers from the same rank tier. The corresponding disciples’ number tags would light up, and those disciples would be automatically transported to their assigned arena.
Tension gripped the crowd as they saw their fellow disciples—friends and rivals alike—vanishing in the blink of an eye, reappearing on various dueling stages.
At the command to begin, the transported pairs on each platform bowed, nodded, or saluted with clasped fists, then launched into their contests. All at once, fists flew and bodies clashed; swords and blades sparked with every strike. On some stages, one-sided matches saw a disciple gritting his teeth through a fierce beating without yielding; on others, the combatants immediately unleashed their most powerful techniques in a furious exchange.
The disciples in the audience stared wide-eyed, their gazes darting to the arenas that piqued their interest. The spectacle was so dazzling, they could only wish for a few more pairs of eyes with which to take it all in.