The atmosphere over at the Sacred Sword Pavilion had been somewhat off ever since Gong Yuan stepped down from the arena.
A few elders sat together whispering amongst themselves. The one sitting in the middle looked sullen for a while, but in the end, he did not slam the table again.
After Gong Yuan returned to his seat, he leaned his broadsword against the edge of the table, sat down, and took a sip of water without saying anything else.
His expression could not be considered dejected.
A disciple beside him leaned in and asked in a low voice, “Are you alright, Senior Brother?” Gong Yuan put down his water bladder and shook his head. “Her fighting style is incredibly flexible. A loss is a loss; it's nothing to be ashamed of.”
The members of the Sacred Sword Pavilion did not say anything more, but everyone knew that Gong Yuan's strength would have allowed him to go head-to-head with Song Mu. It was simply bad luck that he had run into an opponent whose fighting style completely defied convention in his very first match.
When Lin Zhiyue returned to Tiance Palace's resting area, Cen Xi'er was still on the arena.
Her opponent was a male disciple of the Piaoyin Sect who held a seven-stringed zither. With every pluck of the strings, solid waves of sound materialized and surged toward her.
Cen Xi'er's Gold Spiritual Root followed a fierce and powerful path, but the music cultivators of the Piaoyin Sect excelled at overcoming hardness with softness. The sound of the zither drifted close and far, occasionally carrying a subtle shift in tone that made one's mind waver.
Cen Xi'er fought with him on the arena for half an hour. Her rhythm was disrupted by the zither several times, but she forced herself to regain her footing. Finally, seizing the gap when the opponent was changing strings, she closed in with her sword and forced him off the stage.
The sweat on her brow was not yet dry when she stepped down from the arena. Walking toward Lin Zhiyue, her first words were, “If you run into anyone from the Piaoyin Sect, seal your hearing before you fight. Their music is too grueling.” Lin Zhiyue nodded and kept those words in mind.
The atmosphere in the spectator stands was also gradually changing.
The disciples of other sects were looking at the match schedules and the completed matches on the spiritual light water mirrors. As their gazes shifted between the names of those who had yet to fight, some could not help but linger for a brief moment before quickly looking away.
A few people sat in a corner discussing the upcoming matchups in hushed tones. One of them lowered his voice and said, “As long as I don't draw that Lin Zhiyue from Tiance Palace. At least, not before making the top ten.”
The person beside him chimed in, “What exactly is her deal? It's like she's proficient in every weapon. And her speed is incredibly fast—is it some kind of cultivation technique?”
The other person shook his head, his tone carrying a helpless resignation that suggested he had already given up trying to figure it out. “Who knows.”
Lin Zhiyue sat in the resting area and readjusted her bowstring. Only after confirming there was no wear and tear did she put it away.
She looked up at the match schedule being updated on the main platform. Her name was already confirmed to have advanced to the next round; her specific opponent would only be revealed once this entire round was concluded.
She recalled the bow and arrow into her Wardrobe. In her mind, she pictured all her outfits, wondering which set would be useful for the upcoming matches.
The draw results for the next round were posted before noon. Beside Lin Zhiyue's name was written the name of Luohong Valley. Her opponent was a disciple she did not recognize, wearing the gray-blue disciple robes of Luohong Valley. He had a slender build and held a pair of short blades in his hands.
Lin Zhiyue did not bother with any probing on the arena. The moment her long sword was unsheathed, a freezing chill began to spread. Wanting a swift resolution, she bypassed any fancy starting stances and directly activated the fourth form of the Thousand Mountains Cold Prism Sword Art—“Cold Mist Thousand Blades.”
In an instant, a sky full of frost and mist materialized out of thin air. The trajectory of her sword cutting through the air was so fast that it left only afterimages.
Every single strike of hers was terrifyingly precise. Although her blows were not heavy, her frequency was extremely rapid—four or five clashes in a single breath.
By the fourth block, the Luohong Valley disciple's twin blades were clearly forced half an inch off course by the continuous, biting cold. By the fifth block, his wrist trembled, and his defense opened up even wider. By the sixth, accompanied by a crisp metallic clang, one of his short blades finally flew out of his hand, rolling halfway across the arena before barely stopping at the edge.
He looked down at his empty right hand, then at the tip of the sword that was still steadily descending before him, and fell silent for a moment.
Then, he swiftly sheathed his remaining short blade, cupped his fists solemnly toward Lin Zhiyue, and calmly conceded the match.
Someone in the spectator stands murmured that the disciple from Luohong Valley was also unlucky to have run into Lin Zhiyue of all people.
The person beside him did not reply, but his gaze remained fixed on the arena, as if wondering how many blocks he could have managed under the Cold Mist Thousand Blades.
“What kind of cultivation technique is this? To think it's so powerful,” someone finally broke the silence, unable to suppress the awe in their voice, even subconsciously swallowing hard.
“The technique is powerful, but the person is even more formidable,” another person took over the conversation, his voice dropping slightly. “Haven't you noticed? Every single one of her blades hit its mark. This is an area-of-effect killing move. When ordinary people use it, the blades fly wildly all over the sky, yet she can control such an indiscriminate barrage of blades to such a precise degree, hitting exactly where she wants... This kind of control over spiritual energy is truly rare.”
The list of the top ten was officially posted around dusk.
Lin Zhiyue's name was listed first, followed in order by Song Mu, Chu Zhixun, the senior sister of the Piaoyin Sect, Lin Tangxi of the Biluo Immortal Sect, Cen Xi'er, Tang Wenjing of Luohong Valley, Cui Yu'er of the Qingling Sect, Shen Hanxi of the Biluo Immortal Sect, and Gong Ke of the Sacred Sword Pavilion—who seemed to be Gong Yuan's younger brother.
When the list was posted, the crowd in the plaza gathered several layers deep.
Someone read out the ten names one by one. Lin Zhiyue also stood on the outer edge of the crowd, looking at the list for a moment. Her gaze swept from her own name all the way to the bottom, pausing briefly on Gong Ke's name before moving away.
Cen Xi'er squeezed out of the crowd and nodded to Lin Zhiyue.
Chu Zhixun stood a few paces away, leaning against a pillar and staring at the list, lost in thought.
Xiao Yuan stood even further away, quietly folding his arms. His luck had been rather poor; he had drawn Song Mu in the second round. Song Mu's swordplay was superb and highly threatening.
After night fell, the lanterns throughout Wanxian City began to light up one after another.
The matches would not resume until the day after tomorrow, leaving a one-day rest period in between.
Lin Zhiyue returned to her residence, drew her Azure Scale Sword from its sheath to inspect its edge, and sheathed it again after confirming there were no chips or scratches.
She sat for a while, then stood up and took a few paces around the courtyard.
Yuetuan was not by her side. Before setting off, she had entrusted him to Liu Fengyao. By now, he was probably curled up in some corner, snoozing with his tail tucked.
She looked up at the darkening sky in the distance for a moment, then turned back into her room and closed the door.
The lantern beneath the corridor still swayed gently in the wind, its glow spreading a quiet warmth across the ground like a thin blanket draping over the entire courtyard.
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