The Ironwood Grove was less a grove and more a scar in the mountain's side—a vast, shallow basin where the hardy grey trees grew in rings like stone-age spectators. The fighting area was a flat circle of packed earth and gravel at the center, reinforced by decades of embedded Jingdao energy that made it harder than granite. Around it, on natural stone ledges and between the twisted trunks, cultivators gathered. Most were First Wheel, their auras like scattered coals. A few, the older spectators or the rare serious contender, held the steadier, more pervasive warmth of the Second Wheel. The air hummed with low conversation and the crackle of nervous energy.
Baili's gaze swept over the crowd, his pale eyes faintly luminescent with a soft, silver sheen—the telltale sign of Mastery Eyes, a Shidow manipulation that gathered ambient energy at the cornea, allowing him to perceive the depth and flow of others' cultivation. It was a basic but effective scout's trick.
"Mostly chaff," he stated, the silver light fading from his irises. "The serious players already have their medallions. These are the leftovers. The hopefuls."
Chubbs, hovering at his elbow like an eager scribe, nodded vigorously. "Of course! They're just stones waiting to be stepped on by a true mountain, my lord. Why, your presence alone probably dims their own inner light with shame! I'd wager half of them will forfeit if they draw your name."
A snort, loud and derisive, came from their right. A young man with a broad chest and thick arms, his hair cut short like a military recruit, pushed off from the trunk he'd been leaning against. He had the calloused hands and sun-weathered skin of someone who'd done hard labor, likely in the deep stone quarries.
"Noble spoons," the young man said, his voice a rough baritone. He looked directly at Lorel, ignoring Baili as if he were a piece of furniture. "You can always tell 'em. They think a fancy eye-trick and a clean robe makes them masters of the Wheel. They've never had to reinforce their fists just to break enough ore to eat." He puffed out his chest, clearly aiming his worldly wisdom at her. "Real strength isn't given. It's dug out. Pound by pound."
Lorel looked back at him, her face a calm, impassive mask. She said nothing. Her silence wasn't timid; it was dismissive. It was the quiet of a deep lake regarding a pebble.
The burly youth's face flushed. He'd expected awe, or at least attention. Her indifference was worse than scorn. "Think you're too good to listen? Fine. You'll see. Names Rong. Remember it when you're watching from the sidelines." He stomped away to join a group of similarly rugged-looking youths.
On the sidelines, Lorel became acutely aware of a different pressure. It wasn't the weight of auras, but the weight of stares. Dozens of eyes, male and female, lingered on her. On the elegant line of her neck, the way her travelling robes—worn though they were—still draped with a grace foreign to this gritty place, on the unusual twilight shade of her eyes. In the past, she'd been part of the scenery. Gen had never looked at her like that, like she was something to be looked at. The attention was a cold prickle on her skin, making her want to fold in on herself.
Chubbs noticed her subtle shift, the way her shoulders tightened. His own round face darkened with a scowl. He stepped slightly in front of her, facing the gawking crowd.
"What's the matter?" he barked, his melodic voice turning sharp. "Haven't you lot ever seen a goddess walk the earth before? She'll melt your eyes right out of your sockets if you stare too long! And that's before she beats the wheel dust out of you! Show some respect, you milling herd of gaping goats!"
A wave of snickers and angry mutters rippled through the nearby onlookers. Lorel's composure broke into pure, flustered horror. She grabbed the back of Chubbs's tunic and yanked him backward with a strength that surprised them both.
"Chubbs! Silence!" she hissed, her cheeks burning. "Do you want them to rush us?"
Chubbs stumbled, his indignant fury switching to chagrin. "I was just… establishing a perimeter of respect…"
Before he could dig the hole deeper, a new presence silenced the grove. A man in deep green robes descended slowly from a higher ledge, not walking, but floating down on a gentle, controlled current of Shidow-manipulated air. He landed soundlessly in the center of the arena. A Third Wheel cultivator. His authority was a quiet, heavy thing.
"Rules are simple," his voice carried without effort, cutting the cold air. "Five victories to qualify. Combat ends at yield, unconsciousness, or expulsion from the ring. Lethal force is discouraged but prohibited" He paused, letting the unspoken 'but not forbidden' hang. "First match. Ning. Rong. To the ring."
The polite boy in simple hemp robes, Ning, walked forward with a serene, unhurried gait. Opposite him, Rong cracked his knuckles, a faint, bronze-tinged light shimmering over his skin—Jingdao reinforcement, solid and practical, the kind that hardened fists for breaking stone.
Ning didn't adopt a stance. He didn't summon any light. He simply stood, hands at his sides, watching Rong with the mild curiosity of someone observing a weather pattern.
"Arrogant pup!" Rong bellowed. He charged, his reinforced feet pounding the hardened earth with dull, thunderous thuds that sent vibrations through the ground but left no mark. He was a boulder in motion, a fist pulled back to deliver a shattering blow.
Ning waited until the last possible moment. Then he simply sidestepped. It wasn't a flashy move. It was minimal, precise. As Rong's momentum carried him past, Ning's left hand came up in a short, sharp arc. A basic reinforced palm strike to the floating ribs.
THWUMP.
The sound was wet, heavy. All the air left Rong's lungs in a pained groan. He stumbled, clutching his side.
Enraged, Rong spun, ignoring the pain. His fists became a blur—the Lightning Fist technique, a series of reinforced jabs so fast they seemed to multiply. The air crackled with the sound of ripping cloth.
Ning didn't block. He took a single, graceful step back. Then another. His back was to the empty air at the arena's edge. Just as he seemed about to step out, the space behind his heel solidified with a visible ripple. He'd used Jingdao to reinforce a brief, solid platform of air itself. He walked backwards up three invisible steps, letting the flurry of fists pass harmlessly beneath him, then stepped down onto the arena floor ten feet away, landing without a sound.
The Grove erupted. Gasps, cheers, shouts of disbelief. "He reinforced the air!" "Did you see that? He walked on it!"
Baili, who had been watching with detached boredom, now stood perfectly still. A faint, icy spark of interest lit in his eyes. He had never faced someone who used the First Wheel with such… effortless creativity.
"He's strong," Lorel murmured, the words escaping her before she could stop them. To get a reaction from Baili, even a silent one, meant this 'Ning' was different. The cold stone of pressure in her stomach grew heavier.
Nearby, Juxian was hopping from foot to foot, his jar bouncing, his own hands weaving through the air as he mimed Ning's retreat. "Yes! Like a leaf on a rising steam! Not fighting the river, using it! Wonderful!" People edged away from his exuberant spectacle.
Chubbs, however, was squinting, his head cocked. He'd stopped his flattery and was now in analysis mode. "Huh," he grunted, mostly to himself but loud enough for Lorel to hear. "Clever. Pretty. But… his Jingdao's thin. Did you see the shimmer on Rong? Thick as clay. On Ning? Barely a dew-mist. That air-step took finesse, not power." He scratched his chin. "If that's not his main Wheel… and he's hiding his base… what's he really holding back?"
In the ring, Rong, humiliated and winded, glared at Ning's impassive face. The fight wasn't over, but the first stone had been thrown. And it had changed the weight in the air for everyone watching.