Kalia's Final Fight
The air is thick with tension.
The final matches unfold across the five tournament brackets, each clash more intense than the last. The competitors who remain have fought tooth and nail to stand here, and with every strike exchanged, the future of their cultivation paths hangs in the balance.
The sect representatives observe in silence, their sharp gazes fixed upon those who still stand. Winning alone will not determine their fate.
It is about who proves themselves worthy.
Kalia steps onto the stone platform, her muscles tense, her breath measured. The bruises along her arms from her previous battles sting, but she does not waver.
Across from her stands her final opponent—Lian Xue, a prodigy from the Jin Spear Sect.
Lian Xue is tall, lean, and impossibly still. The spear in his grasp is balanced perfectly, as though it were an extension of his own body. His expression is unreadable.
Kalia clenches her fists.
She knows his reputation.
A specialist in spear combat, honed through brutal sparring sessions among the elite of his sect. He is not just skilled—he is precise.
The overseer signals the match.
And in the blink of an eye, Lian Xue moves.
The spear thrusts forward—so fast it almost vanishes from sight.
Kalia barely dodges, shifting her weight as the wind from the strike whips against her cheek. She counters with a precise strike, but Lian Xue has already moved.
He flows like water, each motion smooth, each step perfectly placed.
For the first time in the tournament, Kalia struggles to find an opening.
Lian Xue does not rush.
He does not need to.
He controls the space, keeping her at the edge of his reach, forcing her to react.
Kalia grits her teeth.
She refuses to lose like this.
She lunges forward, closing the gap in an instant—forcing Lian Xue out of his controlled stance. A feint, a shift in momentum, a well-timed strike—
She lands a solid hit to his ribs.
The moment her fist connects, the crowd erupts.
But Lian Xue does not fall.
Instead—
He smiles.
Lian Xue steps in, closing the distance before she can react.
The blunt end of his spear slams into her side.
The impact sends her skidding across the platform, her breath knocked from her lungs. Her knees buckle, and for a brief moment, she cannot stand.
The overseer raises his hand.
The match is over.
Kalia has lost.
But as she steadies herself, rising to her feet despite the pain, she notices something.
The sect elders—they are watching her.
She may not have won.
But she has been noticed.
And in this tournament, that is what truly matters.
Across the different brackets, the tournament nears its conclusion.
Kaelen, the cold strategist from a powerful clan, dominates his matches with an almost mechanical efficiency. He does not waste movements. He does not waste time. Every opponent he faces falls with brutal inevitability.Liang Ren, the arrogant young master De-Reece humiliated in Ironhold, fights with newfound desperation. He scrapes his way through the rounds, but it is clear—he is not at the level of the true competitors.
Some fights end in spectacle.
Others end in broken bodies.
And through it all, the sect representatives take note.
When the last match concludes, when the final fighters step away from the battlefield, the realization settles over the competitors.
The fights are over.
Now, the true test begins.
The sect representatives step forward, their gazes sweeping over the warriors who remain.
Their decisions will shape the futures of those who have endured.
De-Reece watches without fear.
He does not wait to be chosen.
Because no matter who approaches—he will decide his own path.
And the moment of choice is coming.
The selection grounds fall into a tense silence.
The fights have ended, and the competitors stand before the assembled sect representatives. The tournament was never just about winning—it was about proving one's worth. Strength, intelligence, adaptability, endurance—all of it has been measured.
Now, the choices will be made.
The representatives, seated on an elevated stone platform, observe the remaining competitors. Their expressions are unreadable, their gazes sharp.
One by one, they begin to speak.
Some call for disciples who have caught their attention.
Others remain silent, watching with interest but not acting just yet.
De-Reece stands at ease, not waiting—watching.
Kalia, despite her loss, stands tall, refusing to look defeated.
And across the selection grounds, the strongest competitors are being chosen.
Kaelen is called first. His sharp, calculated victories did not go unnoticed. A representative from Mount Kunlun Sect steps forward, offering him a position. He does not hesitate—he accepts.
Lian Xue, the Jin Spear Sect prodigy, is given a chance to officially join his sect. There was never any doubt.
Liang Ren, the arrogant young master De-Reece humiliated in Ironhold, stands with stiff shoulders, his expression unreadable. Though he was never the strongest, his perseverance catches the attention of a mid-tier orthodox sect. He is given a choice—but he is not given the same prestige as others.
The orthodox sects are not the only ones watching.
The representatives of the Unorthodox and Neutral factions step forward as well, offering places in their ranks.
The Tang Sect, masters of poison and hidden weapons, extends a hand to a few competitors who displayed cunning rather than brute force.
The Silent Sword Clan, known for their stealth sword techniques, selects a candidate whose precision stood out.
Even the Beast Sect, a neutral faction, chooses a few cultivators who showed a natural affinity for beast-taming.
But De-Reece is not called.
Not yet.
The murmurs begin.
His name has not been spoken, yet many eyes linger on him.
He won his bracket. He demonstrated skill, control, and absolute dominance.
And yet, no sect has claimed him.
Some representatives seem hesitant.
Because De-Reece is an anomaly.
His strength is undeniable. But his techniques? Unorthodox.
He fought like a body cultivator. Yet, his movements were too precise, too controlled. He never truly struggled.
The sects are not certain of what he is.
And that uncertainty makes them cautious.
From the shadows, a representative finally speaks.
A member of the Silent Edge Sect, a lesser-known unorthodox sect, steps forward. Their techniques emphasize precision, unpredictability, and adaptability.
And they see De-Reece as a perfect fit.
"You," the representative calls. "Step forward. You would do well among us."
There is weight in the words, but no arrogance. A genuine offer.
But before De-Reece can respond—
A second voice cuts through the crowd.
But this one is not an invitation.
It is an expectation.
A different sect—one known for its aggressive recruitment methods—speaks De-Reece's name.
"You should not waste time with weak sects," the representative scoffs. "Come where your true strength will be recognized."
It is not a question.
It is not an offer.
It is a claim.
The crowd falls silent.
Because De-Reece does not react.
He does not bow. He does not immediately answer.
Instead, he lifts his gaze—and speaks with absolute certainty.
"I am not someone to be chosen. I decide my own path."
The words send a ripple through the selection grounds.
The sect representatives who had been cautious before now take notice.
Because De-Reece has made something clear—
He will not be taken.
He will choose.
And that alone?
Makes him worth far more than they expected.