The announcement came without warning.
Red lights bloomed across every corridor of the Academy. Student bands vibrated. Screens blinked to life in unison, and a single glyph pulsed in the center of each one:
TOURNAMENT INITIATED CORE COMPETENCY TRIAL – "EXTRACTION ORDER"
The hallways flooded with sound—cheers, groans, the hum of suppressed excitement. Everyone knew what it meant.
Not simulated. Not ranked on efficiency.
This was for display.
And blood.
Fang Yuan stood near one of the projection terminals as the list of matches began to populate.
He wasn't watching.
But Nian'er found him fast.
"You're in."
"I didn't sign anything," he said.
"Doesn't matter. The system flags anomalies. Xu Ran sponsors a few wildcard entries every season. People the academy 'wants to observe.'"
Fang Yuan looked at the terminal.
There it was.
ROUND ONE: Fang Min vs. Diao Cheng (Rank 12, Core Tier: Hardened Platinum)
Nian'er cursed under her breath. "Diao Cheng's not just strong—he's a known extractor. Doesn't knock opponents out. Doesn't go for the Core."
Fang Yuan raised an eyebrow.
"Then what?"
"He takes the spirit root first."
Silence.
Then Fang Yuan said, "So he leaves his enemies alive."
"Worse than dead," she muttered. "They can't ever cultivate again. Just… emptiness. Core-crippled."
He turned from the screen.
"I assume surrender isn't an option."
She gave him a look. "It's an invitation to prove your place. Declining is the same as admitting you don't belong. And you only get to do that once."
Fang Yuan exhaled through his nose. Calm.
"What about kills?"
She shrugged. "Discouraged. But not illegal. The crowd loves a death. That's the worst part."
He looked at his hands.
He had avoided killing in the simulation.
He had walked through violence without joining it.
But this time… they were going to make him fight.
The arena was built like a coliseum—only colder.
Steel walls curved inward to trap sound. Dozens of screens hovered above, each showing a different angle. Spectators filled the upper balconies: students, faculty, and corporate sponsors. Most wore visors that fed them real-time Core resonance stats.
Everything about the space screamed performance.
Fang Yuan stepped into the center, calm and composed, his simple Academy robes fluttering slightly in the artificial wind.
Across from him, a figure emerged through a fog gate—massive, grinning, shirtless beneath a flex-armor vest.
Diao Cheng.
Tattoos of fractured Cores were burned across his arms like victory marks. His eyes were sharp—not wild, not careless. The smile he wore was measured, mechanical.
He was a butcher—but one who knew anatomy.
As he walked, he cracked his neck and raised a hand in mock greeting.
"You don't look like much," he called across the field.
Fang Yuan didn't reply.
A deep voice echoed across the arena—digitally amplified.
"ROUND ONE – BEGIN"
"RULES: FIRST TO REMOVE A CORE WINS. KILLS ARE NOT PENALIZED."
Diao rolled his shoulders.
"Good. Saves me the paperwork."
Then he moved.
Fast.
No flashy buildup. No theatrics. His feet struck the ground once, and then he was in front of Fang Yuan—blade already drawn, sweeping horizontally with the precision of someone who knew how to cut through ribs.
Fang Yuan stepped back just far enough to avoid the arc.
Not dodging. Measuring.
The moment the blade passed, he struck—not with his fists, but with his palm, rotating upward toward Diao's elbow.
" Silent Bloom – Tendon Disruption."
The strike landed.
A quiet pop echoed through the joint.
Diao hissed, pulling back, arm slightly limp now. Not broken. Just untrustworthy.
His grin widened.
"That's how you want to play it?"
He dropped the blade and reached for Fang Yuan barehanded, Qi surging into his fingers. Each nail glowed red—designed to pierce not flesh, but spiritual pathways.
He wasn't trying to kill.
He was aiming straight for Fang Yuan's Core line.
Fang Yuan moved with minimal effort—his entire body flowing like water against the pressure.
Every time Diao struck, he redirected.
Every grab turned into imbalance.
The crowd began to murmur.
Diao growled.
He finally caught Fang Yuan's robe—just for a heartbeat—and channeled his extraction technique, a spiraling drill of Qi meant to force a Core out by rupturing the spiritual wall around it.
But there was no resistance.
No Core barrier.
Just… space.
Emptiness.
Diao's technique flickered.
Then backfired.
A golden pulse erupted outward—blinding but silent.
Diao staggered, stumbling back three steps, coughing.
Fang Yuan walked toward him slowly.
Then lifted one finger.
"Leave," he said.
Diao spat blood. "What—?"
"Before I stop holding back."
It wasn't said with arrogance.
It was said with truth.
And Diao Cheng—extractor, ranked predator, and fan favorite—walked away.
Forfeit.
Silence.
Then the crowd erupted—not in cheers. In confusion.
Above the arena, Xu Ran stood beside a senior instructor. Neither clapped.
But the instructor leaned in.
"You were wrong," he muttered. "He's not here to rise through our system."
Xu Ran's gaze remained on the field.
"I know."
didn't take long for the murmurs to start.
By the end of the day, Fang Yuan's match had been replayed two million times across internal feeds. Most students watched it to mock Diao Cheng's surrender. Others rewound it—frame by frame—to study Fang Yuan's movements.
They found no registered technique.
No known form.
No borrowed signature.
Just flow.
Quiet. Controlled. Unfamiliar.
In a school where dominance meant devouring your opponent's soul, he'd let one go. Not because he couldn't win—but because he already had.
And that made people nervous.
In the mess hall, two upper-rank students whispered over trays of synth-rice.
"He didn't even absorb the Core."
"Maybe he couldn't."
"Maybe he didn't need to."
In the observation dorms, students replayed the moment Diao Cheng backed down, again and again.
In the training hall, Nian'er fielded questions from four different teams—each wanting to know how long she'd known "Fang Min" and what he really was.
She ignored them all.
She didn't like the look in their eyes.
Not awe. Not respect.
Opportunity.
Someone would test him again.
And soon.
---
Fang Yuan sat in a garden made of light—digital trees, artificial mist, flickering blossoms formed from code. The air smelled too clean.
He didn't meditate.
He listened.
The system was cracking around him—not from pressure, but from doubt.
That was the first step.
Footsteps approached. He didn't turn.
"Are you really from the Shadow Sector?" came a voice—soft, flat, genderless.
A figure stood just behind him. Thin frame. White uniform. Long hair pulled back in a regulation tie. Their Core band was blank—no display, no ranking.
Fang Yuan said nothing.
The figure sat beside him without invitation.
"You move like someone who used to believe something."
That earned a glance.
They weren't mocking him. Just curious.
"I'm Lei Qing," the figure said. "I'm not in the rankings. I opted out."
"You can do that?"
Lei Qing smiled faintly. "Only if no one notices you."
They looked ahead at the empty trees.
"I watched your match. You didn't play by the rules. But you didn't break them either."
Fang Yuan waited.
"I used to think cultivation was about freedom," Lei said quietly. "But here, everything's quantized. Packaged. Sold. Ranked."
They turned to him.
"Do you think power means taking from others?"
Fang Yuan finally spoke.
"No. Power means having the choice not to."
Lei Qing smiled again. But this time… something shifted behind their eyes.
"You're going to make enemies," they said.
"I already have."
"Good," Lei replied. "Then you won't be surprised when one tries to kill you in your sleep."
They stood and walked away without another word.
Fang Yuan watched them go.
For the first time since entering the Academy, he had no idea whose side someone was on.
But he knew The cracks were spreading.
Security drills began the next morning.
Faculty claimed it was routine.
It wasn't.
Students were pulled from class mid-lecture. Core bands were re-scanned. Dorms were searched. Instructors quietly interviewed anyone who had spoken with Fang Yuan in the past forty-eight hours.
They never questioned him directly.
But they didn't need to.
They were watching everyone else.
Nian'er felt the shift immediately.
First, her access was throttled. Then her scheduled sparring session was suddenly canceled without explanation. Messages she sent took longer to deliver. One of her bunkmates "accidentally" knocked her Core stabilizer off the charger overnight.
Minor things.
But together, they spoke clearly.
You're on a list now.
She didn't flinch.
She sharpened her blades.
And she waited.
---
It happened during training rotation.
Her assigned group was redirected to the old hollow rings—a less-used area known for having no medical field dampeners.
Normally off-limits for standard duels.
But today, someone made an exception.
Three students waited when she arrived.
Two from her year. One upperclassman—ranked, armored, smiling like he'd already been paid.
She knew their names.
Didn't care.
"What's the excuse?" she asked.
The lead boy smirked. "Security audit. Xu Ran said we're clear to conduct 'stress evaluations.' You're the subject."
"Nice of him."
They moved fast.
Not like idiots.
Coordinated.
She let the first two come close—one high, one low—then ducked, spun, drew twin daggers from her ribs, and reversed the engagement in one breath.
"Cut once for the Core. Cut twice for the blood. Third cut, for memory."
The mantra burned behind her eyes.
She slashed through the first boy's leg, spun beneath the second's guard, planted a boot in his chest—and threw the first dagger into the last boy's throat mid-lunge.
All three were on the ground in under twelve seconds.
One conscious.
One sobbing.
One not breathing.
She stood over them, blood dripping from her blade. Her breath slow.
The hallway lights flickered once.
Then stabilized.
Fang Yuan stepped from the shadows behind her.
"You didn't need to kill."
She didn't look at him.
"They were going to record my response. If I held back, they'd say I was afraid. If I fought clean, they'd say I was calculating."
She wiped her blade on her sleeve.
"This was the only version of me they couldn't rewrite."
Fang Yuan studied her a moment.
Then said quietly, "You're a knife."
"Knives don't have sides," she said. "Only handles."
"And you?"
She sheathed the blade slowly. "I broke mine a long time ago."
The next match list came down like a blade.
Names scrolled across every terminal, each one blinking with ranked probabilities, betting odds, and sponsor logos. But only one pair drew murmurs loud enough to ripple across all wings of the academy.
ROUND TWO: Fang Min vs. Lei Qing
Special Designation: No Core Limiters. No Interference. No escape clause.No early surrender. No safety net.
Nian'er read it on the hallway terminal, jaw tightening. "They're forcing your hand."
Fang Yuan said nothing.
Lei Qing read it alone.
They stood in the sensor lab, staring at the projection with a faint, unreadable look. Their reflection in the display flickered—half-light, half-ghost.
They touched their Core band.
The screen asked: "Confirm readiness?"
They didn't press it.
Not yet.
The arena was stripped bare for this match.
No audience. No drones. No cameras broadcasting to the school network.
Just cold lights. Silent walls. And two names glowing in the center of the field.
Fang Yuan arrived first.
Lei Qing walked in second, their uniform as clean and nondescript as ever.
They stopped across from each other.
The gates hissed shut.
No announcement.
Only stillness.
Lei Qing raised their eyes. "They want us to break something."
Fang Yuan nodded. "Each other."
Lei smiled faintly. "What if we disappoint them?"
The room pulsed.
A containment field engaged around them.
A message appeared in the air:
Combat Activation: Initiate.
Lei Qing bowed—not ceremonially, but with quiet resolve. "I won't hold back."
Fang Yuan returned it. "Good. Neither will I."
Then they moved.
Not fast. Not brutal.
Precise.
Lei opened with a ripple of Core flow that bent light around their body—not illusion, but misdirection, a technique built from subtle displacement.
Fang Yuan stepped inside the distortion, eyes calm, movements simple. A raised palm. A twisting footstep.
"Quiet Bloom – Redirection Fold."
Their techniques met—not in explosion, but like two rivers passing each other with different currents. The clash didn't feel like violence.
It felt like listening.
For one minute, they danced.
Strike and step. Feint and shift. No blood. No error.
Then Lei Qing faltered—just a hair. Core flux dropped. A flicker of hesitation.
Fang Yuan moved in.
He struck their arm—hard enough to numb the shoulder.
Then touched their chest with two fingers.
The Core lifted—unstable. Flickering.
Fang Yuan held it suspended.
Lei Qing looked up at him, eyes still clear. Not afraid.
"What are you going to do?" they asked softly.
Fang Yuan looked toward the mirrored glass behind the walls—where he knew someone was watching.
And crushed the Core.
Not Lei's.
His own.
It fractured in his palm, golden light spilling into the arena floor like soft fire.
Gasps echoed behind the glass.
Alarms flickered, unsure what they were reacting to.
Fang Yuan let the pieces fall.
Then offered a hand to Lei Qing.
They took it.
And the containment field powered down.