The news of a massive, unadorned black blade shearing a reinforced iron anvil cleanly in two inside the forge district did not remain confined to the outer alleys of the Lin Clan.
To the sharp, espionage networks of Nine Star City, every spatial disruption and sudden burst of kinetic energy was thoroughly cataloged.
The Wang Clan had already dispatched their letters of panic to the central core of the city, and the shadow of the ‘broken-root waste’ was now expanding so rapidly that the highest authorities could no longer ignore the anomaly.
Inside the grand Obsidian Citadel, the official residence of the City Lord, the atmosphere was frozen in disciplined, heavy silence.
The grand martial hall was lined with tall pillars of white jade, its floor covered in polished black marble that reflected the dim torchlight like stagnant water.
Standing at the center of the hall, stripped to the waist, was a young man whose physical frame looked as though it had been sculpted from dark granite.
This was Xue Ironwood.
The only son of the City Lord.
The undisputed sovereign of the city’s younger generation.
At nineteen, he had already consolidated his threshold at the peak of the Fifth Layer of Qi Condensation.
His skin bore multiple silver inscriptions—the mark of the Vanguard Spiritual Armor art—and his hands were wrapped around a heavy, six-foot-long spear crafted from high-grade Earth-rank spiritual steel.
Thrust.
Sweep.
Shatter.
With each fluid movement of his spear, a violent torrent of blue, compressed Qi exploded from the tip, cutting deep, precise grooves into the protective arrays lining the reinforced walls.
He was a battlefield machine—a cultivator who did not fight for minor clan honor, but for total, absolute domination over the entire territory.
This city is mine, Xue Ironwood thought, his eyes cold and calculating.
Every clan.
Every merchant.
Every disciple.
They all bow to the Obsidian Citadel.
And they always will.
“Young Master,” a quiet, kneeling scout murmured from the shadows of the entrance, holding a crimson scroll sealed with wax.
Xue Ironwood did not stop his routine.
“The hidden registry of the Wang Clan has confirmed the failure of the Blood-Hound contract,” the scout continued.
“The target, Ye Chen of the Lin Clan, systematically dismantled four Fourth Layer executioners and crippled the vanguard leader with his bare hands. He is currently carrying a massive, heavy iron sword that defies the standard ranking metrics.”
Xue Ironwood executed one final, thunderous downward strike that sent a small shockwave of dust rushing across the polished floor.
Then he slowly pulled his spear back, resting the shaft against his shoulder.
A low, cold chuckle escaped his throat.
“A mortal stray whose roots were broken for five years suddenly awakens an iron body capable of deflating Fourth Layer executioners?” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.
“The Lin Clan is foolishly blind if they think a hidden demonic physique can save them from the legal purge of the tournament.”
He turned his back on the scout and walked toward the window, gazing out at the sprawling city below.
“He is nothing more than a wild dog that has found a slightly sharper bone.”
“Do we dispatch the personal guards to intercept him before the gates open?” the scout asked.
“No,” Xue Ironwood sneered, wiping the sweat from his stone-like neck with a silk cloth.
“If we execute him in the dark, the Lin Clan’s old ghosts will use it as an excuse to withdraw from the Alliance, keeping their treasury sealed.”
He paused, a cruel smile twisting his lips.
“Let him grow. Let him believe his heavy iron slab can defy the laws of the higher stages. I want him to stand before my spear on the central stage, beneath the gaze of the entire city. I will personally split his iron chest open and extract whatever heritage he hides.”
Meanwhile, the remaining two months leading up to the Great City Tournament dissolved like morning mist.
For Ye Chen, the period was one of absolute, unyielding focus.
Hidden deep within his northern cave, he systematically synchronized the massive weight of the Eclipse Blade with the dense, gold-tinted silver Qi of his Third Layer threshold.
He did not need to practice complex stances.
To a former Sovereign, combat is not a dance of fancy forms, he thought calmly.
It is the absolute compression of speed, mass, and timing.
He practiced only a single movement—the downward strike.
Ten thousand times a day, he drew the hundred-pound black slab from his back, driving it through the empty air of the cave in a perfect, silent vacuum.
By the final week, the air directly around his blade would drop into a freezing state before the steel even completed its arc.
On the morning of the tournament, the entire Nine Star City erupted into a chaotic wall of sound.
Thousands of cultivators from the surrounding mining sectors, foreign merchant caravans, and minor vassal sects flooded through the reinforced northern gates, heading directly toward the Central Colosseum—a massive, open-air amphitheater built from ancient grey granite, capable of holding fifty thousand spectators.
Ye Chen walked down the main mountain paths of the Lin Clan, his steps slow, light, and perfectly anchored.
He wore his deep-blue moon-silk robes, the heavy, matte-black Eclipse Blade slung securely across his back, its rough leather-wrapped hilt peeking over his right shoulder.
He carried no baggage, no protective talismans, and no flashy gems.
I do not need them, he thought coldly.
The blade is enough.
As he approached the clan’s assembly area at the edge of the colosseum, he found the entire inner sect youth gathered in rows.
Lin Xinyue stood at the front, her crimson robes fluttering in the morning wind, her face pale and tight with anxiety.
Beside her stood the First Elder and the Third Elder—the latter casting a gaze so full of raw, unadulterated hatred toward Ye Chen that the surrounding air grew thin.
But he cannot.
Not here.
Not in front of the entire city.
“You actually dared to show your face, stray,” the Third Elder hissed as Ye Chen stopped ten paces away.
“Enjoy the sunlight while your legs can still support your frame. The draw for the first round has been finalized. Your name has been placed in the primary block.”
Ye Chen did not look at the angry elder.
His dark, bottomless eyes swept past the Lin Clan faction, looking out across the massive stone arena toward the elevated pavilion of the City Lord’s mansion.
Sitting comfortably at the highest seat of the pavilion was Xue Ironwood.
His long spiritual spear rested against his chair, his metallic gray eyes looking down at the crowd with absolute disdain.
As if sensing a dangerous presence, Xue Ironwood’s gaze shifted—cutting through the thousands of people until it locked directly onto Ye Chen’s face.
The two top talents of the younger generation looked at each other across the vast expanse of the colosseum.
Xue Ironwood raised his right hand, slowly drawing his finger across his throat in a universal gesture of execution.
A cruel smile twisted his lips.
Ye Chen stood perfectly still beneath the silver sunlight, his hands tucked inside his wide sleeves, his face a mask of absolute stone.
He did not return the gesture.
He thinks he is a predator, Ye Chen thought coldly.
He thinks I am prey.
He has no idea that he is nothing more than a stepping stone.
To a monarch who had pulled down star systems, the deadly threat of a minor city genius was nothing more than dust blowing against an ancient mountain.
“The harvest has finally begun,” Ye Chen whispered to the wind, his silver Qi throbbing inside his core with quiet, lethal velocity.
His fingers tightened around the leather hilt of the Eclipse Blade.
“And I will ensure not a single seed of these clans leaves this stage alive.”
Author’s Note:
The tournament begins!
🏟️
Xue Ironwood has made his move — a throat-slitting gesture in front of the entire city.
But Ye Chen didn’t even blink.
Two months of training.
The Eclipse Blade is ready.
The harvest is about to begin.