Chapter 27: Draws
The next morning, Mologan City buzzed with renewed excitement. The streets overflowed with cultivators, merchants, and wide-eyed spectators, all surging toward the Grand Arena like rivers feeding into a restless sea. Colorful banners flapped overhead, announcing the tournament's next phase, and the air practically sizzled with anticipation.
Flux and Ryo walked shoulder to shoulder through the crowd, the din of conversation and footsteps swirling around them.
"Good luck today," Ryo said, hands clasped behind his head in lazy fashion. Then he smirked. "Actually, I kinda hope you lose. So I can finally get back at you."
Flux chuckled softly. "Maybe today's your lucky day."
"Oh no, don't try that modest act now," Ryo grumbled. "I bet you pulled another weak opponent again."
"We'll see soon enough," Flux replied, gaze forward as the Arena's towering walls came into view. "I'm heading to the waiting room."
"Try not to end it in fast flashy move again, show-off," Ryo called as they separated, giving a lazy wave before vanishing into the spectator line.
Flux entered the competitor's gate, his figure soon swallowed by the massive inner corridors of the arena. Inside the waiting room, the atmosphere was thick with tension—like the calm before a thunderstorm. Cultivators from various sects sat in focused silence, some meditating, others sharpening their blades or murmuring incantations.
He found an empty seat in a quiet corner and settled in. The third battle had just ended with a flash of fire and a pained cry.
Then came the voice:
"Flux, prepare to enter the arena."
He rose smoothly, adjusting his robe. One breath in. One breath out.
The corridor stretched ahead, its end gleaming with sunlight and the roar of a thousand voices. When he emerged, the sound crashed over him like a wave.
His opponent stood across the stage: a lanky young cultivator with pale skin and unsteady hands. His robe bore the faded insignia of a minor sect, and his nervous eyes flicked between Flux and the referee.
They bowed—a simple courtesy of tradition.
"Begin!"
The young man moved fast, hurling talismans in a wide arc. Fireballs blazed forward, lightning danced across the stone floor, and jagged spears of ice erupted midair, surging toward Flux like a chaotic storm.
It was a solid opening volley—but not enough.
Flux activated Miststep Flow.
His form blurred and vanished from sight, weaving effortlessly through the chaos. Explosions crackled behind him, but he was already inside the enemy's guard.
Eyes wide, the young cultivator hastily triggered a defensive talisman. A shimmering barrier sprang to life between them.
But Flux was faster.
"Whirling Crescent."
His sword spun in a tight arc, gleaming silver laced with slicing wind energy. It cleaved through the spirit shield with a clean hiss, dispersing it like mist. The young man was thrown backward, skidding across the floor.
Gasps erupted from the stands.
The defeated cultivator coughed, trying to stand—but Flux was already behind him, sword pointed gently at the back of his neck.
"I... I surrender!" the man cried, dropping his weapon in defeat.
The referee raised his hand. "Victory—Flux!"
Applause thundered through the arena as Flux nodded courteously and returned to the waiting room, as calm as ever.
One by one, the matches continued—each clash raising the tension in the room and the excitement of the crowd.
After the 25th match, an elder stepped onto the stage, his voice carrying calm authority.
"Twenty-five participants remain. To balance the bracket, one competitor will receive a black token and advance to the next round automatically. The rest will draw white tokens and be matched accordingly."
An attendant entered with a small wooden box.
One by one, cultivators reached in.
Flux drew a white token.
A moment later, Xavier Reu stepped forward, his expression unreadable. When he pulled out the black token, a quiet murmur spread through the room.
"Lucky bastard…"
"At least we won't have to face him—yet."
With a soft clap, the elder summoned a glowing board. Names shifted and slotted into pairs.
Flux scanned the list—his opponent: Xuan Bei.
A flicker of interest stirred behind his otherwise calm gaze.
Later, outside the arena, Ryo caught up to him.
"So, your next opponent is Xuan Bei?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Flux nodded. "Seems like it."
Ryo scratched his chin. "Huh… he's solid with lightning techniques. It might be a bit harder on you this time."
Flux raised a brow. "Any advice?"
"Yeah. We've sparred a few times. He's not flashy, but he doesn't mess around when he gets serious."
Flux smiled faintly. "Then it should be interesting."
"No jokes this time," Ryo said, serious for once. "Good luck, both of you."
—
The next morning, Flux was already in the waiting room, seated with his eyes half-closed in calm focus. Around him, murmurs rose with each match. Tension ebbed and flowed like ocean tides.
He opened his eyes slowly as a familiar name was called.
"Flux and Xuan Bei, prepare to enter."
Flux rose without a word. Across the room, Xuan Bei was already standing. He gave a polite nod to the nearby cultivators before walking toward the arena gate, his steps steady and measured.
On the platform, the two faced each other.
Xuan Bei stood tall, calm beneath the weight of countless watching eyes. His presence carried quiet authority, the kind earned through discipline rather than dominance. Silver-threaded blue robes rippled gently in the breeze, and a light crackle of spiritual lightning curled around his fingertips.
"So," Xuan Bei said, offering a respectful incline of his head. "Flux. We met again.I watch your match before your strong."
Flux returned the gesture. "Likewise."
A pause. Then Xuan Bei smiled faintly—more a sign of acknowledgment than bravado.
"No need for posturing," he said. "Let's do this properly."
"Agreed," Flux replied softly.
The referee raised his hand. "Begin!"
Xuan Bei's aura surged. Lightning leapt from his skin, crackling into his blade with elegant control. His movement was swift, but never rushed—like thunder that knew exactly when to strike.
Flux responded with quiet grace. Miststep Flow shimmered around him as he vanished from his spot, reappearing mid-step behind his opponent.
Steel rang out.
Their swords met in a bright arc of force—lightning against wind. Sparks flew in every direction.
Xuan Bei adjusted smoothly, his blade shifting angles to meet Flux's follow-up strike. His form was balanced, grounded, every move sharp but never wasted.
"You're fast," he said between strikes. "Precise, too."
Flux's didn't reply and was calm as always.
Their weapons blurred into a storm of movement. Xuan Bei's lightning created short bursts of pressure, locking down the space around him. Flux flowed like mist, dodging through narrow gaps, seeking openings.
The crowd held their breath.
Then, Xuan Bei unleashed a barrage—bolts of lightning raining down across the arena floor. It was a masterful technique, a controlled storm that cornered even the swiftest footwork.
Flux slowed for the first time—not out of hesitation, but observation. His eyes tracked the rhythm of the lightning, the breath between pulses.
Then he moved.
A single step.
He vanished into mist—and appeared behind Xuan Bei once more, his sword whispering through the air.
Xuan Bei twisted, parrying just in time, but the impact forced him back a full step. Sweat shimmered along his brow, lightning dancing more wildly now.
Still, he didn't falter.
"You're not just fast," he said, panting lightly. "You flow."
Flux nodded once. "And you endure."
They clashed again—once, twice, three times—before Flux's next strike curved subtly, slipping beneath Xuan Bei's guard. The blade halted just before his chest, a precise and final gesture.
Silence.
Then Xuan Bei exhaled. "I yield."
"Winner—Flux!"
The arena exploded with cheers. But neither cultivator celebrated. Flux lowered his blade and offered a quiet bow.
Xuan Bei returned it with equal grace, eyes calm and unshaken. "Well fought."
"You as well," Flux replied.