In the kitchen, Li Wei crossed to the storage shelves and began refilling the wine jugs, careful not to spill a drop. It was then that he heard voices from the corridor beyond the open door—low, mocking tones carried on the breeze.

  “…so the Young Master said it himself. Make sure Xiao Lan can no longer cultivate by the end of today.”

  Li Wei froze, the ladle in his hand trembling slightly.

  A second voice snorted. “Heh, ‘no longer cultivate’—you mean cripple him?”

  “You're too loud,” The first voice said, though his tone dripped with satisfaction. “Anyway, that's Zhao Feng’s orders. He says that boy’s been getting too friendly with that useless cripple in the servants’ quarters. Needs to remember his place.” Their laughter slithered through the doorway, cruel and careless.

  Li Wei’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached.

  The men continued, oblivious. “Xiao Lan dared to steal spirit stones from us without fulfilling his promise. He’s got guts, I’ll give him that. If he wants to stay loyal to a cripple, he can be a cripple too.”

  A crash sounded from within the kitchen, the ladle clattering from Li Wei’s hand onto the stone floor. The laughter outside paused for an instant, then resumed, fading as the henchmen walked away down the corridor.

  Li Wei stood there, staring at the dark stain spreading across the floor where the ladle had fallen. His breath came slow and sharp. The air around him grew faintly colder, a whisper of suppressed qi rippling beneath his skin before he forced it back down.

  He had made a promise to stay hidden, to rebuild in silence until the time was right. To reveal his rebirth now would ruin everything. But could he stand by and watch Xiao Lan be broken for his loyalty, crippled like he had been in the past? Li Wei's pulse thundered in his ears. He thought of the arena, of Zhao Feng standing above the crowd like a god among mortals. He thought of Xiao Lan’s bright grin and unshakable faith in fairness, in honor, in the sect’s ideals.

  Fairness meant nothing to someone like Zhao Feng.

  Li Wei turned toward the doorway, his expression carved from stone. He couldn’t warn Xiao Lan directly about Zhao Feng's plan. His brother would never withdraw, even if he knew. This match was a chance for him to enter the inner sect, to rise and prove himself. Stopping him would only shame him further.

  But doing nothing was unthinkable.

  Li Wei’s breath trembled as he looked at his reflection in the sheen of a metal tray hanging on the wall. For a fleeting moment, he saw not the servant’s face, but the shadow of the cultivator he once was—the eyes of someone who had stood on the same stage and faced down the world. When that shadow vanished, he saw what remained: somebody who was deeply, deeply afraid of being crippled again, someone who was still harboring cowardice masked as 'hidden strength'. Someone who tolerated insults and called it 'patience' and 'wisdom', even though he had the strength to suppress those bad-mouthers.

  Li Wei exhaled deeply, gathered the wine and tea with steady hands, and left the kitchen.

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  The noise of the arena returned like a wave crashing down.

  Disciples shouted names. Elders called for the next contenders. The smell of qi and blood hung heavy in the wind. As Li Wei began to walk back to the Upper Pavilion, the distant sound of the trial bell rang through the air.

  GONG.

  The deep, resonant note silenced the crowd for an instant before the announcer’s voice boomed out across the arena; “The last and final match—Xiao Lan of the Azure Cloud Outer Division!”

  A murmur rippled through the stands.

  Li Wei stopped in his tracks, the tray in his hands trembling slightly. He could see Xiao Lan from across the distance, standing at the edge of the dueling platform in plain blue robes, the faint wind tugging at his sleeves. His soft, chubby face was pale beneath the afternoon light. His expression was determined, though his hands betrayed a faint tremor of nerves.

  Xiao Lan wasn’t a fighter-type. He was more skilled in the auxiliary arts like alchemy and forging. In fact, alchemy was his forte. His battle instinct, in comparison, was simply not good. Yet, the sect prioritised martial prowess above all else, so Xiao Lan had no choice but to compete for a position in the inner sect in this manner.

  Across from Xiao Lan, Zhao Feng’s henchman climbed onto the stage, grinning like a wolf that had already tasted blood. He stretched his arms lazily, a sneer curling his lips. “Try not to embarrass yourself, Xiao Lan,” he drawled, tapping the hilt of his sword against his shoulder. “Your friend won’t be able to clean up the mess when you’re crawling on the ground.”

  Xiao Lan didn’t respond. He simply saluted with both hands, as etiquette demanded, and took his stance with his own weapon, a spear. His movements were tense, but practiced, each breath measured, each step intentional.

  The officiating elder, Elder Hyu, raised his hand. “Begin!”

  The bell struck.

  GONG.

  A blast of spirit qi erupted from the dueling stage as both fighters surged forward.

  At this time, Li Wei had already return to the upper pavilion. He stood among the servants, tray in hand, face calm as he watched the unfolding battle.

  The first clash of blades rang out, a harsh metallic cry that echoed through the mountain air. Sparks flew. Xiao Lan blocked the first strike, barely parrying the second. His opponent moved with cruel swiftness, his sword striking low and heavy.

  Li Wei’s grip on the tray tightened until his fingers went white, his heart pounding with restrained panic.

  Throughout the arena, the crowd erupted with excitement.

  Guo Liang gave a sharp laugh. “That fat fellow is already stumbling. What a joke!”

  Patriarch Shigo Tianyu gave a glance in Guo Liang's direction but said nothing. His face was as calm as still water, his eyes unreadable. Beside him, Su Qingyue’s gaze followed the match closely, her expression quiet but attentive. Her long sleeves rested gracefully on her lap, pale fingers intertwined.

  On the stage, the fight had turned desperate. Xiao Lan’s spear technique was competent but strained, each defense slower than the last, his footing faltering under the barrage of attacks. His opponent’s qi flared brighter with each passing moment, the strikes growing more vicious, more calculated.

  Then… the blow came.

  The lackey feinted left, spun right, and drove his palm into Xiao Lan’s chest with a burst of earth qi. The impact sent Xian Lan sprawling across the arena floor, blood spraying from his lips as the crowd erupted in cheers.

  “Pathetic!” the lackey spat, advancing with a grin, sword gripped in the other hand. “Still think trash like you deserves to enter the inner sect?”

  Xiao Lan coughed, his arms trembling as he pushed himself up on one elbow. His spear-wielding hand shook, but he forced himself to his feet again. Almost at the same time, his opponent surged forward and sliced his blade toward him. Xiao Lan managed to block the strike with the metallic body of his spear, using the force to help him get back on his feet.

  And just like that, their battle resumed.

  Li Wei gritted his teeth as he watched. Others might not be able to tell due to how desperate the fight was becoming, but Li Wei could perceive how each blow from Zhao Feng’s lackey was angled toward the meridians of Xiao Lan’s legs and arms. He knew without a doubt that Xiao Lan was going to lose this fight. In fact, he felt the lackey was likely intentionally taking time to find a way to cripple Xiao Lan ‘accidentally’ in the midst of battle.

  Li Wei clenched his jaw. I have to save Xiao Lan! he thought.