Chapter 155: Eve of the Tournament

Kyrian opened his eyes. The faint light coming through the window was minimal. It was impossible to tell whether it was morning or afternoon. How many hours had passed?

His mind, now clear, tried to calculate. The deep exhaustion had vanished. He felt his body light, he had slept more than enough.

He got up from the wooden bed, put on his common, simple, dark clothes, and left the tiny room.

As he entered the main area of the dormitory, he stopped.

Something was different.

On the stone table, where before there had only been the book of the Blood Court, now lay a carefully folded piece of fabric.

Kyrian approached. It was a garment. He unfolded it with two fingers.

It was a tunic. A deep crimson red, almost black in the shadows, cut from a heavy and smooth fabric with no shine.

The details were black, the collar edges, the sleeves, the belt that came with it.

On the shoulders, embroidered with a thread that seemed to be made of dark metal, was the symbol of the Blood Court.

And on the chest, over the left side, a smaller but far more intricate symbol. A stylized drop of blood, diagonally pierced by a thin dagger.

Kyrian stood still for a moment, examining the piece. He remembered the book. The symbol on the shoulders was the court’s. The one on the chest… was exclusive to the main branch.

The pierced drop symbol of a disciple personally chosen by the leader. Only Dong Zhen, his potential direct successors, and the oldest guardians had the right to wear it.

It was a declaration. A uniform. And a trap. One that would certainly throw him into everyone’s gaze the moment he appeared.

Without hesitation, Kyrian removed his clothing, a bit dirty and worn, and put on the new one. The fabric was surprisingly comfortable, adjusting to his body without restricting movement.

The weight was considerable but familiar, like a second skin of authority.

He fastened the belt and adjusted the sleeves. The crimson red seemed to absorb the faint light in the room.

He looked at himself briefly in the polished surface of a piece of metal that served as a basin. The figure that stared back was strange.

A young face, yet with crimson eyes far too cold for his age.

Kyrian turned and left the dormitory.

The corridor, once a silent and lonely tunnel, now bustled.

People walked from one side to another. Servants carried jugs and trays.

Guards with different insignias patrolled. Many cultivators stood in small groups, speaking in low voices or simply observing the place.

The air thick with blood Qi, along with tension and the constant smell of blood and metal, spread through the hall.

Kyrian ignored the stares that immediately fell on him. Or, more specifically, on his tunic. He felt the weight of those eyes. The sudden interruption of conversations and the whispers that followed behind him.

He walked toward the main inner courtyard.

The scene there was even more intense. Dozens of young people, probably some tournament participants and some attendants, was what Kyrian imagined. They were all sitting on the polished stone floor, facing the pulsating blood core.

They cultivated, or tried to, while some cast glances at one another, assessing each other for the possible competition.

When Kyrian appeared at the corridor entrance and entered the courtyard, it was as if a rope had been pulled.

One by one, the young people interrupted their meditation or hushed conversations and turned their heads.

Silence fell, heavy, burdened.

All eyes fixed on Kyrian’s crimson red. On the shoulder symbol. And, finally, on the pierced drop on his chest.

Expressions of surprise, confusion, disbelief, and in some cases, a quick flicker of hostility, crossed the faces of those gathered.

No one of that generation had ever seen a disciple of the main branch. Many doubted such a person even existed. Until now. In fact, it was well known that Dong Zhen had not accepted new disciples for more than fifty years.

Kyrian passed through them as if they were statues, his face a mask of impassiveness. He was not interested in provocations or conversation. He needed information.

He spotted a servant standing near a column, head lowered, trying to go unnoticed amidst that gathering of young talents. Kyrian approached him.

“What day is today?” Kyrian asked, his flat voice cutting the silence of the courtyard.

The young servant trembled slightly and raised his eyes, first to the symbol on Kyrian’s chest, then quickly to the ground.

“Young master… today is the eve of the branch tournament. The event begins tomorrow at sunrise.”

Kyrian processed the information. He had slept almost two days. More than he expected. It meant all guests, leaders, and participants were already settled. The tournament was tomorrow.

His stomach growled, loud enough to be heard in the courtyard’s quiet. Some of the closest ones smiled with slight disdain.

Kyrian ignored them.

“Bring food to my dormitory. In large quantity.” Kyrian said to the servant seriously.

“Yes, young master.” The servant scurried away, relieved to have an excuse to leave.

Kyrian turned and began to walk back, feeling dozens of pairs of eyes drilling into his back. The murmurs exploded as soon as he left the courtyard.

The news spread through the fortress with the speed of a wildfire in a dry field.

“A disciple of the main branch has appeared.”

“A young man wearing the pierced drop tunic.”

The rumors reached the ten official tournament participants, who were scattered around the fortress. Some training in reserved areas, others resting.

Li Fen, from the shadow branch, was in an empty training courtyard, practicing quick movements against black stone pillars.

When a younger colleague ran to him with the news, his fluid movements halted for a fraction of a second.

His eyes narrowed even more.

“Interesting.” He murmured, almost inaudibly.

For him, a new unexpected obstacle had appeared. He returned to his exercises, but now with a sharper focus. As if his target had changed.

Bai Zhu, from the military strength branch, was in the common dining hall, devouring a bowl of rice and meat with two chopsticks.

A branchmate arrived breathless and whispered in his ear. Bai Zhu stopped chewing. His broad and furrowed face showed first disbelief, then a slow, predatory smile spread beneath his thin mustache.

“Right when it’s my turn to participate, I have this luck…” He growled, lifting his bowl in an ironic toast to no one in particular.

“Someone worthy of being crushed.” He returned to eating, but now with a glint of anticipation in his eyes.

Yan Ling, from the resource-collection branch, was in the fortress’s secondary library, studying ancient scrolls about spiritual stone veins.

A younger disciple tugged at her sleeve, anxious.

Yan Ling raised her eyes, her serious and calculating expression unaltered by the news. She placed the scroll on the table.

“Name? Cultivation level? Known abilities?” She asked pragmatically.

“Senior sister… he seemed to be at the 3° stage of the Qi Liberation realm. That’s all I know.” The disciple said, shaking her head, denying any other information.

Yan Ling frowned slightly. An unknown variable had appeared. She hated unknown variables. She closed the scroll and stood up, thinking of conducting her own investigation.

Kai, from the external missions branch, was speaking with two other participants in a quieter corner, sharing information about past tournaments.

The news arrived through a servant of his branch. Kai, a young man with a hardened gaze and a scar on his chin, silenced the others with a gesture, allowing the servant to speak.

He listened, then remained silent for a moment.

“The old Dong Zhen finally revealed his hand.” He said, at last, somewhat surprised. His voice was deep.

“Do not underestimate him. If the supreme leader chose him, especially now, he must be confident in the boy.”

His companions exchanged distinct and concerned looks.

In another guest room, Mei Li, a participant from the diplomacy and agreements branch, heard the news from her mentor.

Instead of worry or aggression, a slight interest arose, making her intelligent eyes gleam.

“Fascinating.” She commented, adjusting the sleeves of her lighter red tunic.

“The tournament’s dynamics will shift completely because of this. I believe everyone will focus on him, just like it happened in past tournaments when a main-branch disciple participated.”

She began to recalculate her political considerations, a small smile on her lips.

Meanwhile, Kyrian returned to his dormitory. The food arrived shortly afterward, another abundant tray.

He ate in silence, ignoring completely the distant murmur now permeating the fortress. His focus was simple. Eat, rest a bit more in his room until tournament time.

He wasn’t very interested in socializing for now.

He already imagined he would be the tournament’s focus, and that was what Dong Zhen wanted. It was like a challenge.

Tomorrow, during the tournament, all those eyes filled with distrust, hatred, or curiosity would focus on him, the main-branch disciple.

Kyrian finished eating and set down the utensils. His gaze was cold and calm.

For him, let them all come. He wasn’t there to make friends, but to become stronger. To obtain resources.

And for that reason, Kyrian would give no one a chance in the tournament.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep