The Trial Arena was carved into the side of a cliff, half-suspended above a sea of clouds. A ring of spirit-etched pillars surrounded the combat stage, each one thrumming faintly with ancient formation energy.
Dozens of outer disciples crowded the edges. Some sat on flying swords; others hovered on jade platforms. Word had spread like wildfire:
"Ye Zhen's fighting Shen Wuji."
"The guy who shattered the Root Mirror."
"Finally, someone's going to shut him up."
At the edge of the arena, Shen Wuji adjusted his white combat robes and smiled like someone who already had the victory prize in hand.
Tall, clean-shaven, with a sharp sword on his back and an even sharper tongue, he was the type who didn't just win he made sure you knew you'd lost.
"You're early," he called across the platform as Ye Zhen stepped onto the stage.
"Had nothing else to do," Ye Zhen replied, yawning. "Was hoping for breakfast, but I guess violence works."
Instructor Feng, a narrow-eyed elder with a thin mustache and a calm tone, raised one hand.
"This is a sanctioned trial match between Outer Disciple Rank #4 Shen Wuji and newly registered disciple Ye Zhen of the Broken Heaven Sect."
Murmurs rippled across the stands.
"Does he even have a root yet?"
"He's lucky to be alive."
"This'll be fast."
Instructor Feng looked between them.
"Begin when ready."
Shen Wuji smiled as his fingers traced a sigil on the ground. The arena glyphs lit up blue lines forming a hexagonal pattern across the platform.
"I've adjusted the arena for your benefit," he said, voice echoing unnaturally. "I know you don't have much Qi to waste."
Ye Zhen's eyes flicked across the arena as mist began to rise from the edges, curling across the floor like fingers seeking prey.
"Illusion array," he muttered. "Cheap trick."
Shen Wuji vanished into the mist.
"Let's see how you slap something you can't see."
The world distorted.
The air warped.
Ye Zhen blinked once, and the arena was gone.
He stood in a vast, black void filled with endless mirrors. Each one reflected different versions of himself, some older, some bloodied, some laughing, and others dead.
Footsteps echoed in every direction.
"You're alone here, Ye Zhen," Shen Wuji's voice taunted from nowhere. "Your little martial arts can't save you. Your fake bravado won't help. Let me show you what real cultivation looks like."
A sword whistled through the air behind him
But Ye Zhen didn't turn. He stepped forward, calm, precise, and palmed the air behind his back.
CRACK.
A mirror exploded, and a scream echoed as Shen Wuji was flung across the illusion space.
"W-what, how?!"
Ye Zhen opened his eyes.
They glowed faintly.
"You picked the worst possible technique."
Another strike came this time from the side.
A dozen Shen Wujis emerged, blades flashing in unison.
Ye Zhen rotated his stance, exhaled slowly, and stepped into the chaos.
What followed looked like madness.
Palms blurred.
Saber arcs slashed shadows.
Footwork shifted like mist walking through fire.
Every mirror shattered. Every image screamed. Illusion after illusion fell apart.
And then
The array itself began to crack.
Outside, the watching disciples leaned forward.
"Why's the arena pulsing?"
"Wait he's tearing through the array?!"
The mist boiled and evaporated as the arena formation collapsed with a surge of unstable Qi.
When the smoke cleared...
Ye Zhen stood in the center, one hand raised, the other gripping the hilt of his saber.
Shen Wuji lay on his back at the edge of the platform, coughing blood, eyes wide in shock.
"Y-you broke… the illusion…"
"You used it," Ye Zhen said, voice low, "to hide from me."
He stepped forward, slow and steady.
"But I live with illusions. I breathe them. I train in them."
His hand glowed faintly. Not with Qi. Not with spiritual energy.
But with something deeper.
A barely visible sigil lit the ground under his feet, the start of a flame diagram, as if some part of his truth had begun to awaken through sheer defiance.
"You made a stage of lies," Ye Zhen whispered.
"But I'm the one who devours them."
The silence was absolute.
Instructor Feng raised his hand, voice clipped:
"Victory: Ye Zhen."
Shen Wuji passed out.
Disciples stared, stunned.
Shen Xueyi, still watching from the roof's shadow, folded her arms.
"He doesn't just fight well," she murmured.
"He breaks rules."
Later that night, back in his room, Ye Zhen unwrapped a steamed bun and sat on the edge of his bed.
He poked the flame sigil still faintly glowing on his hand.
"We're starting to wake up," he muttered to himself.
"Let's see how long this sect lasts before it starts breaking."
He smiled.
And the shadows in the room flickered.