CHAPTER 22: CHAPTER 21: GRAND OPEN TOURNAMENT 2

It wasn’t just the noise from the overflowing crowd that filled the grand coliseum, or the booming drums that echoed across the stone arena. No—there was something else. A deep, invisible pulse that spread through the soil and into every blade of grass, into every body standing or seated around the circular ring. Like the tension before a storm, the promise of something irreversible about to begin.

Jinmu stood near the outer perimeter of the massive arena floor, standing beside Eun Haria. Together, they were two of the hunded scattered around the massive open field—an enormous elevated ring where a hundred martial artists had gathered. Dust kicked up from shifting feet, and the occasional burst of uncontrolled ki created brief distortions in the air.

Across the ring, directly opposite them, stood giants of the generation.

And the crowd knew it too.

"This is it," Haria murmured, her voice calm, but her fingers twitching slightly as if in subtle excitement. Her long, lilac-silver robes fluttered faintly in the breeze, reflecting the sunlight in a soft shimmer.

Jinmu didn’t respond with words. He simply glanced upward to the sky for a breath longer, then returned his gaze to the ground ahead.

It begins now...

A massive voice rang out from the stands—one of the Pavilion announcers. "THE FIRST ROUND OF THE GRAND OPEN TOURNAMENT... BEGINS!"

With that, the signal was fired—a sharp, ear-rattling pop of compressed ki exploding midair—and the arena fell into chaos.

Blades clashed. Palms struck. Screams filled the coliseum. And with terrifying speed, nearly a third of the hundred participants charged toward one another without even gauging their surroundings. It was a field of madness, where movement itself was both weapon and shield.

But amid that chaos, five figures remained unnaturally composed.

The Five Young Masters of the Five Great Sects.

The first was Juhwa Gyeongcheol of the Hwagyeong Sword Sect. Towering and bare-chested beneath his red battle robes, the "Twin Blaze Scion" didn’t draw the massive twin swords strapped across his back. He merely moved his legs slightly and turned his body at an angle. Three martial artists rushed him at once from different directions, no doubt seeking glory by targeting a sect heir.

And they fell before they reached him.

Juhwa moved once. A blazing trail of heat flared across the air, almost like an afterimage left by a sun-streaked comet. The frontmost martial artist screamed, flung backward as if struck by a mountain. Another tried to block with his blade—but it melted before impact. The third vanished into a burst of smoke as if he’d been evaporated whole.

He had not yet drawn his weapons. And yet fire rippled with every subtle motion from his body.

Crowd cheers erupted in waves.

"Twin Blaze Scion!"

"THAT’S THE FLAME OF HWAGYEONG!"

"HE DIDN’T EVEN TOUCH HIS SWORD!"

On the north end of the arena, the cold mist rolled like creeping breath. From it emerged Seoryeon Baekho of the Baekrin White Tiger Hall. He moved not like a warrior—but like a glacier. Every step he took sent shivers through the stones beneath. Three martial artists who got within his radius immediately paled. They tried to leap back.

But their movements slowed—as if something unseen dragged their limbs down.

A sudden boom.

One of them collapsed before reaching him, eyes wide, foaming at the mouth.

The second’s legs broke from the knees.

The third tried to punch—but Seoryeon only looked at him with that unblinking, frosted gaze. The man screamed and fell backward, howling from what looked like a fractured spine.

Still, no technique. Just body.

Is he suppressing them just by walking? Jinmu narrowed his eyes. Haria, beside him, also stiffened.

"His presence," she said, "is like frost itself..."

That’s the strength of a Pure Body Cultivator at the master level. Jinmu thought. No weapon. No martial form. Just—dominion.

To the east, a wiry figure danced between combatants like a streak of lightning. Eunwon Jinseong of the Azure Thunder Hall—tattooed arms glowing faintly beneath his blue robes—was smiling. But it wasn’t joy. It was the kind of smile that said: I know what you’re about to do before you do.

A saber sliced toward his neck. Without looking, Jinseong twisted. The blade missed him by a hair.

The attacker blinked.

And then his body convulsed—arms twitching, limbs spasming. Jinseong had pressed just two fingers to the man’s ribs. No ki blast. No dramatic motion.

Just a whisper of thunder.

The next moment, he vanished—reappearing behind another target who hadn’t even realized he was being hunted. Another touch. Another collapse.

Within moments, five martial artists lay unconscious behind him. He flicked his sleeves and yawned, smiling lazily at the audience.

The crowd was breathless.

And to the west—amid roars and cries—a shorter, broader figure in brown and iron calmly surveyed the chaos.

Do Sangin, heir of the Mugang Martial Pavilion and cousin to First Blade Do Giseon, walked in almost slow, measured steps.

But every movement was precise.

A flying axe hurled toward him—he caught it mid-air and returned it twice as fast, knocking the wielder straight out of the ring. A whip-user launched a spiraling chain—he snapped his iron fan open and intercepted the attack at an impossible angle.

Then, curiously, he began using their techniques.

The axe-thrower’s style. The whip-user’s motion.

He copied. He adapted. And every new move he used became sharper.

He was a storm slowly forming—unassuming, but impossible to avoid once it built momentum.

All of this...

Had occurred in less than a hundred breaths.

And yet, even now—Jinmu Yeon and Eun Haria had barely moved.

They stood back-to-back, letting the tide of battle come to them.

One challenger—a bold youth from a southern sect—charged in with a sword shaped like a crescent. He slashed with a high arc, and Jinmu ducked under. Without even countering, he side-stepped and let Haria intercept.

She twisted her body and gently tapped the opponent’s elbow.

The man dropped his sword. His body hit the ground with a dull thud.

Another attacker came from the flank—Haria moved aside with a light step, allowing Jinmu to push the man’s palm aside with his forearm. The two continued in sync, not even glancing at each other, as if their minds were tethered by the same thread.

From the stands, several watchers squinted.

"Who’s that pair?" someone whispered.

"They’re not using any techniques," another pointed out. "But... are they dodging everything?"

"They haven’t thrown a single ki strike!"

A surge of wind rushed past them—another attacker.

This one, more skilled than the rest. Twin sabers. Fast footwork. Expert level?

He attacked with a barrage of twenty cuts.

Jinmu leaned just enough to make each blade miss by inches. Haria rotated with him, her palm occasionally knocking the man’s strikes off by half a breath.

No wasted motion. No flourish. Only form and flow.

And then—Haria stepped in.

She pressed a palm to the attacker’s chest.

He flew back, coughing blood. Disarmed.

They didn’t follow up. They simply returned to formation.

Let them come, Jinmu thought. And they’ll wear themselves out before they realize they’re already out.

High above, in the private viewing platform for sect leaders and Pavilion elites, First Blade Do Giseon watched the battle unfold with a cold smile on his lips. He leaned forward just slightly, fingers drumming the armrest of his chair.

"Interesting," he murmured. "That boy... is even more composed."

Another figure watched with arms folded—Damhye Yeo Ryeong, the enigmatic Palace Master of Yeonhwa Lotus Palace, hidden behind a thin veil of mist. The veil didn’t obscure her view in the slightest.

As one of the sect disciples whispered and pointed out Jinmu and Haria, Damhye’s lips curled upward.

Just slightly.

The crowd hadn’t caught up yet. All attention remained on the young masters—on the ferocity of Juhwa Gyeongcheol, the freezing might of Seoryeon Baekho, the unpredictable lightning of Eunwon Jinseong, and the quiet mimicry of Do Sangin.

But gradually... ever so slowly...

People began to notice.

That amidst the flurry of eliminated fighters and explosive techniques, two figures remained untouched.

Two who hadn’t even needed to use a single named martial art.

And as the dust continued to rise, as screams and cheers filled the arena like thunder, the figures of Jinmu Yeon and Eun Haria moved not like warriors in a storm...

But like the calm within it.

The chaos of the first round slowly settled.

Dust drifted like smoke across the tournament ring, shrouding the massive stone platform in a haze that shimmered beneath the late morning sun. The thunder of clashing fists and steel dulled into a distant echo, replaced now by murmuring voices and rising whispers from every corner of the stands.

Bodies littered the ring like fallen leaves. Some groaned as they tried to stand. Others lay unconscious, bruised or bleeding, their weapons scattered far from reach. Dozens had been flung from the platform altogether, groaning in the dirt or being tended to by tournament aides. The atmosphere, so violent only moments ago, shifted as the final gong echoed across the sky.

DOOOONG!

The first round had ended.

And when the dust finally thinned, when the haze of battle gave way to clarity, the survivors stood revealed under the sun’s relentless gaze.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd—not just because they saw the Five Great Young Masters standing tall and untouched, but because two completely unexpected names were still standing alongside them.

Jinmu Yeon.

Eun Haria.

No one had predicted it.

Not the merchant clans from the western provinces who had brought their own swordsmen. Not the provincial governors hoping to scout talent. Not the wandering martial nomads perched on the far edges of the arena. Not even the couriers from various sects sitting with notepads in hand, ready to document promising names.

No ki surged from their bodies. Their breaths were calm. Their posture relaxed. Not a single wound marked their skin.

Just two figures standing close together, back-to-back—still in position, as if the fight had never even begun for them.

The silence broke with a sudden chorus of confused voices.

"Wait... who are those two?"

"Are they... Unknown boy and Haria?

"They didn’t use any technique, did they?"

"Not even ki. Did anyone see a technique? I didn’t see a thing."

"I thought they were just..."

A noblewoman fanned herself beside him, her eyes narrowed. "I was watching closely. The others were frantic. These two... moved like smoke."

"They were in perfect sync too," someone muttered from below. "He stepped behind her. She opened space. Neither rushed. It was like they were dancing."

"Without any ki?"

"Maybe... maybe that’s the trick. Maybe they’re hiding their cultivation completely."

"No way. That kind of control takes decades. They look barely twenty."

The murmurs built into a steady roar of speculation, disbelief, and growing curiosity.

And yet, in the high platforms above the crowd—in the shaded galleries reserved for the sect representatives and major faction envoys—the atmosphere was colder, more controlled.

But the tension had shifted here, too.

Not in awe.

In evaluation.

From the Hwagyeong Sword Sect, an elder in deep red robes leaned back with narrowed eyes. The flame-patterned silk of his cuffs rustled softly as he gestured toward the arena.

"They didn’t draw blood. Not once," he said to the younger disciples beside him. "That’s not something to be impressed by. Our Juhwa could’ve ended all hundred without using either of his blades."

One of the disciples nodded quickly. "Yes, Elder Gyeonghak. Compared to Twin Blaze Scion, that boy looked like a shadow pretending to be fire."

Further down, a senior from Baekrin White Tiger Hall exhaled coldly. Frost drifted from his breath despite the summer heat. "Balance is not strength," he muttered. "Their movements are clean, but there’s no impact. No pressure. Seoryeon could’ve broken through them without lifting a hand."

"Mm," agreed another beside him. "More like dancers than warriors."

From Azure Thunder Hall, a thin man with gleaming silver tattoos along his forearms chuckled. "They’re charming," he said with a sardonic grin. "But they’re not dangerous. When our Jinseong gets serious, let’s see if their little dance still holds up."

A woman from Mugang Martial Pavilion adjusted her iron fan with a sharp snap. "Do Sangin will crush them by accident," she said flatly.

The verdict among the great sects was unanimous: the pair was interesting, but inconsequential.

They were a curiosity at best.

A fluke.

They don’t belong, thought the Azure Thunder Hall envoy, his fingers tapping lazily against his armrest. Let the second round tear them apart.

But above them all—hidden from view, standing where no eye dared to look too closely—was the real master of Yeonhwa Lotus Palace.

Damhye Yeo Ryeong stood in silence, cloaked in plain traveler’s robes that moved like mist around her. Her hood cast soft shadows across her features, but the faint smirk tugging at her lips gave her away.

She had not moved for the entirety of the first round. Not even once.

But now, her head tilted.

Her gaze settled squarely on the two figures standing at the edge of the arena—Jinmu Yeon and Eun Haria—like the final brushstrokes in a painting of war.

Her smirk deepened slightly, barely noticeable.

Let them mock, she thought. Let them build walls of pride around themselves.

She watched how Jinmu, ever so subtly, moved a half-step behind Haria as the dust cleared. It wasn’t fear. It was deliberate. Calculated.

Deference... or camouflage?

Still hiding your full face, Jinmu? Good. That means you’re learning.

She noted how Haria’s hand twitched—once—barely perceptible.

But to her eyes, trained to read the movements of blooming petals in moonlight, it was a clear signal:

"Do not provoke. Not yet."

The mask was still intact.

Which meant their time had not yet come.

High above, in the Royal Pavilion of the central gallery, another figure had also noticed the same.

Do Giseon, the First Blade, sat in his throne of blackwood and steel.

His fingers had been still throughout the round.

But now—they resumed tapping.

Steady. Rhythmic.

Not out of boredom.

But thought.

A slow smirk formed beneath his neatly-trimmed beard. Just one corner of his lips, rising like a sword being unsheathed.

He leaned forward, just slightly, the glint in his eyes sharpening.

So... even the mist sends its children now.

He crossed one leg over the other and resumed tapping.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

He had watched the entire battle without blinking. Not once. While others had focused on Juhwa’s fluid evasion, or Seoryeon’s brutal grapples, or Jinseong’s erratic flow, he had been watching the quiet pair who had moved like one shadow cast by two flames.

They hadn’t sought attention.

They hadn’t thrown punches for the sake of applause.

They had simply... moved.

Perfectly.

That kind of synergy... That’s no accident.

The crowd, unaware of the deeper eyes watching, was still buzzing. Speculation ran wild through every corridor, every merchant booth, every noble seat.

But within the higher seats, the mood had shifted again.

Not to recognition.

But something more dangerous:

Curiosity.

And in the world of martial arts, curiosity from those in power was never a silent thing.

It led to investigation.

To challenge.

To pressure.

To confrontation.

To war.

The Five Great Young Masters had dazzled the crowd.

But Jinmu Yeon and Eun Haria... had awakened something else entirely.

And perhaps that, more than anything, was the most dangerous move of the tournament so far.