CHAPTER 24: CHAPTER 23: GRAND OPEN TOURNAMENT – SECOND MATCH

The morning of the second match arrived not with the warmth of anticipation but with the sharp tension of a blade unsheathed under clouded skies.

Jinmu stood in silence as the faint light of dawn filtered through the wooden screens of the inn’s window, casting narrow shadows across the floor. His hand hovered over the porcelain basin of cold water, not to wash, not to cleanse, but to feel something grounding. Something real.

His mask remained untouched on his face.

The temptation to remove it had come and gone throughout the night like the passing wind—soft, persistent, but ultimately ignored. Even now, inside the privacy of his room, with no eyes to watch, he couldn’t bring himself to take it off. It wasn’t just a disguise anymore. Not just a precaution. It was armor. A boundary. A shield between him and a world not yet ready.

No one can know. Not until I’m ready.

A knock came on the door, light and brief, followed by the familiar voice of Eun Haria from beyond the panel.

"The arena’s beginning to fill. If we’re late, they’ll start talking even more than they already are."

Jinmu rose without answering. There was no need. Haria always knew when he would follow. Moments later, the two stepped out together, their silhouettes cutting down the quiet hallway like twin brushstrokes of ink on pale rice paper.

And outside—the world was already roaring.

The Grand Arena of the Mugang Martial Pavilion was a coliseum forged by centuries of tradition and sharpened by generations of bloodshed. By the time Jinmu and Haria arrived, the morning sky was already drowned in the fever pitch of tens of thousands. Merchant flags swayed. The scent of steamed buns and meat skewers clung to the air. Distant chants echoed from every direction like crashing waves against a cliff.

But the moment the two cloaked figures appeared near the west gate of the Arena, the crowd’s attention shifted like birds startled by a sudden movement.

"There they are!"

"The masked boy and the lotus girl!"

"I heard they didn’t even use techniques in the first round!"

"Ridiculous. They just hid behind stronger fighters!"

"No, no, the girl’s footwork alone knocked out three people. I saw it with my own eyes!"

"Masks in a tournament like this? Cowards."

"No, mysterious."

"Probably just ugly."

"Or dangerous."

"Or both."

A hundred voices, a hundred judgments. Jinmu walked through them all as if through mist. Not a glance wavered. Not a step faltered. His mask remained smooth, unreadable. But beneath it, his jaw was tight.

They talk like they know anything. Like they saw everything. But they didn’t.

He didn’t care about the murmurs. He had heard worse. In darker places. In lonelier years. But today, something else pulled at the edges of his thoughts. Not the eyes of the crowd, but the silence between them. An unseen pressure tightening around his spine.

It wasn’t coming from the people. It wasn’t from the Arena.

It was something else.

Haria must’ve sensed it too. She walked slightly ahead, as she always did when she was anxious, eyes darting toward the watchtowers and rooftops above the arena’s edge. Her fingers brushed against the hilt of her dagger more often than usual.

They passed beneath the gate leading to the competitor’s waiting area, a tall arch of black-lacquered wood with the sigil of the Mugang Martial Pavilion carved in silver at its peak. Inside, the air was different. Still loud from the outside, yes—but here the noise echoed like thunder down a narrow hallway.

And at the end of that hallway was a set of sliding doors that would soon open onto the battlefield.

Fifty competitors left. Half of the original hundred had already been eliminated.

Some had fallen early in the chaos. Others had been targeted by stronger fighters. And a few had surrendered once they realized the level of monsters they were up against.

But Jinmu and Haria had survived.

And now every eye—ally, enemy, audience—was watching to see if that survival had been a fluke or a threat.

Jinmu sat against the wall, far from the other participants. Haria didn’t sit. She stood at his side, arms crossed, silent. Always aware.

Across the waiting room, Jinmu could feel the glances. They weren’t subtle anymore.

One man scoffed loudly and whispered something to his companion while pointing at Jinmu. Another woman with a curved glaive rolled her eyes. A few of the younger martial artists whispered openly, their laughter sharp and juvenile.

And yet... beneath all that ridicule was something else. Something they couldn’t mask as easily.

Fear.

It was in the stiffness of their limbs. In the way their eyes kept drifting back to him and Haria even after they tried to look away.

They hadn’t forgotten what they saw during the first match.

Jinmu felt it all, but didn’t respond. He simply closed his eyes.

The wind is shifting. Something’s wrong.

The arena trembled as the crowd above grew louder—stomping, shouting, chanting in waves. Haria leaned down slightly.

"You feel it too, don’t you?" she asked, her voice low.

Jinmu opened his eyes. "...Yes."

"Someone’s watching us."

"No. More than someone. It’s like... webs."

She nodded slowly. "They’re tightening."

Jinmu’s hand slowly clenched into a fist.

It’s not just a bad feeling. It’s a warning. I’ve felt this kind of pressure before—when someone is ready to kill.

And not just him.

He could feel it pressing down over the entire arena, especially over those wearing the insignia of the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace. Even if no one else could sense it, he knew it in his bones. The stillness. The cold breath of hidden ki. The taste of steel in the air that hadn’t been drawn.

Haria’s gaze flicked toward one of the open corridors above, high in the stands.

"They’re already in position," she whispered.

Jinmu didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to.

But even then, he didn’t rise.

Instead, he whispered, "Let them watch."

And behind the mask, his eyes narrowed.

Because while others only saw the boy who refused to show his face... none of them could see what was moving beneath his skin.

None of them had any idea what he was capable of.

The sky was cloudless, yet tension clung to the air like moisture before a downpour. A heatless wind blew across the Mugang Martial Pavilion arena, but the one who stood at its peak didn’t mind the weather.

Do Giseon, the First Blade of the Pavilion, didn’t even pretend to be subtle anymore.

He was smirking.

From the terrace above the grandstand, he overlooked the arena where fifty martial artists were preparing. Jinmu Yeon and Eun Haria stood among them, side by side—silent, composed, and too noticeable for their own good. His lips curled slightly more as his gaze fell on them. Not even veiled contempt—just amusement. Because even though Jinmu had surpassed expectations and earned whispers from the crowd, even though the Lotus Palace had clearly made its move... everything was already in place.

Let’s see how long your miracle lasts, he thought lazily.

Do Giseon flicked a signal fan open with a sharp snap. It bore no markings and no emblems—but its presence was enough.

Far from the arena, shadowed by the dense cliffs of Mt. Mugang, movement passed invisibly through stone and soil. Small, silent—like a cold mist crawling across still water.

Black-clad figures slipped through the corridors of the Pavilion unnoticed, their steps so light they left no imprint, not even on dust. They wore no symbols, only curved blades sheathed across their backs and faintly pulsing qi seals inked at their temples.

They were the Night Drizzle Sect—an unorthodox assassination sect hidden under the wing of the Blade Union. And now, they were no longer waiting. They were watching.

Every corridor where a Yeonhwa Lotus Palace disciple was stationed. Every room where their elders and retainers had been quartered. Every alleyway near their designated rest houses. Hidden blades, listening threads, poison traps—not for use, but for warning.

Observation. Surveillance. Pressure.

Strike a snake before it coils, Do Giseon had said when giving the order.

Sow doubt before they gather courage.

And the Crimson Flow Blade Union had agreed, almost too quickly.

Inside the Pavilion walls, several Yeonhwa disciples unknowingly passed right by their shadows. Had they turned an inch to the left, or noticed the faint flicker in the curtain of wind, they might have caught a glimpse. But the Night Drizzle Sect did not allow even that. They were called mist incarnate for a reason.

Meanwhile, inside the coliseum, drums resounded thrice—the signal to assemble.

The announcer, a high-ranking Pavilion elder, stepped into the middle of the elevated stone stage. His voice, amplified by ki-infused jade, boomed throughout the air like a strike on a temple bell.

"Esteemed martial guests, warriors of the Central Plains, the second match of the Grand Open Tournament shall now begin!"

The audience cheered with rising excitement, shaking the stands as cloaked spectators from every province leaned forward in anticipation. Several even stood—sect leaders, retired masters, merchants with too much interest in youth battles.

Jinmu remained quiet, his mask unshaken. Haria didn’t speak either, her gaze fixed on the announcer with quiet intensity. Around them, the tension coiled tighter as their fellow contestants whispered.

"The rules for this second round are as follows," the announcer declared. "Fifty martial artists shall enter the arena together."

That was expected.

"Only ten shall advance."

That drew a gasp. A brutal cut.

"You may form temporary alliances, fight alone, or attempt tactics—so long as you do not kill. Fatalities will lead to immediate disqualification and possible sect penalties."

Jinmu’s brow tensed.

Only ten... from fifty.

That’s a bloodbath in all but name.

The announcer raised a long flag.

"Those who fall unconscious, surrender, or are removed from the boundary line will be considered out. Only the last ten warriors still standing within the stage boundaries shall proceed to the third round."

Another murmur passed through the crowd.

"This is not a battle of strength alone," the announcer finished. "But of endurance, instinct... and survival!"

Suddenly, a flare of fire cut through the wind.

All eyes turned to a figure standing high on one of the viewing platforms, backlit by banners of crimson and flame.

Juhwa Gyeongcheol, the "Twin Blaze Scion" of Hwagyeong Sword Sect, stood bare-chested under his battle robes. His twin flame-patterned swords shimmered in the sun, their hilts radiating with heat. His gaze swept across the participants—then stopped briefly on Jinmu and Haria.

He didn’t sneer.

He didn’t smirk.

He just grinned. Like a man certain of something no one else could deny.

Ten out of fifty, Juhwa mused.

Only ten... good. I only need one match to show why Hwagyeong still rules the southern skies.

Let’s see how long that mask of yours stays intact, stranger.

A few rows away from him, seated like a silent mountain with his arms folded into his sleeves, was a young man with a fur-lined robe and a gaze like frozen steel.

Seoryeon Baekho of the Baekrin White Tiger Hall didn’t flinch or speak.

He watched the stage the way one might observe a wild beast pacing in a cage—carefully, calculating, and without indulgence. He was massive, broad-shouldered, his body already steaming faintly from the cold mist that clung to his skin. The cold qi that encased him was like a mantle—passive now, but terrifying once active.

Only ten will remain, Baekho thought.

That’s fine. I never needed more than one match to prove dominance.

But the one in the mask...

His eyes narrowed slightly at Jinmu.

...he moved like someone who wasn’t fighting with full weight. That is dangerous.

Farther down, a wiry figure in sky-blue robes was chuckling to himself, both arms crossed lazily as he leaned against the railing of the platform.

Eunwon Jinseong of Azure Thunder Hall wore his usual smile—wide, bright, and deeply insincere. Lightning tattoos glowed faintly across his arms, dancing from finger to elbow as his qi stirred like a coiled storm.

"Ahhh~ so intense," he drawled aloud, though no one had spoken to him. "Only ten, and forty bleeding egos who think they’ll be one of them."

His grin widened as his eyes flicked toward Jinmu.

And one mystery boy with a mask who’s making my fingers twitch. Are you a storm in disguise? Or just a mirror made of smoke?

Either way, it’s going to be fun breaking both.

And lastly, on the platform with a modestly raised banner of the Mugang Martial Pavilion, a shorter and stockier figure stood in silence.

Do Sangin, cousin to the First Blade and the Pavilion’s chosen representative, watched everything without comment.

His iron fan remained closed. His twin-edged saber hung quietly at his hip. He didn’t move, didn’t nod, didn’t react when the rules were announced.

But his eyes never left the masked boy standing beside Eun Haria.

You’re not like the others, Sangin thought.

No fame. No background. And yet, you made it through the first round with footwork too refined for your supposed level.

I wonder... can you copy what you see?

He exhaled softly.

Let’s find out.

On the arena floor, the fifty contestants began to spread apart, finding space, adjusting weapons, testing the wind with slow movements.

Jinmu didn’t say anything. But the air around him thickened slightly, as if his instincts began to flare.

He looked at the empty seats near the back corner of the stadium. They looked ordinary. Unattended. But something made the hairs on his neck rise.

We’re being watched, he thought.

From everywhere and nowhere at once.

The second match is about to begin... but something unseen is already in motion.