For a moment, silence ruled the arena. The challenge hung in the air like thunderclouds waiting to burst.

And then — one by one — figures began to move.

From the Heaven Dou section, a tall youth stepped forward, blue robes billowing as spirit energy shimmered faintly around him. His expression was tight with determination. "I'll represent Heaven Dou Imperial Academy."

Next came a powerfully built teen from Star Luo's delegation, golden claws flashing as his martial spirit surged briefly. "Star Luo Academy will not back down."

"Blazing Sky Sect will join."

"Azure Feather Clan sends its blade."

"Shrek Academy accepts."

One after another, team captains rose from their seats, summoned their courage, and walked to the center stage. Boots echoed against the stone, each step gathering momentum as they converged below the platform.

A few captains exchanged cautious nods. Others avoided eye contact entirely.

In total — eight representatives now stood upon the central dueling ring. Some bore armaments. Others wore calm focus. Though not all were allies, today they were united by a singular aim:

To shatter the wall Spirit Hall had built.

To challenge the man who stood at the top of that wall.

From the high platform, Michael observed their gathering with a quiet, unreadable expression.

Then he stepped forward again.

He didn't summon armor.

He didn't unleash spirit rings.

He simply walked down the staircase from the golden balcony and entered the arena alone, his long coat fluttering behind him like a black banner.

The captains watched his descent, already imagining his defeat.

And when he reached the center of the ring, Michael stopped and looked at them — not with arrogance, but with something colder.

Acceptance.

He spread his arms slightly — not mockingly, but with something almost solemn.

"Eight of you," he said, tone smooth and unwavering. "I was hoping for ten, but this will do."

The wind stirred gently.

Above, the Spirit Arena's dome began to shimmer as containment barriers activated, locking in the coming battle.

Felicia, still seated behind the balustrade, rested her chin in her hand, watching with a flicker of veiled interest behind her lace veil.

The Grandmaster said nothing — only tightened his fists behind his back.

Bibi Dong gave no command.

She didn't need to.

The referee stepped back, clearing the field. His voice rang out, crisp and authoritative:

"Begin."

And the arena erupted into motion.

Four captains surged forward instantly, auras flaring as martial spirits burst to life — fire, lightning, steel, and wind.

The other four circled wide, flanking from behind, coordinating instinctively — using formation and numbers to try trapping Michael in a pincer.

But Michael didn't move.

Not yet.

His feet remained planted as one attacker came in low with a blazing spear — a feint for the sword-wielder rushing from the right.

Then he raised a single hand.

The air cracked.

In that instant, the blazing spear froze mid-lunge — arrested by a black-gloved grip that had moved faster than the eye could follow.

The sword-wielder barely had time to widen his eyes before a blast of pressure hurled him backward, smashing into the spirit barrier with a scream.

Michael exhaled lightly — and the battle truly began.

He moved like shadow and lightning. Not recklessly, but with precision. Every motion was calculated. Every strike, deliberate.

He didn't use his full power.

Not yet.

This wasn't about domination.

This was a demonstration.

A warning of what awaited any who continued the tournament under Spirit Hall's rules.

The arena shook. Dust and energy erupted in rolling waves. Watching teams leaned forward, jaws clenched and hearts pounding as the eight strongest young leaders on the continent tried to corner one man — and found themselves struggling to even touch him.

Above, one of the Titled Douluo muttered, "He's holding back."

Another, seated among Spirit Hall elders, stroked his beard and answered with smug pride, "Those eight are weaklings, after all." He smirked. "Our Holy Son dominates them using only his self-created techniques."

Below, as the pressure mounted, one captain finally collapsed — breath ragged, unable to rise.

Seven remained.

Michael turned calmly, unbothered. Bloodless. Icy.

And again, he asked:

"Is this truly the best the continent has to offer?"

"We were just getting started!!"

One of the captains roared, blood dripping from his lip as he forced himself upright. His spirit power surged violently — and for the first time, his spirit rings flared into view: two yellow, one purple — the mark of a third-ring spirit master.

But he wasn't alone.

Across the stage, the other captains met each other's eyes. Shame. Frustration. And then, silently… resolve.

"Don't hold back!"

"If we want to be taken seriously, we need to fight like it!"

"He can't beat all of us if we work together!"

A radiant burst of spirit power exploded across the battlefield as martial spirits awakened anew and spirit rings spun into position.

Most bore the standard configuration — two yellow, one purple — solid, disciplined, and trained. But three figures stood apart:

The first, clad in flowing blue and silver robes, raised a hand — and behind him, radiant wings of light unfurled. His aura was serene, almost divine. Four spirit rings glowed around him: two yellow, two purple. Graceful and composed, he stood with regal bearing. His martial spirit: the Sacred Swan. He was the First Prince of the Heaven Dou Empire.

The second was a stark contrast — wreathed in an aura of raw dominance. Clad in lion-themed armor streaked with jagged lightning, he stood tall beside a monstrous feline form: a massive, ghostly-white tiger with a single baleful crimson eye. Its growl echoed like thunder. Two yellow and two purple spirit rings spun violently around him. His martial spirit: the Evil-Eyed White Tiger. He was the Crown Prince of Star Luo.

The last was the calmest — quiet, measured. Tang San. His eyes shimmered like tranquil waters concealing deadly currents. Blue Silver Grass unfurled around him, pulsing with an eerie, preternatural grace. His four spirit rings circled with clockwork rhythm. Controlled. Lethal.

Then the others moved.

One conjured wind blades that screamed through the air like silver hawks.

Another summoned fiery spears that rained from the sky.

A third split into mirrored doubles — illusions flickering and dancing in chaotic patterns.

Two advanced from the flanks, forming a precise pincer meant to collapse inward on their target.

And in the center of it all stood Michael.

No martial spirit.

No spirit rings.

No stance.

Just silence.

And then — he moved.

With the subtlest flick of his wrist, the wind blades shattered like glass.

*******

Like it?

Read More at :- patreon.com/be_king