A clear, ringing note crossed the sky. The Cauldron Chime had sounded; the Martial Trial had begun.
Yu Yingcai gripped his sword and focused his gaze, making no move for the moment.
But Shang Huaitong paid no attention to his movements. He merely looked down at his sword and slowly brushed a finger over it.
He had drawn his sword because he intended to strike.
His true opponent today was not anyone standing here, but this sword stroke within his reach-could the man before him, whom the Seven Flood Dragons spent a hundred and twenty taels of silver a year supporting, help him complete it?
He slowly closed his eyes and stepped forward.
Something seemed to spread abruptly from beneath his feet, silently enveloping the entire arena before radiating across the whole Martial Field.
It was not true qi, nor anything else tangible or intangible. It was merely a feeling, an artistic realm born within his heart and reflected back upon the world.
Everyone sensed something they could neither explain nor describe, an experience unlike anything at any previous Martial Competition. Many spectators dismissed it as an illusion. Yet without realizing it, they had already fixed their eyes on him.
Up on the viewing platform, Gu Yunfu abruptly straightened, his eyes locked on the man in the arena.
Shang Huaitong still had his eyes closed. His mind had sunk into a deep, dark realm, drawing everything around him into it.
This was a place he had chosen with care-the Championship Tournament was a very typical, simple "field," just like the little box of grass in his room.
Cheers, gazes, interests, prospects. They condensed into the same essential quality, surrounding and filling this Martial Field. And when he spread out his countless threads and took in this field, amid all those