Boom!
At the instant Lin Zhengren closed on Zhang Yuan, art ready to fire —
Zhang Yuan exploded.
Not a figure of speech. A statement of fact.
Lightning that had been building inside him for who knew how long detonated across his body. His hair stood on end. Char spread over his skin, sparks snapping and dying on him.
And Lin Zhengren, pressed almost chest-to-chest with him, caught the blast full-on. He was thrown clear across the field, landing in twitches and spasms.
His first humiliation of the trial.
The art that did it: Thunder Scourge. A high-grade Yi-rank art.
The impossible part — Zhang Yuan's target had been himself.
When Lin Zhengren shattered his Jia-rank art mid-preparation, Zhang Yuan had not tried to save it. In the same breath, he triggered the instant-cast art engraved in his Celestial Palace — aimed at his own body.
Insane. Reckless. If Lin Zhengren had not closed in immediately, or had been even a breath slower, Zhang Yuan would have become the first cultivator in the history of the Three-City Trial to lose to his own art. A laughingstock for the entire field.
He gambled. He won. The slimmest of openings, earned.
Thunder Scourge wounded both men. Lin Zhengren was newly sixth-rank, not yet at the peak of his realm; Zhang Yuan, soaked in thunder all his life, recovered a few breaths sooner.
Seals flew from Zhang Yuan's fingers. He would seize this vanishing moment and end it.
His face went stiff.
His Celestial Palace was empty.
The art would not complete.
Only then did he notice: five steps away, a half-transparent herb swaying in the wind.
Essence-Drawing Grass. A low-grade Bing-rank art.
Its effect: within its reach, Dao essence burned faster.
Its flaw: it did not distinguish friend from foe.
But Lin Zhengren had opened the Gate. Heaven and earth fed him essence without cease. Zhang Yuan stood outside the Gate, fighting on nothing but the reserves in his own Celestial Palace.
One. Two. Three. Zhang Yuan's face darkened with each count. Without his knowing, Lin Zhengren had seeded nine Essence-Drawing Grasses across the field. Nine — and only the thunder's interruption had stopped him from planting more.
Holding an overwhelming advantage, victory already in sight — and still he had buried this insurance.
What a steady, cautious bastard.
Under nine herbs, Zhang Yuan's essence ran dry.
The opening flickered out.
Lin Zhengren recovered and rose.
"I lose," Zhang Yuan said, hoarse.
He had no path to victory, and he would not give Lin Zhengren the pleasure of beating him.
Maple City lost its shot at a third straight crown. Lost the place in the State Dao Academy that mattered.
No one blamed him.
Throwing Thunder Scourge at his own body. A man that savage...
And this from a cultivator who treasured his image above most things — look at him now, charred black, sparks still crawling over his skin. Who could say he had not given everything?
Even Dean Dong said nothing. He could not claim the disciple had held back.
Zhang Yuan had had a chance, after all. One Dao vortex, collapsed, would have flooded him with essence in that gap — enough to beat Lin Zhengren.
But the price: he would fall back to eighth rank, and stay there for life.
Win the trial, enter the State Academy as a crippled cultivator. What would be the point?
The judge announced the result.
The Three-City Trial's fifth-year champion: Lin Zhengren of Riverview, sixth-rank, Soaring Dragon realm.
Next year, he would be a State Academy freshman. A bright road ahead.
Maple City claimed two lesser crowns. Not a shameful showing.
Three Mountain City: nothing.
Jiang Chen saw Zhao Tiehe, Yang Xiong, their eyes rimmed red.
That was competition.
...
The Three-Scent Pavilion.
Miao Qing sat at her mirror, tracing rouge with her little finger.
Behind her, an old man in black knelt and begged: "Holy Maiden, please act! Our people are dying out there!"
"I told you not to be greedy. You smelled the Candle and lost your minds. What good is begging me now? The Ghost Gate's shadow has gone to the State of Yun. What do I have left to fight Wei Lin with?"
"We were fools. But the Bone Messenger agreed..."
"Ha." Miao Qing smiled. "Then ask him to act."
The old man could only knock his head against the floor.
"The moment I show myself, Wei Lin will kill me on sight. And Dean Dong is waiting for exactly that. We have no chance." Her voice turned soft, almost petulant. "I told you to leave the Ghost Gate's shadow with me. None of you listened."
The old man gritted his teeth: "Bone Path has spent decades building its strength. Are all those brethren to die for nothing?"
"Enough. Don't argue in front of me. I've laid my own plans — by now the Candle should be safely out of the city." She closed the rouge box. "As for those brethren..."
"They died. So they died."
...
The storm had risen and died in a moment. The defense had been tight, the coordination flawless.
The Candle's sudden appearance had forced Bone Path's hand. It meant too much to them to refuse — and Wei Lin and Dean Dong had woven the net before the choice even presented itself.
The ending was written before the beginning. Every Bone Path operative in the city died.
That did not mean the sect had lost. Bone Path had come ready to spend everyone. If the Candle got out, the day belonged to them.
...
Greenwood Avenue. The peddler with the shoulder pole walked on, unhurried.
He knew this city. He had planned for Wei Lin's ambush — only not for how fierce, how thorough it would be.
His brethren were dead, most likely. He would not be.
He knew where the city guards would concentrate their strength. He could slip around it.
A small lane ahead, left. Past a bathhouse.
He would take a soak, wash off the road dust. The bathhouse keeper, Old Man Song, was honest; he would watch the pole. Who would think to look for the Nether Candle in a bathhouse? He could even sleep here, and walk out of the city when things quieted down.
He was not going to die.
Then he saw the shaved head, just as he turned into the lane.
A monk, maybe. But the face was too savage for any temple.
"I smell something strange," the bald man said. And licked his lips.
The peddler's fear hit him like a wave. He gathered essence to fight.
His heart was already gone.
The world fell into endless dark.
"Holy Maiden... is this the view at the bottom of the River of Oblivion?" he thought, at the last.