Lu Zhan

As the old man's words echoed through the arena, the thirty young men and women representing the Xing, Zhao, and Lü clans stepped into the arena and drew their lots, their faces a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

The first round of the New Blood Competition began. Clashes of steel rang through the air as the young disciples unleashed a dazzling array of martial arts techniques – Thunderbolt Kicks, Dominating Tiger Fists, Earth-Shattering Palms – each more fierce and deadly than the last. Within moments, the first cries of pain filled the arena as some of the contestants were quickly overwhelmed and eliminated from the competition.

The crowd was captivated. They watched, their faces a mixture of awe and exhilaration, as the young disciples battled it out before them, their every move a testament to years of rigorous training. Witnessing a battle between Martial Disciples was a rare treat, and they were determined to savor every moment.

"Boom!"

A young man from the Zhao Clan crashed onto the platform, his body a broken mass. Standing over him, a smug look on his face, was Xing Feng, his clothes barely ruffled.

"Pathetic," Xing Feng muttered, shaking his head. "I was hoping for a challenge. " He had been hoping to catch Xing Jue's eye, to gloat a little, but when he spotted him in the crowd, his blood ran cold.

Xing Jue wasn't even watching him. He was sound asleep, his head resting on his arms as he slumbered peacefully amidst the chaos. He hadn't even bothered to watch Xing Feng's match!

The disregard, the utter lack of acknowledgment, stung more than any insult.

"Just you wait," Xing Feng hissed, his eyes narrowing as a wave of cold fury washed over him. "When this tournament is over, you will pay for your arrogance, Xing Jue. I promise you that."

Xing Jue, of course, remained blissfully unaware of Xing Feng's threat. He was lost in a world of dreams, his mind far from the noise and violence of the arena. He had stayed up all night talking with Old Zhang, and now, he needed his rest. He had a feeling he was going to need all his strength for what was to come.

The hours passed, and the tournament raged on. One by one, the young disciples were eliminated, until only two remained. Xing Feng and Zhao Zhen, the two Mid-Rank Martial Disciples, stood facing each other in the center of the arena, the crowd's anticipation reaching fever pitch.

"Well, well, Xing Feng," Zhao Zhen drawled, his voice dripping with arrogance, "I never imagined you'd actually make it this far. This entire tournament has been a disappointment, just like I predicted. No challenge whatsoever. "

"Oh?" Xing Feng shot back, his eyes narrowing. "And did your grand prediction include you being defeated by me?"

"Please," Zhao Zhen scoffed, throwing back his head and laughing, "You're the one who's going to be defeated. Mark my words!"

Xing Feng's fists clenched. He lunged before Zhao Zhen had even finished speaking, his body a blur of motion as he launched into a series of attacks. Zhao Zhen, caught off guard but unfazed, met his attacks with a flurry of his own. The clash of their Chi rippled through the arena, threatening to tear the very fabric of reality apart.

But before their duel could truly begin, a voice, cold and arrogant, cut through the tension like a knife.

"There's no need to fight, you two," the voice boomed, echoing across the silent arena. "Because today, you both… lose."

Every head in the arena turned towards the source of the voice – the young man in the bamboo hat who had been sitting quietly in the back of the Lü Clan's section, watching the tournament unfold with an unreadable expression. He was clearly a member of the Lü Clan, but he hadn't participated in the tournament. Until now.

"Young man," the old man said, his voice cautious, "The match is still in progress. If you wish to issue a challenge, you must wait until it is over."

"Are there any rules stating that I cannot challenge both finalists simultaneously?" the young man asked, his voice calm but laced with steel.

The old man paused, his mind racing. "Well," he said at last, "No, I suppose there aren't."

"Did you hear that, Zhao Zhen?" Xing Feng spat, his face flushed with anger. "He wants to challenge us both! Let's teach this fool a lesson he won't soon forget. We can settle things between us afterwards."

"Hold on," Zhao Zhen said, his tone more measured than Xing Feng's. He turned to the young man, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "You're very brave, young one. But who are you, exactly?"

The young man stopped in front of them, his face still hidden beneath the shadow of his hat. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached up and removed it.

The effect was immediate. Xing Feng and Zhao Zhen, moments ago the picture of arrogance and confidence, froze, their eyes widening in disbelief. Their faces drained of all color as they recognized the young man standing before them.

"Lü… Lü Zhan," Xing Feng stammered, his voice barely a whisper.

"It's good to be back," the young man – Lü Zhan – said, a slow smile spreading across his lips.

Down in the audience, Xing Jue smiled.

"I knew it," he murmured.

He had suspected it all along. Lü Zhan, the Lü Clan's former prodigy, the boy who had disappeared three years ago to train at the Yu Feng Pavilion… he was back.

Xing Jue had fought Lü Zhan many times before he had left. They were rivals, but also, in a strange way, friends. He had pushed Xing Jue to become stronger, to never give up. The thought of facing him again, after all these years, sent a thrill of anticipation coursing through him.

"Well?" Lü Zhan asked, his eyes scanning the two stunned young men before him, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Are we going to do this or not?"

"That good-for-nothing… he's been kicked out of the Xing Clan." Xing Feng's voice shook slightly as he replied, his usual arrogance gone.

"Oh?" A flicker of disappointment flashed across Lü Zhan's face. He had been looking forward to finally settling the score with Xing Jue. They had been rivals since childhood, their skills so evenly matched that none of their many battles had ever ended with a clear victor. To this day, Lü Zhan considered Xing Jue to be the only worthy opponent he had ever encountered among the younger generation of the three clans.

"Well, no matter," Lü Zhan said, his tone turning sharp, "let's not waste any more time. Both of you… attack me."

Xing Feng opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it when he caught the look in Lü Zhan's eyes.

"Xing Feng," Zhao Zhen hissed, his eyes darting between Xing Feng and Lü Zhan, "We don't know how strong he's become, but one thing's for sure – he's stronger than both of us. Let's put our differences aside for now and take him on together. "

"He's right," Xing Feng grunted. "I refuse to believe that the two of us can't defeat him!"

"Enough talk," Lü Zhan said, his voice laced with impatience. "Show me what you've got."

"Don't underestimate us, Lü Zhan!" Xing Feng roared. They might be outmatched, but they were still proud Martial Disciples of their respective clans. They wouldn't go down without a fight.

"Yellow-Rank, High-Level Martial Art – Wind God Leg!"

"Yellow-Rank, High-Level Martial Art – Cloud Dispersing Palm!"

Their synchronised roars shook the arena. Two powerful attacks, one a whirlwind of kicks, the other a thunderous palm strike, hurtled towards Lü Zhan with terrifying speed and precision, their Chi swirling around them like a storm.

But Lü Zhan didn't flinch. He watched their attacks approach, his expression unreadable, until the very last second.

"Break," he said, his voice deceptively calm.

He raised his hand and threw a punch.

"Boom!"

The impact was earth-shattering. The three attacks collided, sending shockwaves through the arena and knocking the breath out of everyone watching.

When the dust settled, Xing Feng and Zhao Zhen were lying on the ground, blood trickling from the corners of their mouths. They stared up at Lü Zhan, their faces contorted with a mixture of pain and disbelief. He hadn't even moved from his spot, hadn't even used a Martial Art. Just a single, casual punch. And it had been more than enough to defeat them both.

"How?" Xing Feng's voice was barely a croak. "Are you… are you a Martial Ancestor?"

Lü Zhan chuckled. "Hardly. I'm just a High-Rank Martial Disciple."

"Impossible!" The Xing Clan instructor, a High-Rank Martial Disciple himself, couldn't contain his disbelief. He knew he couldn't have possibly achieved that level of power, even at his peak. Could the gap between their talent be… that big?

"So," Lü Zhan said, looking down at the two fallen men, his voice sharp with amusement, "do I win by default, or are you two going to keep me waiting?"

"You're strong, Lü Zhan, I'll give you that," Zhao Zhen admitted, his earlier arrogance replaced by a grudging respect. "I yield."

"I… yield," Xing Feng muttered, his pride smarting more than his wounds.

"Excellent!" Lü Zhan threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing through the stunned silence. "The winner… is Lü Zhan!" He strode towards the table where the prizes were displayed, his every step radiating confidence and power.

"These prizes," he said to the old man, his eyes gleaming with triumph, "they belong to me now, correct?"

"Indeed, Young Master Lü," the old man said, his eyes wide with awe. "Unless, of course…" He paused, his gaze sweeping across the shocked faces of the young disciples. "Unless anyone else wishes to challenge him?"

Lü Zhan turned and surveyed the crowd, his eyes daring, challenging. One by one, the young disciples lowered their heads, unable to meet his gaze.

"Very well, then," Lü Zhan said, his smile widening in triumph. He reached for the prizes…

"Wait!"

A clear, steady voice rang out, cutting through the tense silence.

"Hm?" Lü Zhan turned, his eyes scanning the crowd. Who would be foolish enough to challenge him now?

The entire arena, caught between anticipation and disbelief, joined him in his search.

"No need to search," the voice said again, close now, almost conversational. "I am right here."

It wasn't coming from the arena.

It was coming from the stands.

Every head in the arena turned as one.

And there, striding confidently through the stunned silence, was a young man dressed in black.