Chapter 21: The Ascent of Shadows
The arena roared with unrelenting fervor, a living, breathing colossus of sound, but for Li Shen, it had become a distant storm—muffled thunder behind a wall of crystalline focus. He stood motionless at the edge of the arena platform, his dark robe stained faintly with dust and Qi traces, his ironwood staff resting loosely in his right hand.
His breath was steady. Every beat of his heart resonated with the flow of Qi in his meridians, and with it came a strange clarity—like the hush after a lightning strike. Stage 9 of Qi Condensation, he reminded himself, not with arrogance, but with quiet certainty. He hadn't broken through by chance or accident. He had earned this, clawed his way forward through humiliation, exile, and battle.
The victory over Bai Rong still lingered in the minds of many. Bai Rong had been no weakling—an established outer court favorite, lauded for his speed and twin sabers. Yet, Li Shen had dismantled him in less than thirty seconds, using not brute strength, but surgical precision. He hadn't even needed to harm Bai Rong severely. One sharp tap at the right acupoint had sufficed. The crowd hadn't known what to make of it. No blood, no spectacle—just... victory. Silent, clean, terrifying.
---
"Unbelievable… he's not even Foundation Establishment," someone whispered from the stands.
"He's hiding something. That level of Qi control is unnatural," said another.
A third voice: "Did you see how his staff stopped just short of that guy's throat? That wasn't luck. That's Intent."
Intent. A word that carried weight in cultivation circles. Only those who had refined their comprehension of a weapon to the point of communion could wield it. And Li Shen had achieved Stage 3 Blade Intent—without a blade.
Even now, sitting cross-legged in the waiting alcove beneath the arena stands, Li Shen could feel the weight of their stares. Opponents, elders, spectators—each of them grappling with the same unsettling question:
Who the hell is he really?
---
Above the arena, within a shaded terrace reserved for Elders, Elder Guo's expression remained thunderous. His fingers drummed soundlessly on the wooden armrest, knuckles pale. Zhou Tai, seated behind him like a chastised dog, kept his gaze down.
"This is impossible," Guo muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "He was supposed to be cursed."
Zhou Tai dared a glance. "He must be using some forbidden art. I swear, he—"
"Silence." Guo's Qi flared subtly, just enough to press Zhou Tai's lungs and shut his mouth.
The Elder's eyes narrowed. "We'll find out soon enough. Either he breaks... or he gets broken."
---
Meanwhile, the tournament's leaderboard had crystallized, finalizing the names of the Top 8 contenders. Huge spirit-etched jade screens floated above the arena, displaying eight names carved in brilliant golden script:
Gao Lei
Ling Xia
Wei Han
Li Shen
Xue Jin (The Silent Storm)
Ran Qiu (The Mimic)
Fang Yuan
Mu Yiren
The arena surged with excitement. The elimination rounds had reduced the crowd's favorites to rubble, their reputations shattered by unexpected upsets. What remained was a storm of rising stars and silent killers.
---
Gao Lei, still unmoved by the chaos, stood like a monolith in the practice yard behind the main arena. His bare chest gleamed with sweat and spiritual markings, and his hammer—more like a boulder on a stick—rested at his side. Qi coiled around him, dense and oppressive.
"He's the only Foundation Establishment Stage 2 left who hasn't even bothered dodging attacks," someone murmured. "They just bounce off him…"
---
Ling Xia, by contrast, moved with effortless grace. She finished a set of flowing sword movements, her blade singing through the air with a note as clear as a bell. Her Foundation Establishment Stage 2 aura was like a shimmering veil of water, tranquil but deadly. She had not spoken a word all day.
---
Then came Wei Han, the brute. Towering, eyes gleaming with suppressed fury, he swung his greatsword through the air, each strike leaving shockwaves in its wake. He laughed loudly after every fight, but always turned to glance at Li Shen's platform—like a predator marking a rival.
"I've gotta break that little bastard," he muttered to himself. "He's too clean. Too perfect."
---
Among the remaining five, three dark horses stood apart—not just for their power, but for their sheer oddity.
Xue Jin, the Silent Storm, never spoke. Her eyes were always half-lidded, but when her fights began, they flared open with sharp, silent intensity. Her Wind and Sound Spiritual Roots created ghostlike sonic booms, invisible yet violent. Her last opponent had simply collapsed—ears bleeding, eyes wide, unable to fight.
Spectators had flinched when it happened. She never laid a hand on him.
---
Ran Qiu, by contrast, talked too much. He mimicked people's voices and fighting stances, and even their minor tics. His ability to replicate Qi patterns after brief observation was so eerie that some disciples refused to spar with him out of superstition.
"He's like a mirror... no, a haunted mirror," one of his defeated opponents had muttered.
He approached Li Shen once, grinning like a madman. "You fight like someone who doesn't fear consequences. That's new. Can't wait to copy that."
Li Shen had offered no reply—only a glance. That was enough to make Ran Qiu chuckle nervously and step back.
---
The tension among the Top 8 was palpable.
As dusk fell and the day's matches ended, Li Shen found himself alone in the meditation chamber beneath the arena—a gift for the Top 8 finalists. He sat cross-legged, eyes closed, Qi spiraling through his core in steady waves.
But within him, something deeper stirred.
Each match had brought him closer—not just to martial excellence, but to the thousand-kill threshold. He was at 922 demon kills. When he reached 1,000, his Heaven Asura Destruction Body would awaken in full. What that meant, he didn't fully understand—but the fragmented memories inherited from the Asura Tomb whispered of apocalyptic strength. Not just power—but transcendence.
He opened his eyes, their dark hue flickering momentarily with crimson light.
"I'm almost there," he whispered.
---
Elsewhere in the sect, whispers spread like wildfire.
In the outer courtyards, groups of disciples gathered around spirit-etched tablets, discussing strategies, betting odds, or simply gaping at the fact that someone like Li Shen—a former handyman—was now in the Top 8.
"He never talks. He just fights."
"Do you think he really killed that demon horde solo last year?"
"My brother said Elder Xu tried to read his meridians once and nearly fainted."
The myth of Li Shen was outpacing the man.
---
Zhou Tai, meanwhile, fumed in silence. He had once been ahead of Li Shen in cultivation, influence, and reputation. Now he was reduced to watching from the sidelines while the man he hated stood beneath the heavens, exalted.
"This isn't over," he muttered, clenching his fists until blood dripped between his fingers.
---
Back in the arena, the Grand Elder—a silver-haired figure robed in white—raised his voice.
"Top 8 competitors. Tomorrow begins the final phase: the Heaven's Spiral."
A collective murmur rose.
"The Heaven's Spiral will not be simple one-on-one matches. Instead, you will enter the Illusory Arena. There, you will face each other, and—more dangerously—yourselves. Your fears, flaws, and failures will manifest. You must either conquer them… or be consumed."
That changed everything.
A test of strength and spirit. An arena where lies could not hide.
Some competitors stiffened.
Ran Qiu blinked. "Wait, wait… ourselves?"
Wei Han grinned. "Good. Let's see who cracks first."
Xue Jin said nothing.
Li Shen didn't move, but his heart beat faster. He had known such tests before—in the Asura Tomb, during the fifth trial. He had faced images of himself dying a thousand ways, losing everyone, being corrupted by power.
He had endured.
But he also knew that each illusion peeled away a layer of armor.
This would be no simple tournament.
It would be a reckoning.
And for Li Shen, the Ascent of Shadows was just beginning.