This morning in Steel City was similar—yet strangely different—from others.

The sun rose the same as always, bleeding orange light into the haze above the city. Its warmth draped across tiled rooftops and blacksmith shacks alike, casting long shadows down crooked alleys and sandstone plazas. This time of year, clear skies were expected. Predictable. Safe.

And yet, the city felt anything but.

It wasn't the kind of difference one could name out loud—it was something woven into the way people walked, how their eyes lingered too long at distant rooftops, or how vendors forgot to call out prices while setting up their stalls. A heavy hush hung beneath the usual clang of hammers and creak of carts. Even the Ember Spire, towering as always above the city's centre, seemed taller today. More watchful.

Though for most, whether the tower remained jointly controlled by the four great forging clans or fell under the command of a single victor, life would go on—work would call, mouths still need feeding. And yet, every murmured conversation made it feel like the soul of the city itself was on the line.

It wasn't the prize.

It was the presence.

The prospect of seeing them—the scions of Steel City's proudest clans, the prodigies, the successors, the ones whispered about in forge smoke and tavern talk. The young generation that would one day rise to shape the future. And not just them—the old monster would be there too. The true powerhouses. Those whose names were spoken with reverence or fear. For most citizens, even catching a glimpse of one such figure was rare. Today, they'd see them all.

With the first golden rays of morning sliding over the horizon, the streets began to shift.

From all corners they came, like a colony of ants drawn toward a great fire. Young and old. Merchant and mercenary. Forgers with soot-stained aprons and noble ladies in silk-pressed cloaks. Children riding shoulders, old men leaning on canes carved with clan sigils. Some with quiet eyes and faintly glowing robes—spies from other cities, perhaps—blended into the crowd.

In the hush of dawn, behind thick wooden walls and a single shuttered window, one of today's main contenders dressed in silence.

Aaryan's movements were deliberate—neither rushed nor ceremonial. He adjusted his simple azure tunic, ran a hand through his hair, and paused for a moment as the air around him stirred—just slightly heavier than the day before.

Qi shimmered faintly along his skin, pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath his ribs. He hadn't meant to break through, not in sleep. But somewhere between the silence of the night and the rhythm of his inner cultivation, something had clicked. The seventh stage of Qi Condensation had come not with fanfare, but with stillness—like a door opening in the distance.

He let it settle. A long breath escaped him.

It would help today. He'd need every edge.

The room was empty now. No sign of Vedik, and no trace of Soot's ever-present scent of wine and mud. Aaryan didn't worry—he felt no danger. Likely the two were off somewhere again, hidden in the folds of the city. He suspected Soot was training Vedik, or at least making use of the little dragon's increasingly curious instincts.

Soot had warned him not to bring Vedik to the match. Too many eyes. Too many risks. Foundation Establishment cultivators would be present—perhaps even stronger ones—and he, illusion or not, had glitched more than once during previous fights.

Aaryan had agreed. It wasn't worth the gamble.

He exhaled once more and stepped into the hallway, footsteps light against the wooden floor. When he descended the creaking staircase, he found Shravan sitting at one of the tables, arms folded loosely, green robe freshly pressed, clan insignia catching the morning light.

"You're early," Aaryan said.

"I don't like being late on days I might get beaten up in front of half the city," Shravan replied with a straight face.

They shared a quiet laugh. Then, without another word, they walked out together.

The carriage was already waiting. Aaryan climbed in, settling into the soft seat as Shravan joined him and tapped the ceiling once. The carriage lurched forward, smooth and steady.

They rode in silence for a while, the hum of metal wheels rolling beneath them, the city sliding past the narrow carriage slits, shapes blurred by dust and light.

Then Aaryan blinked, noticing the path.

"Brother Shravan," he said, glancing sideways, "isn't the competition supposed to be at the Ember Spire?"

Shravan nodded, "It was. But… the four clans underestimated how many people would show up. They had to shift it to the Steel Arena. Just outside the city."

"Ah." Aaryan leaned back again, gaze distant.

As the carriage rolled beyond the city's edge, the streets began to thin.

The familiar clamour—the clang of hammers, the bark of merchants, the low hum of forge fires—faded behind them, swallowed by the dry wind that swept across the open path. Occasionally, Aaryan caught glimpses of others headed the same way—small groups on foot or modest carts trundling along, their conversations hushed, expressions eager. They weren't just travellers.

They were witnesses.

And they were all heading toward something that felt… bigger than any one of them.

Minutes passed in near silence.

Then the air changed.

It was subtle at first. A static current that danced along the skin. A pressure building, not from heat or Qi, but from something more collective—anticipation. Aaryan turned toward the narrow slit of the carriage window. The road curved, and his eyes caught it: a massive structure in the distance. A dark silhouette rising from the earth like a coiled beast preparing to strike.

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Long queues of people moved steadily toward it, winding trails like rivers feeding into a single colossal drain.

Shravan leaned forward slightly, voice quiet. "That's the Steel Arena."

Aaryan didn't respond, his gaze fixed.

"It's usually used to settle disputes between elders of clans or similar powerhouses," Shravan continued. "Today's the first time it'll host something like this—for the younger generation."

As they neared, the arena's details came into focus—the smooth curve of red stone walls, the faint shimmer of spirit-forged sigils along its walls. The arena looked ancient, but not in decay—more like it had been waiting.

And now, it had stirred.

As they approached, the environment transformed into chaos. The main entrance was overrun—waves of people pressed forward like a tide, voices raised in excitement, confusion, impatience. Guards in obsidian armour shouted orders, trying to hold the flow. Clan members did their best, trying to keep order—but the effort seemed like yelling into a storm.

Their carriage veered away, wheels crunching over a quieter gravel path toward the rear of the arena. A secondary gate stood there—heavy, iron-banded, mostly unguarded. When the guards spotted the symbol etched into the side of the carriage, they stepped aside immediately and swung the doors open with practiced speed.

Inside, silence returned like a held breath.

Aaryan stepped out first.

The air was cooler here, shadowed by the curve of the arena wall. A narrow tunnel stretched ahead, faint echoes bouncing from within. Shravan joined him, adjusting the folds of his robe as the carriage rolled back behind them and vanished from view.

They walked forward.

The tunnel opened into a staging area just behind the arena's central platform. And there, Aaryan saw it clearly for the first time.

The sound hit him second—layered voices, stamping feet, the rise and fall of murmurs thick as fog. A low, living hum pulsed through the arena like breath. It was a crowd, but it felt like one creature.

A raised rectangular platform of stone, worn yet sturdy, stood in the middle like an altar to battle. Around it, rows of seats spiralled outward and upward in perfect concentric rings—each level stacked higher than the last. Thousands of people, maybe more, filled the arena, and yet more shadows moved at the gates, still flooding in.

Aaryan stared at the vast crowd, eyes narrowing slightly.

"How many people actually live in Steel City?" he murmured.

Shravan gave a dry chuckle beside him. "You'd be surprised how many only come out when there's blood on the line."

Aaryan didn't smile.

He simply looked at the platform again, and imagined what it would feel like—to stand there, alone.

"Seems like we're the first ones to arrive," Shravan said lightly, glancing around. Then his tone sharpened. "Let's go, Brother Vidyut."

Aaryan nodded and followed without a word.

The path curved slightly, then opened into a segmented section at the front of the arena stands. Every corner gleamed in rich, vibrant green—canopies of silk stretched above them, shading seats carved from lacquered spiritwood. Plates of sliced spirit fruits glistened on trays, the sweet, strange scent of them carried faintly in the wind.

Aaryan's gaze swept across the arena.

To the left, the Kaleen section: pale white, calm and austere. Across the ring, Dravhal and Verma—crimson and burning yellow, bold and coiling with tension.

Shravan moved forward, and Aaryan followed him to the third row. The chairs here were softer than they looked—warm from the morning sun, yet strangely cool at the touch. As he sat, Aaryan let his eyes drift closed.

He tried to sink into silence.

But it wouldn't hold.

Noise bled in through the cracks—chants, shouts, the rumble of conversation crashing like waves against the arena's stone. The crowd buzzed with too many hopes, too many eyes, and too much breath.

He shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on his knees, focusing on the rhythm of his breath. It helped. For a while.

Then—a shift.

The pressure in the air changed.

The crowd, already deafening, rose several octaves—cheers blooming like sudden fire.

Aaryan opened his eyes.

A procession approached, sweeping toward the green-clad seats in a wave of confidence and emerald light. The Megh clan had arrived.

They came in layers—elders walking slow and regal, younger disciples following in disciplined steps, and behind them, minor faction members in all manner of muted tones, bound together by quiet loyalty.

At the front strode Megh Pramod, his presence like thunder hidden beneath clouds. Beside him walked the Green Fairy, serene as ever, hands folded, face hidden behind a veil.

Behind them came Babita and the blue-robed Simmi, followed by the three Megh elders—Subhash, Mithun, and Kel.

Shravan and Aaryan stood as the group neared. Shravan bowed. "Father. Mother."

Aaryan gave a slight nod, eyes lowered. "Junior greets the honoured seniors."

Megh Pramod returned the nod without pause. The Green Fairy offered the faintest smile. The rest followed suit, slipping into their assigned seats.

Front row: Pramod, Green Fairy, Babita, Simmi, and First Elder Subhash. Second row: Mithun, Kel, Shravan—and Aaryan.

Aaryan hadn't realized he'd been moved forward.

He sat quietly, posture still but eyes alert, as the elders settled around him. Subhash, the First Elder—his gaze always fierce, always hungry for the thrill of battle—turned toward him with a spark in his eye.

"Well then," he asked, voice low and edged with amusement, "are you ready, boy?"

Aaryan didn't turn his head.

"I am always ready," he said softly, eyes fixed on the stone platform below.

Subhash grinned. Wide. Proud.

Soon the voices roared louder as the Kaleen entourage arrived—snow-kissed silks rustling, white boots touching down with a hush. Shravan stood tall beside Aaryan and turned slightly. "They're here."

A ripple passed through the crowd as the procession came into view. At its front was a veiled woman who moved like still water—graceful, deliberate, every step balanced as if gravity had forgotten her. Fairy Shuvi. Beside her floated a younger girl, eyes bright and curious, her presence light as drifting snow. Kavya, the young miss of the Kaleen clan.

Behind them walked three elders, solemn and silent, followed by a stream of white-clad disciples. Their arrival was like winter settling across the area—cool, quiet, dignified.

As they took their seats near the Meghs, Fairy Shuvi offered a faint nod toward Pramod and the Green Fairy. Both returned the gesture—measured, respectful, with a hint of warmth. A brief moment of civility in a gathering thick with rivalry.

Then, Subhash's voice broke the quiet. He smirked, eyes glinting as he turned to the serene old man seated nearby. "Old Man Snow," he chuckled, addressing the eldest of the Kaleen elders—his beard, hair, and brows all white as frost. "Seems like you've gotten stronger with age. How about we spar before the juniors steal the show?"

Old Man Snow kept his eyes closed, but his lips curled into something between a smirk and a sigh. "You think these bones creak for your amusement?" he replied dryly.

Laughter rippled lightly among the elders and audience alike—a brief loosening of the tension, before it snapped tight again.

Because then, the final faction arrived.

The Dravhals and Vermas. Together.

A wave of red and yellow spilled through the gates, the Dravhals in deep crimson marching in disciplined rows, led by Dravhal Varesh. He looked every bit the general—broad shoulders, steel eyes, and a stride that brooked no doubt. At his right strode Aran, face sharp, chin high, three elders flanking them like sentinels wreathed in heatless fire.

Behind them came the Verma delegation in yellow. Verma Jitesh walked proudly at their head, flanked by Viyom—his gaze casually drifting until it locked with Aaryan's, unreadable. One of the elders behind him, Krivan, seemed unwell—his skin pallid, eyes sunken—but he walked with stubborn dignity. He was supposedly in seclusion. But everyone knew the truth—only no one dared say it aloud.

Aaryan noted the imbalance immediately. Behind Dravhal and Verma stood a crowd of smaller factions' representatives—more than those behind the Meghs or Kaleen. The numbers weren't subtle. Most had chosen a side. And it wasn't theirs.

The four clan heads stood then, a clear signal that opening remarks were near. Dravhal Varesh stepped forward, breath drawn to speak—

—but halted mid-motion.

Because yet another presence arrived.

No fanfare. No shouting.

Just three figures strolling like in garden.

The man in front needed no introduction.

Elder Nema. From the Copper Circle.

Aaryan stiffened.

The crowd turned in waves. Whispered voices rippled like falling leaves.

What is he doing here? Aaryan thought, eyes narrowing.

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