The sun hung high, casting a warm, golden hue across the quiet paths of the sect. The market buzzed with life, yet in this corner, Yun Qingxue stood, still and silent. Her gaze was distant, as if the weight of the moment was bearing down on her. The maid, ever loyal and perceptive, watched her closely.
"Miss, what is actually on your mind?" The thought echoed in the maid's mind, but the words she spoke were gentler, quieter. "Miss, this is the day."
Yun's lips parted slightly, the words she had been rehearsing in her mind finally finding their place. "That's right," she said, her voice quiet but determined. "I have to prove myself right here, right now, so that my family would at least be proud of me."
The maid's gaze softened, but a deep sadness lingered in her eyes. She shook her head, letting out a quiet sigh. "I pity you, miss," she thought, her heart heavy with sympathy.
The words hung in the air between them, thick with unspoken emotion. Yun's shoulders tensed for a moment before she drew in a steady breath, trying to compose herself, but the pain of the past and the uncertainty of the future weighed heavily on her.
….
The air seemed to thrum with the heavy anticipation of the crowd. The platform was a vast open space, its worn stone surface a testament to countless battles fought here before. Elder Han and the other two figures approached, their presence commanding immediate attention. The disciples whispered in hushed tones, their eyes tracking the figures, each of them bracing for what was to come.
Just as Elder Han took a step forward, lips parting to speak, a sudden voice boomed across the entire stage, halting him mid-step.
"This is the Life and Death Platform!"
The voice carried a strange authority—neither too stern nor too soft, but layered with amusement and something ancient, as though it had watched generations come and go.
All heads turned toward the announcer: an old man with snow-white hair and a hunched back, wearing the loose robe of a Rank 2 elder. His face was wrinkled but not tired, his smile sharp as a blade dulled from too many cuts. He stood atop a raised platform beside the ring, a wooden staff in one hand, and in the other, a scroll.
He laughed, long and full of mirth, like someone who had seen too much blood to take anything seriously anymore. "Some of you might already know the rules," he said, eyes sweeping over the crowd of outer disciples like a predator watching prey. "But I'll say them aloud for the fresh blood among you!"
A few new disciples gulped.
"First rule!" He jabbed his staff into the floor with a loud thud. "You can kill here. That's right—kill. No tricks, no illusion. But only if—and only if—both parties agree beforehand."
A murmur rippled through the audience.
"But this time… ha! There is no need for such formality. No agreement. No pretense." His grin stretched wider. "So don't expect blood, but don't be surprised if it flows."
Some disciples leaned forward, their eyes gleaming, while others shifted nervously. It was only a fight… but the tension made it feel like a war.
"Second rule!" The announcer lifted his scroll and waved it like a fan. "No one is allowed to interfere once the fight begins. Not the elders, not the audience… not even the Sect Master himself—unless a life is at stake or one side yields!"
Gasps erupted. One of the newer disciples turned to her friend, eyes wide. "Not even the Sect Master? That's insane! What if someone dies?"
Her friend answered in a hushed voice, "That's the point. This place exists to settle grudges that can't be resolved through words."
On the far side of the platform, a senior disciple with long sleeves folded his arms. "Only cowards beg for interference," he muttered.
The announcer chuckled again, clearly enjoying the brewing chaos. "And now… the final rule! Though it isn't a rule—more like a little spice to season the pot." He raised one hand and pointed toward a stall near the edge of the crowd. A table was set up, with two older disciples standing behind it, a crude wooden sign that read "Betting Station" hanging crookedly above.
"You can place your bets!" the announcer declared, voice booming. "Yes, you heard right! For all you poor disciples who dream of wealth, breakthroughs, and medicine—this is your chance!" He winked. "If you believe in your eyes, your guts, or maybe your luck… bet now, and walk away rich!"
The crowd exploded. Some laughed. Some ran. Others pushed through, digging into their robes for whatever spirit stones or items they could offer.
Faces lit up like festival lanterns—flushed with greed, or hope, or madness.
Eyes glinted. Mouths whispered. Hearts raced.
The atmosphere turned volatile, like oil just waiting for a spark.
One young man, barely sixteen, with sun-scorched skin and a patched-up robe, clenched his fists tightly. His breathing quickened as he stared at the two elders on the platform. This is it… If I win this bet, I could double my money. I could finally afford that marrow-cleansing pill… No more bottleneck. I could finally break through to Rank 1 Middle Stage… maybe even Late Stage… His lips trembled slightly as he pulled out the few spirit stones he had, the last of his savings.
Just beside him, a wiry woman in her early twenties muttered under her breath, her eyes fixed like a hawk on the stage. "I'm tired of being weak. I'm tired of borrowing pills and begging seniors for leftovers," she whispered. She gritted her teeth and nodded to herself. "If I bet everything and win… I might be able to breakthrough to Late Stage. Finally…"
Not far away, a boy with missing front teeth and a nervous tic clutched a cloth pouch close to his chest. He glanced at the betting table, then back at the fighters. This platform is madness, he thought, but if madness gives me a shot at power… then so be it.
Nearby, an older disciple with a weathered face and eyes like cracked stone leaned against a pillar, watching it all unfold with a crooked smile. So much desperation, he mused. But desperation moves people. If I play this right, if I place my bet carefully… I might just turn a profit big enough to finally buy peace. A breakthrough to Rank 2, and no more fighting for scraps.
A girl with soft features and calloused hands clasped her fingers tightly together. Her lips moved soundlessly, as though praying to a god she didn't quite believe in. One win… just one. And I can afford the medicine my brother needs. Just one win.
The energy in the air was electric now, crackling with tension, greed, and raw ambition. Disciples swarmed the betting stall like moths to flame—some driven by hope, some by desperation, and others by cold calculation. The table itself was guarded by two burly inner disciples who exchanged amused looks as the bets piled in.
Some eyes were manic, others gleamed with hunger. There were those already fantasizing about what they'd buy—pills, weapons, time in the cultivation chambers. Others simply sought a shortcut out of their misery.
The stone platform ahead was no longer just a battleground between two elders. It had become an altar of dreams, where coin and courage collided. The bets had turned this fight into something greater—a crucible where not only fists clashed, but destinies trembled.
And in the hearts of those watching, one thought repeated itself, louder than any cheer or gasp:
Please, let my side win.