Elder Nema's arrival struck like a silent bell—no sound, yet every head turned, every breath caught. The four clan heads, who only moments ago carried themselves with the weight of kings, snapped awake from their daze and moved at once to greet him.

Dravhal Varesh, Verma Jitesh, Fairy Shuvi, and Megh Pramod—all lowered their tones, their words cloaked in courtesy. Respect filled their voices, but beneath it ran a sharper undercurrent, one closer to fear.

That fear, however, was not directed at Nema himself. It bled instead toward the giant known as The Copper Circle, a shadow that stretched over every heart like a reminder of how fragile power could be.

Varesh's expression hardly flickered, yet his thoughts weighed heavy. His ambition stretched further than any wall of Steel City, yet no matter how far he reached, he knew the leash in this life of his would always lead back to this giant. Even if he seized the city entire, the moment Nema spoke, he would still bow.

Only through his son lay the faintest crack in that chain. If the boy one day rose to become a core disciple of the Crimson Hell Sect, then perhaps—perhaps—the leash might slacken. But even that fragile hope glimmered with no certainty. A quiet sigh pressed against his chest, swallowed before it touched his lips.

With a casual wave, Nema broke the tension, his tone carrying the ease of an old man who had wandered into nothing more than a lively courtyard. "It seems rather animated here," he said lightly. "This old one grew curious and came to take a look. I trust none of you mind."

At once, the four clan heads bent deeper, voices overlapping in gratitude. Servants rushed to carve out a new space in the viewing section, and soon Elder Nema settled there, the air around him seeming to bend in quiet deference. His gaze swept across the arena like a blade of cool light.

For an instant, it lingered on Aaryan—sharp, measuring, unreadable—before gliding on, leaving behind a trace of weight that pressed against the youth's shoulders.

When silence finally held steady again, Varesh rose. His voice, low yet carrying through the square, cut clean through the restless air. "The stakes are known to all. I will not repeat them. As for the competition—five fighters from each side. One against one. After five matches, the side with more victories will be declared the winner."

The other three clan heads straightened, offering wordless agreement. With their nods, the atmosphere shifted—like taut strings pulled to the brink.

Figures began to move toward the stone arena, their footsteps echoing against the wide, ancient floor. In what felt like the space of a breath, ten cultivators stood at the centre, the air around them trembling faintly with their gathered intent.

The crowd, subdued for a heartbeat by Nema's presence, now roared back to life. The sound struck like a wave crashing against stone, rolling over the arena until even the air trembled with the force. Names rippled through the noise as the fighters revealed themselves.

From the Dravhals and Vermas came Aran first, his steps heavy with confidence. A girl followed—her features sharp echoes of his, likely blood kin. Viyom strode in next, his usual arrogance glinting in his eyes, then a bald-headed youth whose silence held a strange gravity. Last was a pale, thin figure, skin drawn and body sickly—a foreign aid summoned for this very clash.

Across from them, the Meghs and Kaleens answered. Shravan entered first, his posture steady, followed by Babita, her presence sharp as steel. Kavya joined them, then a bulky youth with thick brows who carried himself like a boulder readied to strike. And at the end, stepping forward without hurry, came Aaryan.

The ten stood facing one another, the stone beneath their feet waiting to drink in the first clash of blood and will.

Cries rippled through the stands the moment the fighters were named.

"It's Angel Kavya—look!" someone gasped, awe threading through the noise.

"Shravan is so handsome," a cluster of young girls sighed, their voices melting together in dreamy admiration.

The moment barely lasted. Another group snapped back with sharp disdain. "Hmph. Before Brother Aran, he can't even hold a candle."

Excitement tangled with rivalry, swelling into a fevered pitch.

"It's Young Miss Ahana!" another voice cut through. "We'll finally witness her fight!"

"I heard she isn't any weaker than Aran himself."

Speculation rose like a storm, every name sparking new waves of chatter. The stands trembled under stamping feet, voices colliding until the noise swelled like clashing steel. The air thickened with anticipation—hope, jealousy, pride—all striking against each other as fiercely as blades yet to be drawn.

On the edge of the stone stage, a city official in a crisp uniform straightened his back and began to climb the steps, boots clicking against stone. His role was clear. To preside over the duels as referee, a neutral choice agreed upon by the four clans.

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But he did not make it far.

Elder Nema's voice spread through the arena, steady yet impossible to ignore, carrying a gravity that pressed silence into the crowd. "Since this matter concerns the future of the city," he said, each word slow and deliberate, "I believe the Copper Circle should also have a stake here."

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The four clan heads exchanged fleeting glances, their brows faintly creasing. None of them understood what he meant—until the man who stood quietly at Nema's side stepped forward.

His shadow stretched long across the stone as he bowed, his voice rising at last—measured, unhurried, deference edged with authority.

"My name is Puru Kesh," he declared. His voice was neither loud nor strained, yet it carried to the furthest corners of the square. "I have recently received the title of External Deacon of the Copper Circle."

A stir coursed through the gathering.

The common crowd blinked, murmuring with confusion. To most of them, the words meant little.

But among the higher ranks—the heads of clans, their elders, and the cultivators who understood the currents of power—faces tightened. Anxiety sharpened in their eyes.

A deacon. Even external, it was no light position. To Steel City, it was as if a mountain's hand had reached into their courtyard.

And to serve as Elder Nema's attendant—what did that reveal about Nema's standing within the Copper Circle itself? Certainly not a mere manager of some minor branch. The weight of such a connection settled heavily over the arena, a silent threat far greater than steel or flame.

Puru Kesh's calm did not falter. "As its representative," he continued evenly, "I would like to oversee the matches."

He stepped toward the stage without waiting for assent.

The crowd watched. The elders and clan heads nodded—slowly, carefully. They all recognized the truth hidden within his polite phrasing. This was no request.

It was a declaration.

And behind every bowed head and careful nod, the same unspoken question coiled, pressing at the hearts of all who understood what today's battles meant.

Why, after years of indifference, had the Copper Circle chosen to intervene in Steel City now?

Megh Pramod was the first to break the silence. His voice carried a practiced calm, but his back was straight, his expression solemn. "On behalf of Steel City, I thank Elder Nema and Deacon Puru. With this, the results will stand beyond question."

The words landed firmly.

Across from him, Dravhal Varesh's jaw tightened. Too late. The chance was gone. He cursed inwardly, but when he spoke, his voice rang light, almost playful.

"So true. Clan Head Pramod has stolen the words from my mouth."

The others followed quickly, adding their own voices in agreement. Elder Nema gave nothing more than a smile—thin, knowing, as though he saw through every mask.

On the stage, the ten chosen fighters turned in unison. Their bows fell not toward the clans but toward Deacon Puru. With the motion complete, eight withdrew, returning to their places in the crowd. Only three figures remained upon the wide stone stage: Deacon Puru, standing as silent witness, the bald youth from the Steel Fist Dojo, and the thick-browed boy of the Sworn Brotherhood.

No words marked the beginning. The fight began like a spark in dry grass—sudden, consuming.

Both youths stood at the same realm, the peak of the sixth stage of Qi Condensation. Their factions, though not among the four great clans, carried weight of their own. The bald youth's master, Chief Yuvi of the Steel Fist Dojo, had already declared his loyalty in the meeting between clans. The thick-browed boy's Brotherhood was righteous in name and heritage, its roots stretching deep in Steel City's soil.

The bald youth wasted no time on probing strikes. Qi flooded his body until his fists gleamed, iron knuckles catching the sunlight with a cold shimmer. He lunged, each blow an echo of his dojo's creed: to strike until mountains broke and rivers bent.

Across from him, the thick-browed boy stood firm. Mud-coloured qi seeped from his pores, layering his body in earthen weight. Aaryan's eyes narrowed. Not ordinary qi—something rarer, heavier. A variant of Earth Qi, famed for its defence.

The contrast was stark. One honed for relentless assault. The other, for impenetrable guard. A battle of extremes, bound to grind until one faltered.

The air quaked with fists and shields colliding. Qi clashed in showers of sparks and dull, earthen thuds. The bald youth roared, blood rushing to his face. "Steel Hammer!" he cried, forcing every drop of strength into his strike. Above him, a phantom weapon coalesced—an enormous hammer forged of condensed qi, its edges glowing, its weight suffocating.

His face drained to ash, yet he endured, hurling the spectral weapon down with desperate finality.

The thick-browed youth's stance stiffened. Teeth clenched, veins bulging, he raised his arms and bellowed, "King's Shield!"

At once, barriers of mud-coloured qi formed before him. Shield after shield stacked high, each one trembling under the looming shadow of the descending hammer. The impact rang like thunder splitting stone. They burst apart in sequence, each one quicker than the last, until only a few trembling one remained.

Panic flickered in the thick-browed youth's eyes. With a hoarse shout, he bit down, spitting his own essence blood. It burned into the qi, staining the final shield a deep, violent red.

The hammer fell—yet as it struck, its glow fractured, brilliance bleeding away like shattered glass, until only motes of light rained down on the crimson shield.

The stage fell still. Both youths swayed on their feet, breath ragged, eyes hollow with exhaustion.

The bald youth lowered his head. He knew it was over. If the shield had fallen, he might have clawed one last strike. But now—nothing. He bowed stiffly, and left the stage.

The thick-browed boy bowed as well, but when he turned to return to his faction, his steps faltered. His body gave way before he reached them, crumpling mid-stride into unconsciousness.

The crowd erupted, cheers and disbelief swelling into a storm. Cloaks and sleeves waved like a field of restless banners, bodies swaying in unison beneath the weight of triumph and shock. The first victory had gone not to the Dravhals or Vermas but to the unlikely alliance of the Meghs and Kaleens.

Megh Pramod exchanged a glance with Fairy Shuvi, both heads nodding in silent accord. One of the elders descended, crouching to examine the fainted boy. For a youth outside the four clans, even one praised as a genius within his own faction, such attention was rare. Today, he had won it—but he was not awake to see.

And around him, the war between clans only sharpened, each eye turning to the stage, hungering for the next clash.

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