24. Senior, Please Do Not Perceive Me

The third day dawns bright and cold, winter’s breath finally touching the city. Frost clings to the rooftops. Vendors stamp their feet and blow on their hands. The usual morning bustle is muted, everyone saving their energy for the main event.

I wake Ling’er before sunrise, finding her already awake, already meditating. The Five Phases Transcendence technique is visible in the subtle flow of qi around her, a gentle harmony of all elements, each supporting the others. She’s been at it for hours, I realize. Maybe all night. She opens her eyes as I enter, and for a moment I see it: the complete integration of the manual into her being. Then she blinks, and she’s just Ling’er again.

“Today is the main event,” I tell her, settling onto the edge of my bed. “The tournament preliminaries, plus demonstrations from the major sects. There will be Core Formation experts everywhere. Possibly even a Nascent Soul representative from the Violet Sky Sect’s headquarters.”

“Master, the Violet Sky Sect Leader—he’s Nascent Soul, right? The one we pay tribute to?”

“That’s the regional branch leader.” I shake my head. “He’s Nascent Soul, yes. But the parent sect—the main Violet Sky Sect, the one that controls this entire region—holds multiple Nascent Souls. The one we might see today is from their headquarters. Sent to observe, to recruit, to remind everyone who’s in charge.”

Her eyes widen slightly, but she nods, processing.

“Your concealment must be perfect today. Not good—perfect.” I lean forward, emphasizing each word. “If a Nascent Soul looks at you, they cannot see anything but a mortal servant girl. No cultivation. No potential. Nothing special. Can you do that?”

She closes her eyes.

For a long moment, nothing happens. The room is still. Her breathing slows.

Then—

She vanishes.

Not physically—she’s still there, sitting on the bed, small and ordinary. But her spiritual presence, always faint beneath the jade pendant’s masking, compresses into absolute nothing. Even with the Gaze, I have to focus specifically on her, pushing past the concealment, to detect anything at all.

“Good.” I keep my voice calm, but inside I’m relieved. “Maintain that throughout the day. If you feel it slipping—even a little—tap my arm four times and we leave immediately. No questions, no hesitation. Understood?”

“Yes, Master.” Her voice is normal, unconcerned. The concealment doesn’t waver.

We go. The same vendor from yesterday is setting up, her massive pots already steaming. She eyes Ling’er warily as we approach.

“Not her again,” she mutters, but she’s smiling. “Sect Leader, that girl ate more than my entire family yesterday. Are you sure she’s human?”

“She’s growing.” I order double portions anyway.

Ling’er eats with the same efficiency as before; buns disappearing, porridge vanishing, meat gone in moments. The vendor watches with a mixture of horror and admiration.

“If she keeps eating like that, you’ll need to buy her her own food stall.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

We finish, pay, and move on. I browse the early-morning stalls as we walk toward the arena, Gaze active, hoping for another miracle. But the universe isn’t that generous. A few low-grade manuals, some common herbs, basic talismans. Nothing worth buying. Hard to be so lucky two days in a row. I content myself with watching Ling’er observe the city. Her eyes track everything: cultivators, merchants, children, animals. The threads connect all of them, and she’s reading them like a book.

By mid-morning, we reach the arena. The arena dominates the city’s center. A massive stone structure that rises above every other building, its walls lined with statues of past champions. Five thousand spectators can fit within, and by the time we arrive, it’s nearly full. Cultivators of every stage fill the stands. Qi Condensation disciples cluster with their sects, wearing matching robes and matching expressions of nervous excitement. Foundation Establishment elders supervise, maintaining order, placing bets, gossiping about prospects. Core Formation experts occupy positions of prominence—private boxes, elevated seating, areas where lesser cultivators don’t dare intrude.

We find seats in the general admission section, high enough to see the whole arena floor, and enough to avoid notice. Ling’er sits beside me, munching on a steamed bun I bought from a vendor, her eyes wide with innocent wonder. To anyone watching, she’s exactly what she appears: a servant girl seeing her first tournament, thrilled by the spectacle. And in the highest box, surrounded by purple-robed attendants, sits a figure that makes my spiritual sense recoil.

‘Nascent Soul.’

He’s ancient, with white hair that falls past his shoulders and a face like carved jade, unlined and expressionless. His eyes are closed, but I know he sees everything. Elder Frostheart’s journal said the same. A Nascent Soul’s perception extends for miles, piercing through walls and concealments and lies. Every cultivator in this arena is an open book to him.

I force myself to look away, to breathe normally, to be exactly what I appear: a minor sect leader from a backwater mountain, here to watch the tournament like everyone else.

Ling’er’s hand brushes my arm.

Two taps.

I’m okay, that means. I see the danger. I’m maintaining concealment. Don’t worry.

I relax slightly. She’s fine. We’re both fine.

Young cultivators file into the arena. Dozens of them, ranging from Qi Condensation 3rd to 9th Stage, representing sects from across the region. The Violet Sky Sect has the most entrants, their purple robes conspicuous even from a distance. Smaller sects send one or two hopefuls, their disciples looking nervous next to the confident expressions of the major sect children. The rules echo across the arena, announced by a Foundation Establishment referee with qi-enhanced voice: single elimination, no killing, no permanent crippling. Victory by surrender, ring-out, or referee decision.

Ling’er watches everything.

Match 1: Iron Peak Sect vs. Unaffiliated

A stocky earth-aspected boy of perhaps sixteen faces a lanky wind-aspected girl of similar age. The boy plants himself immediately, using Rooted Mountain Stance, the same technique Ling’er saw demonstrated yesterday. His feet root into the stone floor. His arms raise in defense. The girl circles, trying to find an opening, her movements quick and fluid. Ling’er’s eyes track every movement. Her lips move slightly, murmuring observations only I can hear.

“His stance is better than yesterday’s demonstration. He’s been practicing. But his weight distribution still favors the right: old injury. Probably from years of favoring that side unconsciously. She sees it too. She’s setting up an attack from his left.”

The girl feints right, then attacks from his left. He pivots awkwardly, exactly as Ling’er predicted, and she sweeps his legs. He falls hard, surrenders immediately.

I find myself leaning forward, genuinely engaged. For that part of me that only read about cultivation in books, that consumed xianxia novels like candy, this is surreal to witness. Literal children wielding power beyond anything my old world could imagine. Fire and wind and earth responding to their will. Techniques that would make them gods on Earth. Or at the very least, equivalent to superheroes in American comics.

But here, they’re just… modestly talented. Average. The kind of disciples who fill sects and never amount to anything special.

I glance at the girl beside me. Considering how shocking she is, it’s no wonder I’m getting desensitized. After watching a twelve-year-old with dragon blood and cosmic bone casually outperform Foundation Establishment cultivators, normal prodigies seem almost boring.

Ling’er smiles slightly at the match’s outcome, unaware of my thoughts.

Match 4: Violet Sky Sect vs. Minor Sect

A purple-robed boy of perhaps seventeen steps onto the arena floor, his bearing confident, almost arrogant. He’s Qi Condensation 8th Stage: impressive for his age. His opponent is a nervous girl in gray robes, representing some minor sect I don’t recognize. She’s 6th Stage and looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.

The match is over in seconds.

The boy moves like water, flowing around her defenses, slipping past her guard, tapping her shoulder with an open palm before she can even react. She stumbles, off balance, and the referee calls the match.

Ling’er’s eyes narrow.

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“Master. His technique.” Her voice is soft, thoughtful. “It’s similar to the Flowing Water Sword, but… faster. More efficient. He’s using wind to enhance the water, making it slippery. The wind reduces friction, lets the water techniques flow faster. That’s not in any manual I saw.”

“Can you learn it?”

She considers, her eyes still tracking the boy as he exits the arena to scattered applause. “I think so. The principle is simple: wrap wind around water to reduce resistance, increase speed. But doing it requires precise control of both elements simultaneously. He’s been training for years to achieve that coordination.”

“Watch him closely. Every match.”

She nods, already scanning for his next appearance. Between tournament rounds, the major sects put on demonstrations of their power. Core Formation elders take the arena floor, performing techniques that shake the very air and remind everyone exactly who rules this region.

First, the Iron Peak Sect. An elder with shoulders like boulders and a face weathered by decades underground steps forward. He raises his hands slowly, deliberately, and the stone beneath his feet responds. A platform of solid rock rises beneath him, lifting him twenty feet into the air as easily as a servant lifting a tray. He stands there for a moment, surveying the crowd. Then he brings it down. A controlled crash that sends vibrations through the entire arena, shaking dust from the rafters.

Next, the Crimson Flame Sect. A woman in flowing red robes steps forward, her hair the color of embers. She extends one hand, and fire blossoms from her palm; not a simple flame, but a phoenix of living fire that spreads its wings and circles the arena three times. The heat washes over us even from the stands. I feel it on my face, dry and intense. The phoenix’s cry echoes off the stone walls, a sound halfway between bird and inferno. Then it dissolves into sparks, raining harmless fire over the crowd. People gasp, applaud, reach out to catch the fading embers.

Ling’er’s eyes are wide.

“Master. That technique.” She touches her chest, right over her heart. “It’s… it’s in my blood. The phoenix shape, the way the fire moved, the heat that felt alive. My dragon blood recognized it. Like it was speaking a language I almost understand.”

“Can you learn it?”

“No. Not yet.” She shakes her head slowly. “My bloodline isn’t awake enough. But someday… when it awakens more… I think I could do something similar. Maybe better. Dragons are older than phoenixes. Our fire is more ancient.”

I believe her.

Finally, the Violet Sky Sect. Their elder is a severe woman with ice in her eyes and frost in her aura. She steps forward, and the temperature in the arena drops ten degrees. Spectators shiver, pull cloaks tighter. She raises one hand. The arena floor made of solid stone, reinforced by formations, begins to frost over. Then freeze. Then shatter. Not just the surface, but twenty feet deep, the water in the stone itself turning to ice and expanding. Cracks race across the arena in fractal patterns.