74. The Abacus is Mightier Than the Sword

The side door closes behind the three collaborators, and the Jade Hall keeps moving. The arena roars as if nothing happened.

That is when I understand the difference between the brackets. The Qi Condensation fighters still believe in glory. Bao Gantian, Mu Jianyu, Yan Ruohan—they fight like the future is something they can seize with both hands.

Foundation Establishment is different. Here, too many people already know they are not winning. Not against Xu Wuyin. Not against Yan Gaoque. Not against the heirs and monsters the major sects have spent decades polishing. So they chase smaller victories instead; A scout’s attention. A better patron. A profitable loss. A manipulated bet. Proof that they are worth Core Formation resources before age and stagnation close around them.

Everyone is selling something. Strength. Talent. Information. Even defeat.

This tournament was a market.

And after watching three gamblers vanish through a side door without slowing the machine at all, I understand something deeper.

‘The market has guards.’

I sit in my seat, my hands still, my face calm.

Not long after, Xu Wuyin’s match arrives.

The same wrongness from her first match settles over the arena, the pressure at the edge of my senses, the sense that something is happening inside that dome that I cannot see. Everyone pays attention. Her opponent is different from Han Jue. He walks onto the platform with a calm that is not the calm of ignorance. He knows what he is facing. He has prepared equipment I know he did not have in the last match. A headband of woven white silk sits across his forehead, a single blue crystal set at its center. A small brass bell hangs from his belt, its clapper wrapped in what looks like aged cloth. And behind him, hovering at shoulder height, a spirit lamp burns with a steady, golden flame.

He is not handsome. His face is broad, plain, the kind of face that disappears in a crowd. But his eyes are clear, and his stance is rooted, and I see no fear in him despite facing one of the strongest in the tournament.

The match begins.

Xu Wuyin attacks before the signal fully fades. I feel it before I see it—the same pressure, the same wrongness. But this time, something different happens. The bell at Ren Zhaoming’s belt rings. A single clear chime, like a drop of water striking still pond. The pressure wavers. The dome flickers with ghostly silhouettes of black lotus petals and shadowy threads.

For the first time, the audience sees her technique.

Black lotus petals appear in the air, drifting down like ash from an invisible fire. Shadowy threads wrap around Ren Zhaoming’s wrists and temples, thin as spider silk and dark as ink. Xu Wuyin’s bracelets chime in a rhythm that disrupts thought—I feel it even from here, a tug at the edge of my concentration.

Ren Zhaoming stabs his own palm with a hidden knife. Blood drips. He does not flinch. The pain breaks the first thread. He recites something—a mantra, low and fast, and the headband’s crystal flares. The lotus petals dissolve. The shadow threads retreat.

The dome clears.

Ren Zhaoming is sweating.

The arena gasps. Xu Wuyin tilts her head. Then she moves. Not fast in a conventional sense, she just takes a single step forward. Ren Zhaoming’s shadow shifts: before he moves, his own shadow catches his ankle. He stumbles.

His bell cracks. He tries to recite the mantra again. Xu Wuyin speaks one word, too soft for me to hear, and the mantra breaks. His mouth keeps moving, but no sound comes out. The spirit lamp flickers. Its golden flame dims. Ren Zhaoming falls to one knee. He is still conscious. He is still fighting. But the headband’s crystal has gone dark, and the bell is silent, and the lamp is guttering.

“Gak!”

He collapses. The match is over. Twenty seconds, perhaps. Not instant, but a defeat all the same. Ren Zhaoming prepared. He brought artifacts. He trained his mind. It was not enough.

Ling’er goes utterly still beside me. Her hands are flat on her thighs. Her eyes are fixed on Xu Wuyin, who is already leaving the platform.

“Ling’er,” I say quietly.

She does not respond.

I touch her shoulder. She blinks. Her eyes focus on me.

“Master.”

“Are you alright?”

She looks back at the platform. Xu Wuyin is gone. The attendants are helping Ren Zhaoming to his feet.

“She’s… scary.”

The scariest person I know was showing fear. I look at Xu Wuyin with even greater unease than before. With her stunning performance, the last batch of matches concludes. Sixty-four fighters remain. Tomorrow, like the Qi Condensation bracket, they will be narrowed down to the top eight. The crowd begins to disperse. I cash out. The line is short, the clerk efficient, the profits modest. No nose-picking Core Formation monster to grab me, much to my relief. But considering the pittance I made today, it wouldn’t make sense to.

One hundred ten low-grade. The smallest profit I have made since the tournament began. I am not disappointed. After all that, a small profit feels like safety.

Ling’er is quiet as we walk. Not breakthrough-silent—her eyes are clear, her steps steady. But she is thinking. I can see it in the way her gaze drifts, the way her fingers tap against her thigh.

Back at the inn, she writes again.

This time, no breakthrough or black tar. Thankfully. Just the steady scratch of brush on paper, the same rhythm I have come to recognize as her thinking made visible.

I sit on the edge of the bed and watch.

“Xu Wuyin,” she says after a while, not looking up. “She is not invincible.”

I wait.

“Her opponent’s artifacts…They worked. Not enough, but they worked. The bell, the headband, the lamp—If someone had better versions, or more of them, or if they had trained longer with the resistance…”

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She trails off. Her brush scratches out a line, then another. She frowns at the page.

“It is like…” She stops. Starts again. “Imagine a net. Thrown over someone. The net is very fine, very strong. But the net has holes. If you know where the holes are, you can put your hands through.”

I nod slowly. I think I understand.

“The artifacts made holes,” I say.

“Temporary holes. Small ones. But if you have enough artifacts, or if you have trained your mind to find the holes yourself…” She shakes her head. “Hm, I can’t explain it right. The words aren’t coming.”

She sets down her brush. Looks at the page. Picks the brush back up.

“I will be able to explain it better when I write. Tomorrow, maybe.”

I leave her to it. An hour passes. I close my eyes, but I can’t sleep. My mind is already moving ahead, past the Foundation bracket, past the Qi Condensation finals, toward the thing waiting at the end of the week.

‘The Core Formation bracket begins in two days.’

I have heard enough rumors now. Peak Core Formation experts. Half-step Nascent Soul monsters. Elders of major sects, not just their rising talents. Those who have been groomed for decades. The value would be absurd. But the real temptation is not profit. It is what Ling’er might understand.

‘What would Ling’er see from Core Formation combat? What would she understand? What would it do to her?’

I open my eyes.

She is still writing. Candlelight catches the side of her face, young and serious, her brush moving across the paper in quick, sure strokes. Her mind is reaching toward things no one her age should touch. I watch her and do not interrupt. I keep one eye on the window and another on the door. The silence stretches. The candle burns lower.

Then a knock at the door.

Ling’er’s brush pauses. She glances up. Her face shows mild curiosity, no alarm. No signal to her ear. I reach out with my senses and find the person outside is mortal.

I rise, walk to the door, and open it.

Shen Qiao stands outside with a bundle over one shoulder, his ledger under one arm, and a sleeping mat rolled beneath the other. Two spare robes are tied together with cord. A small wooden box hangs from his wrist. Everything he owns fits against his body.

For a moment, I do not understand. Then it clicks.

‘He quit the restaurant. The restaurant provided his bed, his food, his meager pay. Now that he no longer works there, he has nowhere to sleep.’

Despite being free of his debt, freedom has immediate consequences.

“You have no room?”

He adjust the bundle on his shoulder. “I had a room while I worked.”

I lead him to the innkeeper’s desk. The woman behind it looks up, recognizes me, and her expression cycles through suspicion, dread, and the particular exhaustion of someone who has already mentally added up the cost of my stay.

“I need a room,” I say.