CHAPTER 105 — THE PRESSURE THAT CHOOSES
The arena did not celebrate Ling Yifan's fall.
It adjusted.
Stone shifted microscopically beneath Luo Qinghe's feet as the domain recalibrated. The mineralized lattice running beneath the rigid surface pulsed once, redistributing structural stress across the narrowed platform. The circular stage that remained was smooth, flawless, elevated like an altar at the center of a shattered cathedral.
Below it, fractured terraces hung at crooked angles. Beyond them, the abyss breathed.
Only two remained.
Luo Qinghe.
Bai Qianlan.
The crowd's roar faded into a dense, anticipatory hush. Tens of thousands leaned forward at once. Even the stabilizing formations above dimmed slightly, their light no longer frantic, but strained—like a machine bracing for impact.
Luo stood tall, domain still active, though compressed. The geometry obeyed him absolutely now. No drifting stone. No ambiguous footing. Every line clean. Every edge intentional.
