The imperial capital rose from the plains like a living legend.
Massive white walls engraved with ancient runes stretched toward the horizon, each stone saturated with history, power, and authority. Towers pierced the sky like spears aimed at the heavens, their surfaces reflecting prana so dense that even breathing felt different here. Above it all loomed the Imperial Palace, suspended upon a floating landmass, chained to the earth by glowing formations older than most sects.
Siddharth stood at the edge of the arrival platform, his expression calm.
Beside him stood Drona, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp yet unreadable. On Siddharth's other side was the Fifth Princess of Kosala Desh, dressed in restrained imperial attire—neither overly extravagant nor plain—her presence commanding respect without demanding it.
They had arrived.
The Empire-Level Competition was about to begin.
All around them, airships descended one after another, each bearing insignias of power: blazing suns, ancient beasts, sword crests, lotus seals. Every arrival carried cultivators whose auras pressed outward, overlapping like unseen waves.
"This city hasn't changed," Drona said quietly. "Still smells like ambition and blood."
Siddharth did not respond immediately. His gaze moved across the platform.
There were representatives from every major sect, every ancient family, every imperial academy. Elders with cultivation deep enough to distort space stood beside disciples who radiated youthful ferocity. Conversations were polite, but eyes were sharp—measuring, judging, calculating.
Everyone here was a predator.
And everyone believed they belonged at the top.
The Fifth Princess stepped forward slightly, her voice calm but carrying authority. "Remember, Siddharth. From this moment on, every action you take will be observed. The Empire does not forget."
"I know," Siddharth replied. "That's why I'll only show what I must."
Drona glanced at him briefly, then nodded once. He said nothing—but inwardly, his vigilance sharpened.
As they moved toward the grand reception hall, whispers followed.
"That's Kosala's Fifth Princess."
"Who's the youth with her?"
"I heard Kosala sent only one participant this year."
"He doesn't look special."
Some whispers were dismissive.
Others were not.
The grand hall opened before them—a vast circular arena carved from black imperial stone. Rows of elevated platforms encircled the chamber, each assigned to a faction. At the center stood a massive crystal pillar, glowing faintly. It was said to record every combat, every fluctuation of prana, every act of brilliance or disgrace.
This was where legends were born.
And buried.
An imperial official announced loudly, "Participants, take your assigned positions!"
Siddharth followed Drona and the Fifth Princess to the Kosala platform. As he stepped onto it, he felt dozens—no, hundreds—of senses lock onto him.
Some curious.
Some hostile.
Some cautious.
Then the introductions began.
One by one, the top geniuses of the Empire were announced.
"Rudraksha Varma—Imperial Bloodline—Yogi Rank Three!"
A tall youth stepped forward, golden tattoos glowing faintly along his arms. His gaze was proud, unyielding.
"Meera Solanki—Azure Moon Sect—Yogi Rank Two!"
A woman with silver hair and eyes like frost inclined her head calmly, her aura cold and razor-sharp.
"Han Liwei—Eastern Academy—Peak Yogi Rank One!"
His presence was quiet, but the space around him felt compressed, as though restrained violence lurked beneath.
"Arnav Singh—Vajra Body Lineage—Yogi Rank Two!"
A massive figure laughed loudly, cracking his knuckles as if already eager for battle.
Each name stirred murmurs.
Each aura raised tension.
Siddharth listened, eyes steady, committing nothing to memory that showed on his face.
Then—
"Siddharth of Kosala Desh—Yogi Rank One."
Silence.
Then confusion.
"That's it?"
"Only Yogi Rank One?"
"Is Kosala mocking the Empire?"
Some scoffed openly.
Others frowned.
A few elders leaned forward slightly, their eyes narrowing.
Drona felt it—the sudden shift in attention—and remained perfectly still.
The Fifth Princess did not react.
Siddharth stepped forward calmly, offering a short bow—not submissive, not arrogant. Merely polite.
Yet when he stood upright, something subtle changed.
No pressure.
No aura release.
But something about his posture, his stillness, made several cultivators instinctively tense.
Rudraksha Varma frowned.
Meera Solanki's gaze lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Han Liwei's eyes sharpened imperceptibly.
They felt it.
Not power.
Potential.
The imperial official continued, "All participants will undergo preliminary trials over the next three days. Rankings will be determined by combat performance, adaptability, and survival capability."
A pause.
"Only the top ten will advance to the final stage."
The words hung heavy.
Top ten.
Out of monsters raised by sects, families, and empires.
The air thickened.
Ambition was no longer subtle—it pressed against the lungs, sharp and hungry.
As the gathering dispersed, cultivators clustered into groups, alliances forming silently. Promises were not spoken, but intentions were clear.
Siddharth remained where he was.
"You're being underestimated," the Fifth Princess said quietly.
"That's ideal," he replied.
Drona studied the departing geniuses, then spoke in a low voice. "Several of them are hiding their true strength. And at least one… doesn't belong."
Siddharth's eyes flickered briefly. "I sensed it too."
The capital was magnificent.
The competition prestigious.
But beneath it all—
Something was wrong.
And as Siddharth looked toward the towering Imperial Palace above, he felt it clearly.
This was not merely a contest of geniuses.
It was a battlefield dressed as a celebration.
And ambition?
Ambition was only the beginning.