The imperial gong sounded at dawn.
A deep, reverberating note rolled across the capital, passing through stone, formation, and flesh alike. It was a sound that had opened battlefields and sealed destinies for centuries.
The Empire-Level Competition had begun.
Within the vast Heavenly Trial Grounds, thousands of spectators filled floating stands, while imperial formations sealed the arena from interference. At the center, a colossal platform divided itself into shifting zones—mountains rose, rivers carved themselves into existence, forests bloomed and withered in seconds.
An imperial voice echoed from above.
"Participants, the competition will proceed in three stages."
The crystal pillar flared.
"First Stage: Combat.
Second Stage: Survival.
Third Stage: Team Tactics."
A murmur swept through the stands.
This was no ordinary tournament. No single-elimination duels. No rigid brackets.
This was war in controlled form.
Only the adaptable would advance.
First Stage: Combat
The arena fractured into hundreds of smaller platforms, each surrounded by shimmering barriers. Names appeared in light above each platform—randomized matchups.
Siddharth stood calmly as his opponent approached.
A young man from a mid-tier sect, aura flaring confidently.
"Zhao Wen," the man announced, smirking. "Yogi Rank One. You're Kosala's representative, right? Guess I got lucky."
Siddharth inclined his head slightly. "Siddharth."
The barrier sealed.
The signal sounded.
Zhao Wen attacked immediately, unleashing a flurry of strikes reinforced by prana. His technique was sharp, practiced—clearly drilled by elders who knew what they were doing.
Siddharth retreated half a step.
He blocked. Dodged. Parried.
Nothing more.
His movements were precise but unremarkable. His counters light. His footwork conservative.
Minutes passed.
Spectators frowned.
"Is he stalling?"
"That's Kosala's hope? He's barely holding on."
Drona watched silently from the viewing platform, his expression unreadable.
The Fifth Princess's fingers tightened slightly against her sleeve.
Then Zhao Wen overextended.
Siddharth struck—once.
A single palm to the chest, perfectly timed.
Zhao Wen flew backward, crashing into the barrier and collapsing unconscious.
Victory.
The platform dissolved.
Siddharth stepped away without flourish.
No cheers.
No gasps.
Just mild surprise.
"Lucky strike," someone muttered.
Exactly as intended.
Across the arena, true monsters revealed themselves.
Rudraksha Varma shattered his opponent's defenses in under ten breaths.
Meera Solanki froze the battlefield itself, her enemy surrendering without landing a single blow.
Arnav Singh crushed a Yogi Rank Two cultivator barehanded, laughing as he did.
Compared to them, Siddharth's performance faded into the background.
He passed.
But he did not shine.
Second Stage: Survival
Without pause, the arena transformed again.
Participants were scattered into a vast artificial wilderness—jagged mountains, poisonous swamps, roaming beasts infused with prana.
An imperial announcement rang out:
"Survive for three days.
Defeat beasts.
Steal tokens from other participants.
Only the top fifty advance."
The moment the signal dropped, chaos erupted.
Cultivators vanished into the terrain, some alone, some forming temporary alliances.
Siddharth did neither.
He moved slowly.
Too slowly.
He avoided conflict when possible. When beasts appeared, he chose weaker ones. His strikes were efficient but restrained, never excessive.
He gathered tokens—but not aggressively.
By the end of the first day, his ranking hovered near the middle.
Spectators lost interest.
"He's cautious."
"No ambition."
"Won't last."
But beneath the calm exterior, Siddharth was observing.
Every movement.
Every formation.
Every habit.
He noted who hunted recklessly, who conserved stamina, who relied on brute force, and who relied on others.
At night, while others fought or schemed, Siddharth sat atop a stone outcrop, eyes half-closed, prana circulating silently.
He sensed it again.
That faint distortion.
Something hidden among the participants.
Watching.
On the second day, conflict became unavoidable.
A trio of cultivators cornered him near a ravine.
"Hand over your tokens," one sneered. "Or we throw you down."
Siddharth sighed inwardly.
He complied—partially.
When they reached for more, he struck.
Three clean movements.
Three bodies fell—unconscious, but alive.
He took only what he needed and left.
By the end of the third day, Siddharth ranked thirty-fourth.
Comfortably within advancement.
Comfortably unnoticed.
Third Stage: Team Tactics
The final preliminary stage began with an announcement that shifted the mood entirely.
"Participants will be placed into teams of five.
You will be ranked based on cooperation, strategy, and battlefield execution."
Groans echoed.
Some cultivators excelled alone.
Others smiled—this was their strength.
Teams were assigned randomly.
Siddharth found himself grouped with four strangers:
– A defensive-type cultivator from a southern academy
– A poison specialist from a minor sect
– A swift spear-user
– A healer whose aura trembled with nerves
They stared at him skeptically.
"You're the Kosala guy?" the spear-user asked. "You don't look impressive."
"I won't slow you down," Siddharth replied calmly.
They snorted.
The battlefield formed—a simulated fortress assault. Teams would alternate between offense and defense, earning points for coordination, survival, and objective completion.
When it was their turn to attack, chaos erupted immediately.
The spear-user charged ahead.
The poison specialist acted independently.
The healer lagged behind.
The defense collapsed.
They failed.
Hard.
Frustration mounted.
"Useless," the spear-user snapped.
Siddharth said nothing.
On the next round, he spoke quietly.
"Follow my timing."
They hesitated—but desperation outweighed pride.
They followed.
Siddharth did not take the lead.
He positioned.
Directed.
Adjusted.
A feint here. A withdrawal there. A precise moment for the healer to act.
They succeeded.
Barely—but cleanly.
On defense, he guided them again, sacrificing points to preserve stamina.
Their overall ranking rose—to twenty-two.
Not outstanding.
But safe.
As the stage ended, several observers leaned forward.
"That Kosala disciple… he's not strong."
"But his judgment…"
Drona exhaled slowly.
The Fifth Princess smiled faintly.
Siddharth stepped off the battlefield, expression unchanged.
To the world, he was competent.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
But beneath the masks, beneath the calculations, beneath the deliberate mediocrity—
The real competition had not yet begun.
And Siddharth was exactly where he wanted to be.