The final rankings were announced at dawn.
Golden characters ignited across the sky above the Imperial Trial Grounds, etched directly into the heavens by formation light so vast that even the outer districts of the capital could see them.
Rank One.
Imperial Heir — Crown Prince Aryavardhan Varma.
A murmur rolled through the gathered crowd like distant thunder. There was no surprise in it—only inevitability. The Crown Prince stood at the peak of the empire's bloodline, groomed since birth, nourished by resources that most sects could only dream of. His cultivation was flawless, his techniques refined to an almost clinical perfection.
He acknowledged the ranking with a calm nod, hands folded behind his back, expression neither proud nor pleased.
Rank Two.
Sect Prodigy — Rudraksha Mishra of the Azure Sun Sect.
This announcement drew sharper reactions.
Rudraksha Mishra was not imperial. He was not noble. He was born into a declining sect and rose through sheer talent and ruthlessness. His presence alone was a reminder that bloodlines could be challenged.
He smiled faintly when his name appeared, eyes glinting with quiet hunger.
Then—
Rank Three.
Siddharth.
For half a breath, the world seemed to stall.
Then chaos erupted.
"What?!"
"Third?! But his performance—"
"He held back!"
"No… that's impossible."
Siddharth stood among the competitors, dressed plainly, hands folded. He did not look toward the sky. He did not react at all.
But within the higher platforms—where sect elders, imperial officials, and Gurukul representatives sat—eyes narrowed.
Too many people had underestimated him.
And too many of them were now recalculating.
The Crown Prince turned first.
His gaze crossed the distance and landed on Siddharth—not with arrogance, but with something closer to curiosity.
Rudraksha Mishra followed a heartbeat later.
For a moment, the three of them stood connected by nothing but air and understanding.
No words were exchanged.
None were needed.
They all knew.
This ranking was a façade.
The final phase of the competition was announced immediately after.
"By imperial decree," an elder's voice echoed, amplified by formations, "the Top Ten competitors shall proceed to the Heaven-Severing Arena for final evaluation."
A pause.
"This stage will be conducted in isolation."
Siddharth's eyes flickered.
Isolation.
Of course.
The Heaven-Severing Arena lay beneath the imperial capital.
Not underground—not entirely.
It existed in a folded space, sealed by ancient arrays dating back to the founding of the empire. A place where power could be unleashed without fear of collateral damage.
Or so it was believed.
The Top Ten were escorted separately, each guided through a different spatial gate. Siddharth stepped through his portal without hesitation.
The world folded.
Then unfolded.
He emerged onto a vast obsidian platform suspended over nothingness. No sky. No ground. Only endless darkness pierced by faint lines of glowing formation script.
Nine other platforms hovered nearby.
The Top Ten.
Each isolated.
Each alone.
Siddharth's spatial senses flared instantly.
Something was wrong.
The formations were intact—but threaded through them were foreign lines, woven so subtly that even imperial grandmasters might miss them unless they knew what to look for.
These weren't brute-force intrusions.
They were… permissions.
Someone with authority rewrote the rules, Siddharth realized.
Elsewhere in the arena, Crown Prince frowned slightly.
He, too, had noticed.
He raised his hand, fingers brushing against the imperial seal embedded in his soul—an inheritance meant to grant him partial control over imperial formations.
For the first time in his life—
It hesitated.
Just for a fraction of a second.
But it was enough.
Rudraksha Mishra felt it as well, though he couldn't explain how. His instincts screamed danger, every battle-hardened sense sharpening.
None of them spoke.
But awareness spread.
Time passed.
Too long.
No announcement came.
No signal to begin.
Instead—
A pulse rippled through the arena.
Siddharth's pupils contracted.
The spatial fabric trembled—not collapsing, but opening.
And then—
The first scream echoed through the void.
Not human.
Not beast.
Something deeper.
Something hateful.
The sky above the arena opened.
Not torn—unlocked.
A crimson fracture bloomed like a wound in reality itself, spilling foul, corrosive prana into the folded space.
From it stepped a figure clad in blackened armor etched with living runes.
An Asura.
Then another.
And another.
They did not roar.
They did not charge.
They smiled.
Across the arena, barriers flared as the Top Ten reacted instantly.
Some unleashed techniques.
Some summoned weapons.
Some froze in disbelief.
Siddharth did none of those things.
He breathed.
And activated his spatial perception to its limit.
The invasion was not external.
It was internal.
The Asuras weren't breaking in.
They were being let in.
Encrypted signals burst across the formation network.
Not in words.
In authority tokens.
Siddharth caught them mid-transmission, unraveling the layers with frightening speed.
Imperial cipher.
Bloodline-locked.
Only someone of the imperial family could issue them.
His jaw tightened.
So it was true.
The Fifth Princess had warned him.
But seeing it—
Understanding it—
Was different.
A member of the imperial family had struck a pact with the Asuras.
Not a rogue noble.
Not a distant branch.
Someone with direct access.
Someone powerful enough to alter the Heaven-Severing Arena itself.
They intend to sacrifice the Top Ten, Siddharth realized.
Talent.
Fate.
Blood.
The perfect offering.
An Asura lunged at one of the competitors.
Too fast.
Too strong.
The cultivator barely managed to block before being sent crashing into the void barrier, blood spraying in an arc that evaporated before it could fall.
The arena descended into chaos.
Imperial defenses attempted to activate—
And failed.
Entire sections of the formation went dark.
Others responded sluggishly, as if weighed down by unseen chains.
Siddharth moved.
Not forward.
Not backward.
Sideways.
Space bent.
He vanished from his platform and reappeared behind an Asura mid-strike, palm slamming into its spine with restrained—but focused—force.
The creature exploded into black mist.
No roar.
No spectacle.
Just eradication.
Siddharth frowned.
Too easy.
These weren't elites.
They were scouts.
Shock troops.
The real danger hadn't arrived yet.
He looked toward the Crown Prince's platform.
Aryavardhan Varma stood tall, imperial aura blazing now, spear of golden light in his grip as he impaled an Asura clean through the chest.
Their eyes met across the void.
No fear.
Only grim understanding.
Rudraksha Mishra, bloodied but smiling like a madman, decapitated another Asura with a crescent slash of azure flame.
The three strongest had already found each other.
Without words.
Without signals.
An alliance formed.
Siddharth extended his senses deeper into the formation core.
There.
A command node.
Hidden behind seven layers of imperial encryption and one layer of something… alien.
Asura script.
He cracked it.
And what he saw chilled him.
A name.
An imperial seal.
A lineage mark older than the Crown Prince himself.
Not the emperor.
But close.
Very close.
Before he could warn the others—
The arena shook violently.
A second rift tore open.
Larger.
Darker.
And from it stepped something that made even Siddharth's breath hitch.
A High Asura, aura pressing down like a collapsing sky.
Behind it—
More rifts.
This wasn't an infiltration anymore.
It was an invasion.
Triggered from within the heart of the empire.
And the Top Ten were standing at ground zero.
Siddharth clenched his fists.
So this was the final day.
Not of the competition—
But of illusions.
And as the Asuras advanced, imperial defenses flickering like dying stars, Siddharth made a single, silent decision.
The empire will never know how close it came to collapse.
But I will not let it fall today.