When the Walker Clan entered the Grand Competition Grounds, the crowd's excitement skyrocketed, and their cheers filled the air.

Excitement rippled through the stands, and the arena buzzed with the chants of "Walker! Walker! Unrivalled as wolves!" That filled the air.

Harvey Walker walked behind his father, his expression cold, his steps measured and deliberate. His dark cloak fluttered lightly as he passed, and the twin wolf insignia on his back seemed almost alive under the sunlight. Every disciple behind him carried the same air of disciplined pride—the kind born from a clan that had dominated the city's competitions for decades.

When the Walkers reached their seating area, the cheering finally began to fade. But the silence did not last long. A heartbeat later, the atmosphere buzzed with energy as the Brooks Clan stepped into the arena, drawing everyone's attention.

With their wings spread wide as though they were flying through the sky, their golden hawk banner gleamed brilliantly in the light. The crowd murmured in admiration as the Brooks Clan's disciples walked tall and confidently, exuding a serene arrogance.

"Brooks Clan—those wind techniques of theirs can shred mountains!" Someone shouted from the stands.

Then came the Clark Clan, the crimson spear emblazoned on their banners gleaming like blood in the sun. Their clan head, Darius Clark, led the way, his spear resting casually across his shoulders as though even here, in front of thousands, the battlefield belonged to him. The crowd roared again, cries of "Clark Clan! The Iron Blood Spear!" Filling the air like thunder.

Moments later, the Brown Clan entered from the eastern gate. Their disciples wore gold-trimmed robes that reflected the sun, and their steady formation exuded quiet strength. A wave of polite cheers followed—the Browns were respected for their stability, though rarely feared for their aggression. Still, their presence completed the circle of Celestial Brook's powerhouses.

And then, as the noise began to settle, a ripple of silence passed through the stands. The air shifted, becoming heavier and charged.

From the northern gate, under a banner of deep obsidian embroidered with a silver serpent coiled around a blade, the Grey Shadow Hall made their entrance. Their presence was commanding, and their steps were silent. Even without a word being spoken, the whole arena seemed to hold its breath in respectful silence.

Paige Lee, with her calm and graceful beauty, had an underlying intensity that was hard to ignore. She stood confidently at the front of the group.

Her face was unreadable as her robes flowed like midnight silk. She moved with grace, but there was a subtle weight of cultivation mastery in every step.

Whispers spread quickly among the crowd.

"Elder Veylan is not here this year?"

"No. Paige Lee is leading in his stead."

"If she is here, then even the great clans should tread carefully."

The Grey Shadow Hall members took their seats, their dark presence like a shadow at the edge of a flame—silent, controlled, yet capable of consuming all.

A long moment passed. Then a streak of blue light flashed across the arena.

A Grey Shadow Hall elder—his robes adorned with silver runes—rose into the air, floating above the ten stages. His qi pulsed with strength that silenced even the loudest voices.

His deep, powerful voice echoed across the vast grounds.

"The Celestial Brook Clan Competition officially begins today. Your honor and future will be put to the test in each of the ten stages that lie ahead of you.

The crowd's roar followed like a crashing wave.

When the cheers subsided, he continued, his tone sharp as tempered steel. "Each clan will send forth its disciples. You will draw a card. On that card will be a number. I will call those numbers one by one. From each clan, the disciple bearing the same number will step into the arena."

He raised his hand, and ten silver trays floated forward, each carrying stacks of jade cards marked with glowing numbers.

"Only one rule," the elder said, his gaze sweeping over the gathered youths. "Fight until surrender or defeat. Killing is forbidden—but," his lips curled faintly, "accidents happen."

A low murmur rippled through the crowd—half excitement, half tension.

The elder's qi flared, and the ten stages lit up one by one, symbols glowing along their borders. "Draw your cards. The competition begins now!"

Movement rippled like a living wave across the stands. The disciples of each clan moved forward one by one toward the floating trays held aloft by luminous qi threads. Under the morning sun, the jade cards' silver sheen glistened, each one engraved with a complex design that, until it was claimed, hid the number beneath its radiance.

The air grew heavier with every step. From the Walker Clan, Harvey Walker strode forward first, his posture confident, his expression calm. Without hesitation, he extended his hand and picked a card from the tray before going back to his line. Like wolves waiting to be let loose, his fellow disciples trailed him in perfect order, disciplined and silent.

Next came the Brooks Clan, whose members practiced every move with grace and pride. The only sound they made was the rustle of their robes on the floor, but the audience murmured in admiration at their poise.

The Clark Clan then arrived, their followers exuding ferocious vitality. Their eyes glowed with battle intent as they accepted their cards, holding them more like weapons than mere tokens.

The Brown Clan approached more steadily, every movement deliberate. They did not rush or boast. They were solid, unshakeable—a mountain among storms.

Finally, the Osborn Clan advanced. Robert Osborn led them, his heart hammering, but his expression unreadable. He reached for his card, the cool jade pressing against his fingertips as faint lines of light pulsed across its surface.

For a breath, he stared at the glow before closing his hand around it. He did not need to look. Whatever number it held—whatever fate it promised—he was ready.

All across the arena, disciples stood holding their cards, the air charged with anticipation. None spoke. No one was brave enough to divulge their number. The moment of calm before the storm had come—silent, tense, and alive with unspoken promise.

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