Chapter 146: Chapter 146: The Sect Tournament [9]
The next match was called.
"Damon Arcknight versus Lena Hart."
Damon rose from his seat.
Ariel squeezed his hand. "Show them nothing."
He smiled. "That’s the plan."
He walked toward the stage, his footsteps steady, his expression calm.
The crowd’s attention shifted from Kai’s brutality to the young man who had killed Jack Frostborn with a single strike months ago.
They expected something similar now.
They expected blood.
Damon stepped onto the stage and drew his wooden sword.
Lena Hart stood across from him, a whip coiled at her hip, her cultivation at the Eighth Level of True Spirit Realm. She had watched his match against Jack. She knew what he was capable of.
Her hands trembled.
"Begin," Elder Alder announced.
Lena lunged first.
Her whip cracked through the air, a streak of fire trailing behind it, aimed at Damon’s chest.
Damon sidestepped.
The whip snapped past his shoulder, close enough to singe his robe.
He just stood there, watching her, his wooden sword held loosely at his side.
Lena hesitated.
’Why isn’t he attacking?’
She lashed out again, faster this time, the whip curling around his legs, trying to trip him.
Damon hopped over it.
His landing was awkward, almost clumsy, like he had just barely managed to avoid the strike.
Lena’s brow furrowed.
She snapped the whip again, and again, and again, each strike faster than the last, a relentless barrage of fire and leather.
Damon dodged each one.
But just barely.
He stumbled. He weaved. He ducked.
He looked like a man who was surviving through pure luck, not skill.
The crowd leaned forward.
"Is he... struggling?"
"He killed Jack in one hit. Why isn’t he finishing her?"
"Maybe he got lucky that day?"
Lark watched from the VIP section, her fingers gripping the railing, her heart pounding in her chest.
’What is he doing?’
She remembered that night in the capital. The way he moved. The way he touched her.
The way his presence had stripped away every layer of her disguise and seen straight through to her everything.
That wasn’t a man who relied on luck.
That was a man who controlled everything around him.
She leaned forward, her eyes locked on his movements, searching for the cracks in his act.
’Why I can’t hit him?’
Lena grew frustrated.
She was faster than him. Her cultivation was higher. Her technique was superior.
And yet she couldn’t land a single hit.
It was like he knew exactly where her whip would strike before she even moved.
She gritted her teeth and changed tactics.
She lunged forward, dropping the whip, and drew a dagger from her belt.
She closed the distance in a flash, the blade aimed at his throat.
Damon’s eyes widened.
He stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet, falling to the ground.
Lena’s dagger sliced through empty air where his neck had been a moment before.
She stared at him on the ground, her blade extended, her expression confused.
’He fell?’
Damon scrambled to his feet, dusting off his robe, a sheepish grin on his face.
"Close one."
Lena’s eye twitched, a muscle feathering along her jaw as the humiliation settled in.
She attacked again, sharper this time, the dagger cutting a vicious diagonal arc toward his ribs.
Damon stepped aside with the unhurried ease of a man sidestepping a puddle, his wooden sword rising just enough to redirect her blade with a quiet, dismissive clack.
His wooden sword met her dagger with a soft clack, and he pushed her back, his movements slow, his form textbook perfect but nothing special.
Just standard sword forms.
The kind every outer disciple learned on their first day.
Lena pressed harder, her teeth bared, her dagger flashing in tight, furious combinations that carved the air between them with desperate speed.
He parried again, the wooden sword rising with that same lazy, almost bored arc, deflecting the blade just enough to send it wide.
And again, his feet shifting back a single unhurried step as her next strike whistled past his shoulder, close enough to graze the fabric of his robe.
And again, the soft, dismissive clack of wood on steel echoing across the platform like a metronome, steady and patient and utterly infuriating.
Each exchange looked like a beginner’s sparring match. Damon gave ground, deflected, retreated, deflected again.
He never once went on the offensive.
Lena’s frustration built up.
She threw everything she had at him, her cultivation blazing, her techniques sharp, her speed pushing her limits.
And Damon just... block it.
The crowd grew restless.
"This is boring."
"Just finish her already!"
"What happened to the brutal guy?"
Lark’s lips parted.
She saw it now.
Every dodge, every parry, every step backward was calculated. He was controlling the pace of the fight without ever looking like he was controlling it.
He was making her exhaust herself.
And she was falling for it.
Lena’s breathing grew ragged.
Sweat dripped down her face. Her arms ached. Her movements slowed.
Damon noticed.
He waited.
She lunged one last time, her dagger aimed at his heart, her body off-balance, her form sloppy.
Damon stepped to the side.
He tapped her wrist with his wooden sword.
The dagger flew from her hand.
He swept her legs.
She hit the ground hard.
He placed the tip of his wooden sword against her throat.
"I think that’s enough."
Lena stared up at him, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with disbelief.
She had lost.
To a man who looked like he had barely tried.
Elder Alder raised his hand.
"Winner: Damon Arcknight."
The crowd clapped, but the applause was scattered, uncertain.
They didn’t know what they had just watched.
Damon stepped off the stage and walked back to his seat.
Ariel smiled at him. "Perfect."
He then sat down. "I told you."
Mio leaned in. "You made her look like she almost had you."
"That was the point."
Mia giggled. "She’s probably in the back crying right now."
Damon shrug at her.
He could feel Lark’s eyes on him from across the arena.
He didn’t look back but he knew she was watching.
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