I am the Heroine’s Master?

'Shen Xian' tumbled across the stone floor of the ring, skewered by blades carved from pure ice. A heartbeat later, the body collapsed into yet another splintered wooden puppet. Wood fragments scattered, and a small circular hinge rolled away until it tapped against Yue Shuangyi's boot with a hollow clunk.

A vein twitched at her temple.

The crowd let out a collective half-roar of excitement, half-groan of disappointment as this one, too, proved to be a fake. The sixth puppet so far. Yue Shuangyi's wide-spread barrage, meant to blanket the entire arena with flying swords, had yielded nothing, leaving her to dismantle puppet after puppet, her temper fraying a little more with each encounter.

Bai Ning winced at the murderous look tightening her friend's expression.

Still, Yue Shuangyi did have the means to break this stalemate; she simply refused to use them. Bai Ning supposed it made sense to save one's trump cards for the later rounds, but not so stubbornly that you risked losing the current match.

Apparently, Yue Shuangyi had come to the same conclusion.

She drew in a deep breath, tamping down her mounting frustration, and blew for the third, and final time on the lotus cupped in her palms. The delicate blossom, carved entirely from ice, instantly unfurled. Its last remaining petals loosened and scattered on the wind, drifting away to reveal the heart of the flower: a silkworm cocoon, its threads spun from crystalline ice. The temperature in the arena plummeted at once.

Frost bloomed across the white stone floor, spreading slowly outward in a growing circle with Yue Shuangyi at its center. Shen Xian, this one the seventh puppet, its form shimmering as it emerged behind her, lunged from another ambush, spikes jutting from every joint. But Bai Ning knew this technique intimately. For all of Shen Xian's skill in concealing and directing his puppets, he wasn't fast enough.

The cocoon in Yue Shuangyi's hands unraveled as though the silkworm within were metamorphosing into a moth, expanding into a shell of icy, silken threads that wrapped around her. Shen Xian's puppet spun like a top, deadly spikes flaring, but when it struck the seemingly fragile cocoon, it bounced off with such force it ricocheted into the glowing dome of the formation. The construct shattered into fragments of frozen wood.

With every breath Yue Shuangyi took, the chill around her deepened. The ring of ice pulsed outward in steady waves, like a heartbeat sending blood through veins. Given time, it would blanket the entire arena and inevitably flush out every hidden puppet.

Shen Xian appeared to realize this too. Four puppets, one in each cardinal direction, abruptly revealed themselves at the ring's edges and shot toward the cocoon. They didn't even make it halfway through. Their movements stiffened, slowed, then seized entirely as frost crept over their joints, into their wooden frames, and locked their mechanisms in solid ice. One by one, they toppled like frozen statues.

The crowd roared again, though this time, beneath the cheers, Bai Ning detected a thread of discontent at Shen Xian's lackluster response.

Perhaps he sensed it too, judging by his next move.

Three puppets materialized in rapid succession, each one larger than the last. They sprinted toward one another, careful to stay outside the expanding ring of frost, and then, astonishingly, began to assemble. The largest puppet split open like a hollow suit of armor, allowing the middle-sized puppet to run inside. That one unfolded as well, making room for the smallest puppet, which was intricate, delicate, and clearly the true core, to slip into place. The three snapped shut, locking together with a heavy, resonant clang.

From the outside, the combined puppet resembled a slightly enlarged version of Shen Xian himself, though this one was clearly superior. It proved as much in the next instant, when the cloth draping its frame bulged… then tore apart entirely, revealing dense wooden plating and an entire armory of blades glinting from hidden slots along its limbs. Even the soles of its feet sprouted twin daggers, forcing it to stand balanced on their razor tips.

The reinforced puppet charged.

It was fast; fast enough that Bai Ning blinked, recalculating her estimation of Shen Xian's true ability. This puppet was nearly as quick as she herself was when using the initial stages of the Divine Water Lightning Technique. It reached the frost cocoon surrounding Yue Shuangyi, its speed ensuring that the only damage it suffered from its headlong charge into the icy technique being the veins of hoarfrost spreading across its frame, and then it struck, with every blade extended.

The cocoon remained still.

With a terrible shriek, like glaciers grinding or steel shearing against steel, the blades hit, and once again rebounded. The puppet was hurled backward, its own momentum becoming its enemy, slamming it into the formation dome. This time, it didn't shatter, though several of the blades jutting from its body twisted grotesquely or tore off entirely.

That was bin steel, and high-quality bin steel at that. Bai Ning would know; her master was as much an alchemist as anything.

That cocoon was truly, absurdly tough.

No wonder Bai Ning had needed so much effort in her own fight against Yue Shuangyi to secure a win. And even then, Yue Shuangyi had still cleared the first round afterward. It only underscored her strength, and her terrifying level of skill.

Shen Xian was firmly on the back foot.

The rest of the fight became nothing more than a demonstration of that fact. Puppet after puppet burst from hiding to hurl themselves at the cocoon, with one particularly memorable one even setting itself ablaze and detonating with enough force to make the entire ring tremble, but none managed to leave so much as a scratch. The cocoon remained pristine, and the ice continued its steady, pulsing expansion.

Twenty minutes after Yue Shuangyi had activated her technique, with only a thin strip of unfrozen stone clinging stubbornly to the arena's edge, the air rippled once more. Another Shen Xian appeared, this one unmistakably the true body, draped in a cloak that shimmered like it had been woven from strands of translucent moonlight.

He raised his hands and spoke for the first time since the match had begun. "I surrender."

A beat of stunned silence fell over the stands, followed by a collective, anguished groan as several spectators watched their underdog bets evaporate before their eyes.

The expanding frost halted. The cocoon of icy silk opened at last, its threads shrinking and folding in on themselves until they condensed into a small crystal cocoon that fit neatly in Yue Shuangyi's palm. Layer upon layer of lotus petals formed around it, ice blooming into shape from thin air.

A voice rang out from above, this time not Mo Jian's. "Accepted. The winner of this match is Yue Shuangyi."

Shen Xian immediately turned and left, not bothering to remain a moment longer after his loss. Yue Shuangyi, in contrast, looked markedly displeased; she had won, but clearly the manner of her victory did not satisfy her. Even so, she stepped off the stage as the formation pulsed, restoring the pale stone arena to its original, unmarred appearance.

Barely a breath passed before the next announcement rang through the air.

"Fahai Sattavadeva vs. Hei Lan."

Bai Ning's attention sharpened at once. This was a match she truly wanted to see. Partly because of the description Fan Mei had given of the Buddhist monk; cryptic enough to be intriguing, but also because of Hei Lan, the sole demonic cultivator in the tournament aside from Fu Zhan. That the woman was dangerous was a given; Bai Ning simply wanted to know how dangerous.

The two cultivators who drifted down from their wooden platforms to stand opposite each other on the white stone ring were a study in contrasts.

Fahai Sattavadeva was old. Not merely elderly, but ancient. He was, without question, the visibly oldest person Bai Ning had ever seen. His face was so deeply lined it was almost impossible to distinguish his features, and his eyes remained barely slitted open, making his expression unreadable. He was bald, clad in saffron-yellow robes, and carried a standard monk's staff, though in his hands, it appeared to be exactly what it looked like: a simple walking stick, not a magic tool. His earlobes were long and stretched, though he wore no ornaments in them.

All in all, he looked like the most venerable, world-weathered monk imaginable: dignified, serene, and not dangerous in the slightest.

Hei Lan was his complete opposite.

Young, beautiful, and dressed in elegant, form-fitted robes, she looked like the very picture of a jade-like beauty. Only the pink cloud hovering above her head disrupted the illusion, as the faces of trapped souls drifted in and out of it, twisting in perpetual torment. The moment her feet touched the arena floor, she withdrew two additional magic tools from her storage pouch and tossed them lightly into the air, where they floated in orbit around her. One was an axe with a red blade and a handle blackened with scorch marks; the other was a tiny bell, no larger than a child's smallest finger.

They chimed faintly; all three of them, the bell, the axe, and the cloud, as though greeting her arrival.

Before the announcer could signal the start of the match, Fahai Sattavadeva's voice rolled across the arena. It was surprisingly strong, yet unhurried, like a man who had long ago measured exactly how much effort he would spend on speech and had never altered that decision since. "Hmm," he rumbled, drawing a flicker of surprise from Hei Lan. "Thwarting evil is always a worthy endeavor. But I came to this tournament to take your head, Fu Zhan. Why send a lackey in your stead? Has our little encounter two nights ago unmanned you so thoroughly?"

A horrified silence crashed over the stands. Not a breath dared interrupt it-

-except Fu Zhan's.

His voice drifted lazily from his viewing box, utterly unbothered. "Who unmanned whom, old monk? The match orders aren't in my hands. If you're so desperate to die, then drag yourself over here and I'll oblige you."

At last, the announcer snapped to attention. "The matches and their opponents will not be rearranged. Any refusal to fight will be taken as an immediate forfeit."

Fahai Sattavadeva released a sigh, one so deep it seemed to begin in his chest and travel all the way down the length of his frail-looking frame. "Very well. If I must bully children, then let them at least be children walking the path of evil. I will fight."

This time, the crowd erupted in thunderous approval, the earlier tension about a Nascent Soul cultivator's family member being threatened dissolving instantly into spectacle-hungry enthusiasm.

Hei Lan, however, did not share their cheer. Her lips curled, her expression darkening like storm clouds gathering. "You may find it far less easy to defeat me than you imagine, monk," she replied coolly. "This is a tournament. Morality will win you nothing but a grave, and a sermon no one will stay to hear."

Fahai Sattavadeva did not answer. He merely waited, still as an ancient statue, while Hei Lan's glare sharpened.

The announcer took the hint. "Begin."

Hei Lan moved instantly, like someone who had rehearsed this moment down to the breath. The pink cloud above her head convulsed, churning violently before releasing soft, drifting tufts of rosy mist. They fell like pieces of a cotton cloud torn apart by invisible fingers, yet each fragment moved with deliberate purpose. Wherever they landed on the white stone, a silhouette bloomed: pink, translucent, and warped, like a rose's hue diluted into bloodied water.

These phantoms took the shapes of people, their faces twisted in endless agony, clutching spectral weapons. As one, they surged forward, racing to overwhelm the monk in a single, lethal wave.

But Hei Lan wasn't finished. The axe floating beside her pulsed once, and then unleashed bloody crescents of energy, each slash sharp and clean as a swordlight. They screamed through the air toward her opponent. And finally, the tiny bell at her shoulder rang urgently, and insistently, its chime rippling outward in visible waves. It had no effect on anyone beyond the formation dome, as Bai Ning could attest, but she recognized it for what it must be: a weapon that targeted the soul directly.

Three coordinated attacks, meant to be swift, lethal, and overwhelming. All aimed at a man who had not lifted a finger in defense.

Bai Ning knew enough of the world to predict exactly how that would end.

Sure enough, a heartbeat later, an enormous golden hand descended upon the ring. It slammed down with casual finality, crushing every pink silhouette, every bloody crescent, and both Hei Lan and her ringing bell beneath a single radiant palm.

Fahai Sattavadeva stood untouched. Behind him floated a colossal golden being. It possessed no lower body, only a torso, and even its head was veiled by the glow of its halo, obscuring its features. From its sides extended hundreds of arms, each palm bearing a single, unblinking eye.

"Nirmanakaya: Avalokitesvara," he intoned in his same unhurried voice, as if he had not just summoned a golden deity to smite his opponent flat.

The cloud-ring of spectators erupted in rapturous cheering, so loud Bai Ning had to clap her hands over her ears again. This time, however, she couldn't blame them.

The sight before her was, undeniably, awesome.

She also recognized it: without a doubt, that was a Manifestation Body. To wield it, even in an incomplete form, before reaching Core Formation was extraordinary. Monk Chanakya had never once shown her the technique, no matter how often she asked. Later, Master Mo Jian had explained that Buddhists regarded the trikaya – the Three Bodies Manifestation technique – as sacred, not something to be summoned lightly or for trivial displays.

Nirmanakaya, the Manifestation Body; Saṃbhogakaya, the Enjoyment Body; and finally, Dharmakaya, the Truth Body. In theory, attaining the final stage granted liberation from the cycle of reincarnation – a concept that had gained deeper meaning for her after Mo Jian's recent teachings. Yet no one, save for the First Buddha, Shakyamuni himself, was said to have fully realized it.

And since the higher the cultivation, the easier it was to manifest these techniques, most Buddhist practitioners remained just that: cultivators with a slightly different approach to power, their spiritual and religious leanings lingering just out of reach. Actual liberation, whether that be "escape from the cycle of karma and reincarnation," or "ascension to the Heavens," was an ideal rarely achieved; most fell far short, whether cultivator or monk.

Still, to manifest a Nirmaṇakaya at Foundation Establishment was staggering. Comparable, perhaps, to her nameless sword technique or Fu Zhan's Sanguine Blood Banner. Abilities far beyond ordinary cultivators, though not quite enough to challenge the realms above them.

The golden hand hovered for a heartbeat longer, then retracted, leaving the tiny bell, once a potent magic treasure, clattering uselessly to the arena floor. Dust and fragments of pink mist settled, but the energy in the arena only thickened, pressing against the senses like a storm yet to break. Hei Lan was gone.

Fahai Sattavadeva remained unnervingly calm. The unblinking eyes embedded in the palms of the golden figure behind him all snapped to a point to the left. In a blur of motion, multiple massive hands slammed down onto that spot with crushing speed. The force made the stone ring tremble. Even from her floating box, Bai Ning felt the ripple of power surge through her chest.

Hei Lan staggered from the dust cloud, barely evading the strike. Her red axe floated beside her, but its sheen had dulled. The vibrant crimson blade had faded to a muted brick red. As she launched another crescent of red energy at the monk – who remained entirely unbothered – the color dimmed further. Worse, her other tools had been neutralized: the bell rolled uselessly across the stone, and the pink cloud had been utterly shredded.

It was a testament to her skill and resilience that she had survived even this far.

"I'm not losing that easily!" she snapped, sending her axe spinning. Arcs of red light tore through the air alongside it, sharp and relentless. A massive golden hand shot up, intercepting the crescent mid-flight and slapping it aside with a force that sent it hurtling into the formation dome. The impact birthed a crack in the blade, starting near the handle and stretching almost to the curved edge. Hei Lan's face paled, and she took a cautious step back.

By contrast, Fahai Sattavadeva finally opened one eye, slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. "Hmm," he murmured. "So… the souls of your victims are tied to your tools, and depleting their power weakens the vile bindings you have placed upon them." He paused, watching Hei Lan falter, then repeated, almost to himself, "Hmm… it was worth it not to strike with full power from the start."

The statement stunned the crowd for a heartbeat before they swelled like a tide, shouting their approval. This was what they had come for: spectacle, skill, and a showdown worth watching. The venerable monk, Fahai Sattavadeva, whether deliberately or not, was playing to the crowd perfectly.

In fact, Bai Ning wondered if it was deliberate. Senior Fan Mei had mentioned his strained relationship with Ancestor Qing, and now he had just made a public declaration of wanting to kill Old Devil Fu's grandson. No doubt he was a headache. Yet he was also one of the favorites to win the tournament, if not before, then certainly after this demonstration. If he became too popular, if there was backlash for trying to eliminate him…

Was she overthinking it? Would any of this even matter to a Nascent Soul cultivator? And did it change anything for her in the tournament?

She already knew: the answer was no.

Bai Ning forced these useless thoughts from her mind and refocused on the fight before her. Though, 'fight' wasn't quite the right word. Frankly, if she were in Hei Lan's position, not that she ever would be, Bai Ning reassured herself, she'd just surrender. This was no different than beating a dead horse.

Two hands, vast and golden, came together from left and right in a clap, catching Hei Lan right between them. She tried to evade, but her flying magic treasure, the pink cloud, was gone, restricting her mobility. She was trapped, and the only reason she wasn't instantly pulped to blood was because the damage transferred to her bound magic tool. The axe faded again, red now only in the faintest, paling glow. By contrast, the crack in its blade widened, spiderwebbing smaller fractures along its sides.

Fahai Sattavadeva opened both eyes, serene and almost gentle. "Enough," he said, his voice calm yet absolute. With a final, deafening clap, the hands crushed together. The axe splintered completely, shards scattering across the floor, and at the same time, all that remained of Hei Lan was a mess of blood and bone.

Despite herself, Bai Ning tensed, shocked and disbelieving. Hei Lan hadn't surrendered. Even at the very end, she had fought on, fully aware that victory was impossible. That was… almost admirable, though the feeling was muted by the fact that Hei Lan was a demonic cultivator.

The colossal golden figure, along with its hands, faded, leaving the arena in stunned silence. The crowd held its breath, then erupted into roaring applause.

"Winner: Fahai Sattavadeva."

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