IMMORTALS INFINITE PATHS

New matchups

After another round of matches Elder Lǐ's voice carried across the arena once more, steady and commanding:

"The next round of matches shall proceed as follows"

Platform One: Duō Chóng vs. Duō Jiāo

Platform Two: Duō Líng vs. Duō Xuān

Platform Three: Duō Méi vs. Duō Yī

Platform Four: Duō Wěi vs. Duō Lín

Platform Five: Duō Shēn vs. Duō Hóng

Platform Six: Duō Zen vs. Duō Míng

Prepare yourselves."

The translucent screen above shimmered once more, etching the names into light for all to see. A ripple of excitement spread through the crowd as the implications sank in the new rivalries, dangerous match-ups, and the promise of more battles that could turn the tides of reputation within the clan.

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As the sun leaned further west, the clan grounds buzzed with restless energy. The translucent screen above the platforms displayed the upcoming match-ups, but all eyes seemed to drift toward Platform Three. There, Duō Yī—until this morning dismissed as a weakling—was set to face Duō Méi, the graceful prodigy feared for her precise and merciless style.

In the stands, conversations rippled through the younger disciples.

"Did you see how he stripped Zhì's blade away like it was nothing?" one whispered in awe.

"Luck," another scoffed. "Zhì underestimated him. That won't work on someone like Duō Méi."

A third leaned forward, unable to hide his grin. "Maybe luck, maybe not. Either way, Yī won—and Zhì looked like a fool."

Murmurs of admiration tangled with sneers of jealousy, and already the boy who had been forgotten in the clan's shadow was becoming a figure too divisive to ignore.

In the elders' pavilion, the air carried heavier tension.

Duō Jì, still stung by his son's humiliating loss, spoke first. His voice was measured, but the bitterness underneath was sharp enough to cut.

"My son lost because he was careless. Any opponent—if unprepared—can be caught off guard. Do not mistake fortune for talent."

Elder Duō Lán gave a soft hum, folding her hands as her eyes stayed on the platform. "Carelessness is also weakness. A true fighter does not falter so easily. Duō Yī forced him to reveal that flaw."

Jì's jaw tightened, but before he could retort, Elder Duō Qīng leaned in. "The boy's composure was more than luck. He fought as if weighing every strike. It reminded me of… restraint, discipline, something we do not often see in our younger generation."

"Restraint," Jì sneered, tapping his cane against the floor. "Restraint does not defeat Duō Méi."

At that, Elder Duō Hàn's low voice rumbled. "No, but cleverness might. Did you not see how he adapted mid-bout? The tricks he weathered, the way he used timing to unsettle Zhì… It had the flavor of the shadow arts."

Several elders exchanged guarded looks at that old name. The shadow arts had not been openly taught for decades. To suggest that the Clan Head's son practiced them was almost heretical.

"Shadow arts?" Jì spat the words like poison. "Nonsense. If he truly wielded such techniques, he would not have taken so long to prove himself. He has been coddled, and now fortune grants him one undeserved victory. Nothing more."

But Elder Duō Fǎ stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Even if undeserved, one victory alters perception. Look around." He gestured toward the stands, where disciples whispered and pointed. "The youth already speak of him. Some doubt, some praise. But he has forced their attention. That alone shifts the balance within the clan."

Lán's eyes softened with a quiet smile. "And perhaps that is what we need. Too long, the young have worshipped only raw strength. If Duō Yī can challenge that, then so be it."

Her words did not sit well with Jì. His grip on his cane whitened, and though he said nothing further, his silence carried more menace than any argument.

Meanwhile, all attention turned to Duō Méi herself. She stood on the edge of the platform, her back straight, movements fluid as water. The weapon in her hand—a spear polished to a silver gleam—seemed like an extension of her body. In the earlier round, she had dispatched her opponent with chilling efficiency, each strike flowing into the next, as though she had written the outcome before the fight even began.

"She doesn't waste motion," whispered one disciple in awe. "Every strike is exact. It's like watching calligraphy in combat."

"And Yī has to face that next," another muttered.

The murmurs spread, anticipation thick in the air. The contrast could not be sharper: Duō Yī, the unlikely challenger who fought with restraint and patience, versus Duō Méi, the clan's jade spear, a paragon of elegance and lethal precision.

On the elder's dais, Duō Jì finally muttered, more to himself than the others:

"If he loses—and he will—then this moment of attention will fade, like smoke in the wind."

But his words sounded less like conviction and more like hope.

As the gong resonated across the grounds, the crowd hushed, and all eyes fell upon Platform Three. Duō Yī stepped forward, his expression calm, unreadable. Duō Méi lowered her spear with a faint smile, her eyes sharp with confidence.

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The crowd roared as Duō Chóng and Duō Jiāo stepped onto Platform One, the air thick with anticipation. Whispers rippled through the sea of spectators—most already had their minds made up. Jiāo was the clear favorite. With her mastery over the Guandao and her fierce, unyielding style, few believed Chóng could last more than a handful of exchanges.

Jiāo stood tall and composed, her obsidian-black hair tied in a long braid that fell over her back. She wore flowing indigo robes that shimmered in the sunlight, and the crescent blade of her Guandao gleamed with quiet menace. Her eyes, sharp and unblinking, locked onto her opponent.

Across from her, Duō Chóng shifted uneasily, his saber glinting in the light. His lean frame trembled with nervous energy, and though he tried to appear composed, his fingers twitched on the hilt of his weapon. Inside, his heart pounded. He knew Jiāo's reputation well—direct, relentless, overwhelming. Against her, caution had always been his only chance. His peers often mocked him for cowardice, but today, that careful nature would have to serve him well.

Elder Lǐ raised his hand. "Begin!"

Jiāo wasted no time. With a sharp exhale, she lunged forward, her Guandao sweeping in a deadly arc.

Whoosh!

Chóng leapt back just in time, the blade cutting through the air where he had stood. He barely raised his saber to deflect her follow-up strike—

CLANG!

Sparks flew as the weapons met, the sheer force of Jiāo's blow rattling his bones. She pressed forward without pause, her weapon spinning in tight circles, fluid as water yet heavy with power.

The crowd gasped and cheered at her display. "Duō Jiāo will crush him in no time!" someone shouted.

But Elder Hu squinted, stroking his beard. "No… look at Chóng's feet. He's giving ground, yes—but not without purpose."

On the platform, Chóng grimaced as he staggered backward under the rain of blows. Each strike rattled his arm, his breath already ragged. Jiāo's blade came down in a brutal overhead slash—

BANG!

He barely blocked, dropping to one knee from the impact.

"Outmatched, aren't we?" Jiāo asked coolly, her voice calm, almost pitying.

But Chóng forced a smirk, hiding the tremor in his arms. "Only if you think so, Jiāo."

She frowned but pressed harder, driving him to the far edge of the stage. His saber lashed out wildly, forcing her to deflect—but each clumsy swing carried a strange intent, herding her into position without her noticing.

The audience murmured as they caught on. "He's steering her…?"

Jiāo lunged for a decisive strike, her Guandao crashing toward him—

WHAM! The blade struck the stone floor, cracking it as Chóng rolled aside. Dust scattered across the platform, carried by his subtle footwork.

Jiāo stepped forward to finish him—then her foot slipped.

Her eyes widened. A trap!

In that instant, Chóng struck. His saber slashed at her exposed side—she twisted in time, but not fast enough.

Shhk! A thin line of blood appeared on her arm.

The crowd erupted. Jiāo stumbled back, regaining her stance, her face a mask of fury and disbelief. Chóng, however, did not press the attack. He continued to retreat, step by step, his smirk returning as his plan unfolded.

"Coward's tricks!" someone in the audience jeered.

"No," another elder countered. "Clever tricks."

Jiāo's strikes grew sharper, angrier. She spun her Guandao in a wide sweep, snarling, "Enough of your games!"

Chóng angled his saber, meeting her strike—then abruptly shifted his blade, redirecting her momentum.

SHING! Her Guandao swung wide, and with one precise slash, Chóng cut the leather strap binding her grip.

The weapon slipped from her hands and clattered to the ground.

Gasps rippled through the audience. Jiāo froze, staring at her weapon in shock. She reached for it, but Chóng was already there, his saber hovering just above her throat.

Silence.

Then Elder Lǐ's voice boomed: "Victory—Duō Chóng!"

The platform erupted in noise. Cheers, laughter, outrage—every voice at once, stunned by the upset. Jiāo, known for her strength, had fallen to Chóng's caution and cunning.

Chóng lowered his blade and extended a hand. Jiāo hesitated, her pride stinging, but at last she took it. Her expression burned with restrained anger, but there was also grudging respect.

"Next time, I won't fall for your tricks," she muttered.

Chóng smiled faintly, his tone laced with self-mockery. "If there is a next time, you'll find I always have more tricks up my sleeve."

The crowd buzzed as they stepped down from the platform. The elders exchanged glances, some frowning, others nodding thoughtfully. For the first time, Duō Chóng was no longer just the cautious coward in their eyes he had proven that strategy could also cut deeper than strength.

And as the dust settled, every spectator knew one thing for certain: this tournament had only just begun.