IMMORTALS INFINITE PATHS

Too easy

Hours passed, and the first batch of matches on the six platforms concluded. Elder Lǐ's voice boomed across the grounds, calm yet commanding:

"The winners of the first round are:

Platform One: Duō ChóngPlatform Two: Duō LíngPlatform Three: Duō MéiPlatform Four: Duō WěiPlatform Five: Duō LínPlatform Six: Duō Shēn."**

"These descendants have proven their strength and will proceed to the next round."

With a measured wave, Elder Lǐ conjured a translucent screen that shimmered into existence before him. Names began to inscribe themselves across its surface, glowing faintly.

"The following people should proceed to their platforms"

Platform One: Duō Jiāo vs. Duō SùPlatform Two: Duō Zēn vs. Duō LiánPlatform Three: Duō Xuān vs. Duō JiéPlatform Four: Duō Jùn vs. Duō MíngPlatform Five: Duō Hóng vs. Duō LóngPlatform Six: Duō Yī vs. Duō Zhì.

The announcement drew a sharp wave of whispers, the crowd immediately abuzz.

"Ha! The useless son of the Clan Head finally gets his turn," one voice sneered.

"And against Elder Duō Jì's boy, no less," another chuckled. "Zhì may not be the strongest, but he's clever. Yī's as good as finished."

"Pfft, clever? You mean slimy. Everyone knows he can't win a fair fight," someone muttered.

"Doesn't matter," another voice cut in. "Even a rat can bite if the cat is already half-dead. Duō Yī won't last."

A few laughed loudly, eager to see blood.

Duō Yī's gaze drifted toward his opponent.

Duō Zhì, son of Elder Duō Jì, the brilliant strategist of the Clan. Unlike his father, Zhì was not admired. His reputation was built not on strength or honor, but on schemes, lies, and manipulation.

He stood at 5'9, with an average, almost unimpressive build. His short, dark brown hair framed sharp features, while his narrow blue eyes glinted with sly amusement. Even standing still, his presence felt slippery, like oil refusing to mix with water.

In battle, his swordsmanship was hardly impressive, subpar at best. But his greatest weapon was his tongue and his cunning. Many had fallen prey to his schemes outside the arena, and now, facing the Clan Head's son, he wore a grin that promised mockery more than combat.

The slender, crystal-tipped sword Lǐ Huǒ (Cold Frost) shimmered in his hand. Light, quick, deceptively beautiful.

Duō Yī stepped onto Platform Six, his cold eyes assessing the opponent before him. His jaw tightened in disdain.

A weakling. This will be quick.

Zhì tilted his head, smirking. "Well, well, the prodigal disappointment finally climbs up to the stage." His voice carried, ensuring the crowd heard every word. "Tell me, Duō Yī, will you lose quickly? Or will you make me work for it, just to embarrass yourself more?"

The crowd snickered, the jeers echoing.

"Hear that? He's already in Yī's head!" someone laughed.

"Clan Head's son, brought down by the Councilor's boy—what a sight that will be!" another added.

Zhì tapped his sword lightly against his palm, feigning boredom. "Come now, son of the Clan Head. Surely you'll offer me more than silence? Or has defeat become your second skin?"

Yī said nothing, his cold stare unwavering.

Zhì's grin widened, enjoying the performance. "No words? That's fine. Your silence is louder than any excuse you could give."

The crowd chuckled again, feeding off the tension.

At last, Elder Lǐ's voice rang out, firm and unshakable:

"The next round will commence simultaneously. Participants, take your places!"

The other platforms surged into chaos—steel rang, qi flared, and shouts filled the air. But on Platform Six, the atmosphere sharpened, tense and cutting.

Zhì's smirk lingered. "I'll make sure they all remember this moment. The day the Clan Head's son couldn't even lift his pride off the ground."

Elder Lǐ's arm rose high.

"Begin!"

The battle had begun.

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.

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The second round had begun, and the platforms erupted into fierce clashes. Elder Lǐ's sharp eyes observed each match, noting every display of strength, skill, and cunning. From Platform One to Platform Six, each battle tested resilience and wits. But all eyes lingered on Platform Six, where Duō Yī and Duō Zhì's showdown held the crowd's attention.

The two circled each other, studying every movement. In Duō Yī's hands was the staff he had carefully chosen from the armory, its pristine white hue catching the sunlight. Deceptively plain, yet elegant—an extension of his very will.

Across from him, Duō Zhì raised Lǐ Huǒ, his crystal-tipped sword. His smirk was sharp. "Is that all you've got, Duō Yī? Or are you waiting for your father to save you?"

Laughter rippled among some of the younger disciples in the crowd.

"Pathetic," one muttered."He won't last a breath," another scoffed.

Duō Yī ignored the taunts, his cold eyes fixed on Zhì. His stance shifted subtly, hands adjusting on the staff with the confidence of someone who had fought countless battles before.

Zhì lunged first, his sword flashing toward Yī's side. The strike was sharp, but Yī's staff intercepted it with fluid grace. He rotated, redirecting the blade, then countered with a short, snapping strike to Zhì's ribs. Crack. Not hard enough to break, but enough to stagger.

Gasps rose from the crowd.

"Did he just—""No way. Zhì got tagged!"

Zhì hissed, regaining balance, his smirk faltering. He swung again, faster this time, but Yī slipped aside, twisting the staff down and clipping Zhì across the thigh. A second clean strike. Then another, across the shoulder.

Three hits. Three humiliations. None powerful, but each precise.

Zhì's face reddened. "You—!"

He lashed out in frustration, and this time his blade scraped against the platform, kicking up sand. With a flick, he sent the grains flying toward Yī's eyes.

A few onlookers chuckled. "Clever! Blind him!"

But Yī's assassin instincts had long been honed in darker places. His head tilted just slightly, the grains scattering harmlessly past his cheek. His staff spun low in response, smacking Zhì's shin and forcing him to stumble.

Zhì snarled, tilting his sword to catch the glare of the sun. The blade reflected a sharp glint, aimed to blind.

For the briefest moment, light flared across Yī's eyes—yet he didn't falter. He shifted, rotating his staff in a smooth circle, deflecting Zhì's next lunge and striking him lightly on the wrist. The trick had failed.

"Dirty moves now? That's all he has?" a disciple scoffed from the crowd."Duō Zhì can't land a clean strike.""Duō Yī's not even trying hard—he's teaching him."

Each word stung Zhì's pride. His smirk had vanished, replaced by a scowl twisted with humiliation. He launched himself again, sword slashing wildly, abandoning technique for raw aggression.

But Yī remained calm, every counter efficient, every motion measured. Where Zhì flailed, Yī flowed.

Finally, Zhì roared and swung downward with all his strength, aiming for Yī's skull. But anger had ruined his form. His guard dropped for a fraction of a second—long enough.

Yī pivoted sharply, sliding his grip to one end of the staff, and swept it upward in a diagonal arc. The polished wood slammed against Zhì's wrist. Clang! Lǐ Huǒ flew from his hand, clattering across the platform.

A stunned silence fell. Even the wind seemed to pause.

Zhì's eyes widened in horror, his humiliation complete. He staggered back, unarmed, his breathing ragged.

Yī stepped forward, staff spinning once before halting—its tip hovering just inches from Zhì's throat. His voice was calm, steady. "It was never luck. Only skill."

"Winner of Platform Six—Duō Yī!" Elder Lǐ's voice thundered across the courtyard.

The silence broke into murmurs, then scattered applause. Some stared in disbelief, others in awe.

"Duō Yī… he actually beat him.""Not just beat—he made him look like a fool.""That wasn't a fight. That was a lesson."

Zhì's face burned crimson, veins bulging at his temple. "You… you got lucky!" he spat, his voice trembling between fury and humiliation.

But no one believed him.

Duō Yī lowered his staff, calm as still water. Without a backward glance, he stepped down from the platform. The pristine staff gleamed faintly in the sunlight, like a silent witness to the fight. As he walked off, whispers followed him like shadows.

And Duō Zhì stood frozen on the platform, stripped of both weapon and dignity.