The arena buzzed with an intense energy that reflected the anticipation of the crowd. From the highest elder to the youngest disciple, all eyes were on the platform where the Situ brothers stood. The massive stage, gleaming under the morning sun, seemed dwarfed by the sheer presence of the two figures who stood poised and ready. Their aura alone commanded attention.
Their swords were drawn, shimmering in the daylight as though infused with an inner light. The blades, forged from the finest celestial ore, seemed alive—pulsating with each breath the brothers took. Situ Rong, the elder of the two, was a tall, broad-shouldered warrior whose quiet confidence radiated strength. His face was calm, as though carved from stone, and his grip on the sword was steady, betraying not a hint of hesitation.
Beside him, Situ Ba cut a different figure entirely. Leaner and more agile, he moved with the grace of a panther, his steps light, his posture relaxed. While his brother's presence commanded respect, Situ Ba exuded a kind of reckless charm, an air of unpredictability that kept everyone on edge.
Before the battle even began, their synergy was palpable. It wasn't just in their postures, but in the way their Qi intertwined, flowing between them like a living current. A silent understanding passed between their eyes, and in that brief glance, the audience could feel it: the performance was about to begin.
The moment Situ Rong stepped forward, the crowd fell silent.
"Watch closely," muttered one of the elders in the front row. "This is no ordinary display of swordsmanship."
The elder's words hung in the air as Situ Rong's sword slashed through the space before him with a sound like a crack of thunder. It wasn't just the speed or precision of the strike that left the audience breathless—it was the intent behind it. Each strike carried the force of a storm, every movement calculated, efficient, leaving no room for error. With every swing, the ground beneath him trembled, as if acknowledging the sheer power he wielded.
"Do you see that?" whispered a young disciple in awe. "He's not just attacking—he's controlling the very air around him."
An elder next to the disciple nodded sagely. "That's the amazing! Each strike seems to draw energy from the heavens, amplifying the force of his attacks. It's not something one can learn from simple training—it requires years of mastery over both body and mind."
As the elder spoke, Situ Rong's strikes became more rapid, each one accompanied by a low rumble, like the distant sound of thunder rolling through the mountains. His movements were deliberate, yet they flowed into one another like water cascading over rocks, each step leading to the next in a seamless, fluid rhythm. There was no wasted effort—every motion was precise, controlled, and devastatingly effective.
"Look at that," someone murmured from the crowd. "Every step he takes resonates with the earth. He's not just walking—he's commanding the ground to support his every move."
Yet while Situ Rong displayed raw, elemental power, Situ Ba moved in stark contrast beside him. Where his elder brother's strikes were methodical and forceful, Situ Ba's were light and playful. His sword danced in the air, creating shimmering afterimages that dazzled the eye. With each step, his figure seemed to blur, as though he were moving faster than the eye could follow. The afterimages left behind didn't simply disappear—they followed his movements, making it appear as if multiple versions of him were attacking simultaneously.
"Is he using some kind of illusion?" a disciple asked, squinting to make sense of the scene before him.
"No," replied another elder, shaking his head. "That's the true Flowing Mirage Sword Art. It's not an illusion—it's speed. He's moving so quickly that his Qi creates echoes of his movements, making it impossible to predict his next strike."
Situ Ba's strikes, while appearing playful, carried a deadly force behind them. His sword twirled and spun, cutting through the air with such finesse that it seemed to leave trails of light in its wake. His movements were unpredictable—one moment he was lunging forward, and the next he was spinning away, his figure dissolving into a blur of afterimages that danced across the platform.
"Look at that smirk," whispered a young disciple from the Sword God Sect. "Situ Ba's enjoying this—he knows he's showing off."
"Of course he is," another disciple responded with a grin. "But can you blame him? Just look at Cheng Fang's face."
The crowd began to notice the shift in Cheng Fang's demeanor. The other contestant, standing at the edge of the platform, had started the day with a boastful attitude, confident in his own abilities. But now, his expression had soured considerably. His fists were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight as he watched the brothers' performance.
"He's fuming!" Situ Ba whispered to his brother mid-performance, his voice carrying a hint of mischief.
Situ Rong didn't reply, but a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He knew what his younger brother was up to—Situ Ba was purposefully overdoing it, adding extra flourishes to irritate Cheng Fang.
"Cheng Fang can't take it," murmured a spectator. "He was so full of himself earlier, and now he's being completely overshadowed."
"All bark, no bite," a senior disciple snickered. "He strutted around like a peacock, but when it comes down to it, he can't match the Situ brothers. He's just a child playing at being a king."
The murmurs from the crowd grew louder, a mixture of awe for the brothers and mockery directed at Cheng Fang. The performance on stage had completely shifted the narrative of the day. What had started as a coronation where Cheng Fang was expected to shine had turned into a showcase for the Situ brothers.
"This was supposed to be Cheng Fang's moment," a noble from the northern territories said with a chuckle. "But now look at him. The boy can barely keep his composure. He thought he was the strongest, but reality's a bitter pill, isn't it?"
As if sensing the rising tension in the audience, Situ Rong decided it was time for the final act. With one last powerful step, he swung his sword in a wide arc, releasing a wave of Qi that rippled through the arena. The ground beneath the brothers trembled, and a shockwave of force radiated outwards, causing the crowd to gasp in surprise.
"By the heavens!" gasped one of the elders. "That's pure, unadulterated Qi! He's wielding the very essence of thunder!"
Simultaneously, Situ Ba spun gracefully, his blade cutting through the air in a perfect circle. The shimmering afterimages left behind by his movements coalesced into a radiant display of energy that followed his sword's arc, creating a mirage of countless blades slashing through the air. The combined effect of their final strikes was nothing short of breathtaking—a perfect harmony of power and elegance.
The arena was silent for a brief moment, the audience stunned by what they had just witnessed. Then, like a dam breaking, the applause erupted. Cheers and roars of approval filled the air as the crowd celebrated the flawless display of swordsmanship.
Cheng Fang, however, remained stone-faced. His eyes burned with frustration as he watched the brothers bask in the adoration of the crowd.
"They think this is over," he muttered under his breath. "But I'll show them who the real king is."
As the applause continued, the elder overseeing the coronation stepped forward, his voice amplified by Qi. "The performance of the Situ brothers is a testament to their mastery of both the Thunderous Sword Technique and the Mirage Flowing Sword Art. Such skill, such synergy, has rarely been seen in the history of this coronation. But remember, this is only the beginning. The path to the throne is still open."
The elder's words were clear, but the crowd's attention remained fixed on the Situ brothers, their admiration and respect now fully earned.
"Do you think Cheng Fang has a chance now?" a disciple asked, glancing at his friend.
His friend snorted. "Not a chance. He's too rattled. Even if he has the skill, his confidence is gone. The Situ brothers outclassed him completely."
"Maybe," said another, a sly smile playing on his lips, "but don't count him out just yet. A cornered beast is the most dangerous."
As the brothers stepped down from the platform, Cheng Fang's glare followed them. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white from how tightly he gripped it. The coronation was far from over, and though the crowd had turned against him, Cheng Fang wasn't about to let this humiliation go unanswered.
"Just wait," he muttered darkly. "I'll make them regret underestimating me."