Chapter 310: Ashes of the Wind

Chapter 310: Chapter 310: Ashes of the Wind

The Silver Wind Sect’s second fighter stepped up.

He was a tall man with a wind affinity that crackled around his fists. He moved fast, faster than the first, his body blurring as he closed the distance.

Fania didn’t even look at him.

She raised one hand, palm open, fingers spread.

And she brought it down.

A column of fire crashed from the sky, slamming into the man mid-stride. The impact cratered the stone floor, sending chunks of debris flying into the barrier. The man was thrown back, his robes burning, his skin red and blistered.

He didn’t get up.

The crowd roared.

Fania turned, her hair whipping in the heat, her eyes scanning for the next target.

Silver Wind’s third fighter was already moving.

He came from the left, a curved blade in his hand, the edge coated in compressed wind. He slashed at her throat.

Fania ducked under the blade.

She drove her palm into his chest.

Crying Phoenix Talon.

The technique erupted from her hand—a concentrated burst of phoenix fire shaped like a talon, three curved blades of flame that punched through his chest and out his back.

He flew across the arena, crashed into the barrier, and slid down the stone, unconscious.

The crowd was on their feet now, screaming, stamping, their bloodlust rising with every kill.

Silver Wind’s fourth fighter didn’t wait for the announcement.

He charged while Fania was still recovering her stance.

He was a brawler, his fists wrapped in wind energy, his body low to the ground. He threw a hook at her ribs.

Fania took the hit.

The wind energy cracked against her side, and she grunted, stumbling back a step.

But she didn’t fall.

She grabbed his wrist before he could pull back, and she pulled. He stumbled forward, off balance, and she met him with her forehead.

The crack echoed through the arena.

His nose shattered.

Blood sprayed.

And before he could recover, she drove her knee into his groin, then her elbow into the back of his skull.

He dropped like a stone.

Three fighters in less than two minutes.

In the Azure Dragon dugout, Damon watched with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Alena stood beside him, her forest-green eyes fixed on Fania with an intensity that had nothing to do with admiration.

She was studying.

Her fingers twitched, tracing invisible patterns in the air, measuring the flow of Qi she could sense from across the arena.

"She’s breathing wrong," Alena said.

Damon glanced at her.

"Explain."

Alena didn’t look away from Fania.

"Her flame Qi is burning too hot, too fast. She’s pushing it through her lower meridians without cycling it through her core first. Look at her stance—she’s favoring her left leg."

Damon looked.

Alena was right. Fania’s weight was shifted, her left foot planted deeper, her right leg lighter.

"That means her right meridian is already overheating," Alena continued.

"She’s compensating by offloading the strain to her left side. If she keeps fighting at this pace, her lower dantian will destabilize within three more exchanges."

Damon’s jaw tightened.

The exact same flaw Flare suffered.

He looked at Flare, who was still standing rigid, her hand on her sword, her eyes locked on Fania.

She didn’t know.

She couldn’t see what Alena saw.

But Damon could.

His golden eyes traced the subtle flaws in Fania’s stance—the same flaws he had seen in Flare.

The same dangerous pride, the same unchecked power burning too hot, too fast.

And he knew that when Flare faced Fania, she wouldn’t just be fighting fire with fire.

She’d be fighting a mirror.

A reflection of her own weakness.

The realization settled in his chest like a stone.

Silver Wind’s fifth fighter stepped onto the arena floor.

He was their captain.

A man in his late twenties, his robes bearing the silver insignia of his sect, his eyes hard and calculating.

He carried a staff carved with wind runes that glowed faintly in the arena light.

He looked at Fania’s flames, still dancing at her fingertips.

He looked at his fallen comrades, their bodies charred and broken on the arena floor.

And he raised his staff high above his head.

"I yield."

A man in his late twenties, his robes bearing the silver insignia of his sect, his eyes hard and calculating.

He carried a staff, the wood carved with wind runes that glowed faintly in the arena light.

He looked at Fania, her flames still dancing at her fingertips.

He looked at his fallen comrades, their bodies charred and broken on the arena floor.

And he raised his staff high above his head.

"I yield." The word cut through the crowd’s roar like a blade. Silence fell, absolute and sudden.

The captain’s hand trembled, but his voice was steady.

He would not sacrifice more of his teammates.

The captain’s voice was steady, his expression grim.

"My sect cannot match a Vermilion Bird bloodline. I will not sacrifice my remaining disciples to prove what we already know."

He lowered his staff.

Grand Marshal Vane’s voice boomed across the arena. "Silver Wind Sect forfeits. Vermilion Bird Sect advances to the Top 16."

The crowd erupted.

But not in cheers.

In boos.

They wanted blood. They wanted bodies. They wanted to see the Silver Wind captain broken and burned.

Fania didn’t care.

She lowered her hand, the fire dying around her fingers, and she turned to leave the stage.

But she stopped.

Her eyes swept across the arena, past the cheering crowd, past the booing spectators, past the royal box.

They landed on the Azure Dragon dugout.

On Flare.

Fania’s lips curled into a slow, arrogant smirk.

She raised her hand, palm open, and mouthed two words.

"Fake bird."

Flare’s teeth ground together so hard Damon heard the enamel creak.

Her hand shot to the Inferno Phoenix Blade, her knuckles white, her entire body trembling with barely contained rage.

The fire in her eyes wasn’t just burning anymore.

It was raging.

She turned to Damon, her voice low and sharp, cutting through the noise of the crowd.

"When we meet Vermilion Bird," she said,

"I want to incinerate her personally."

Damon met her gaze.

"You will."

Flare’s grip on the sword loosened, just slightly.

She looked back at the arena, at Fania’s retreating back, at the flames that still licked at the stone floor.

And she waited.