Chapter 2 – The Price of Power
When I woke up, I was back in my room.
For a split second, everything felt normal. Too normal.
Then the pain hit.
Bandages wrapped tightly around my stomach, my ribs screaming the mont I tried to move. The mory of that fight rushed back to — the speed, the pressure, the way Lucien had vanished from my sight as if space itself bent for him.
I exhaled slowly.
That wasn’t skill.
That was cultivation.
I clenched my teeth and forced myself to sit up.
I wanted it.
But wanting sothing didn’t change reality.
The place where aether was most concentrated was in Australia. Everyone knew that. And I didn’t have anywhere near enough money to get there — let alone survive once I arrived.
I stared at the ceiling, frustration simring beneath the pain.
Then, out of pure boredom, I grabbed my phone.
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That’s when I saw it.
The Canou Gérard Selection Tournant.
My breath caught.
Canou Gérard. Rank 6. A living legend. One hundred and fifty years old — and still standing at the peak of human cultivation.
The tournant rules were simple.
Three hundred fighters.
Three matches each.
One loss ant elimination.
Only one hundred would be selected to travel to Australia and begin cultivation training.
Weapons allowed. Non-lethal only.
My heart pounded.
This wasn’t just a chance.
It was my only chance.
I didn’t hesitate.
I signed up.
—
The days that followed were hell.
My injuries hadn’t fully healed, but stopping wasn’t an option. Every punch pulled at my ribs. Every kick sent a dull ache through my core. Still, I trained.
Harder than I ever had before.
Joseph trained with .
Unlike , he used a sword — precise, efficient, and rciless. The first ti we sparred, I barely lasted ten seconds before the blunt edge of his blade tapped my throat.
“You’re dead,” he said flatly.
I laughed, even as I gasped for air.
“Again.”
Each session was the sa.
I rushed in.
He cut off.
I adapted.
He adapted faster.
That familiar gap stared in the face again.
Speed. Timing. Distance.
So I stopped trying to overpower him.
I started watching.
I studied how his weight shifted before a strike. The angle of his wrist. The mont his balance faltered after a swing.
Slowly — painfully — sothing began to take shape.
Not a technique.
A way of fighting.
One built around movent, feints, and attacking the instant an opening appeared.
By the end of the week, I was bruised, exhausted… and smiling.
“This is insane,” Joseph muttered one night, wiping sweat from his forehead. “You’re changing the way you fight.”
“Good,” I replied. “Because what I had wasn’t enough.”
—
Two months passed faster than I expected.
Too fast.
The day of the tournant arrived.
The venue was massive — hundreds of fighters gathered in one place, each radiating their own kind of pressure. So looked confident. Others nervous. A few stared ahead with empty, dangerous eyes.
Joseph stood beside , unusually quiet.
“You nervous?” I asked.
He exhaled slowly. “No… but look at them. Sowhere in there are the three we each have to beat.”
“So what?” I said. “Do you think they’re thinking about you?”
He glanced at .
“They’re here for the sa reason we are. Strength. Purpose. A way forward. So stop worrying about them.”
I t his gaze.
“Focus on winning. Make it real.”
Joseph closed his eyes. Took a deep breath.
“…Alright,” he said. “You and . Top hundred.”
I nodded.
A loud voice echoed through the arena.
“All contestants, prepare for your first match.”
My heart slamd against my chest.
This was it.
The path to cultivation started here.
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