Druidic Cultivation | Thirty-Three

The crowd was not silent, per say, but it took several breathes for the majority of the spectators to realize that Feng Jiao’s match had already concluded. After seeing the slightly larger than average Jixiang Yun’s match up against an under-aged and under-sized Feng Jiao, the majority of the spectators had started watching the fights in the other three sections. 

Only Nufang Mudan, the God Tree representative, had kept her eyes on the obvious impending landslide victory. Elder Nufang’s eyes went wide when she saw how quickly Feng Jiao put down his larger opponent. She’d been mildly surprised when she saw Feng Jiao’s name on the tourney bracket at the start of the competition as she didn’t think he’d taken her “Win the competition” challenge seriously. The God Tree Grove had had several rank eight martial spirits in the past, but Feng Jiao’s natural aptitude seemed to outshine every single one of them.

First, those seated closest to the corner that Feng Jiao was fighting in quieted down as they noticed the instant knock-out. The spectators were silenced in astonishment, a silence that slowly spread as the people sitting next to them looked over. Eventually, even the other three ongoing matches were paused as the competitors stopped to look over at the large teenager that appeared to be sleeping in the center of his corner. 

Drool dripped down the chin of the larger boy, the ‘obvious victor’ of the match and the young-looking child stared down at the slumbering buffoon disdainfully. An ornate iron sword could be seen on the marble not too far from the unconscious boy, a few inches from his outstretched arm. Those who hadn’t seen the instant knock out could only marvel at the fact that the larger boy, the older boy who’d obviously been cultivating longer, with a weapon had been defeated by an unarmed child in less than a breath.   

Sensing all of the attention slowly focusing on him, Feng Jiao felt a need to make a point. He took a deep breath and crossed his arms before taunting his defeated opponent at the top of his lungs.

“Who would have guessed that I, Feng Jiao of the God Tree Grove, would be blessed with a free win so early on? Hahaha, I will not be going easy on any of my opponents who look down on me. All of you should have waited a few more years before choosing to compete, oh wait, that would make you grown men!” Jiao continued to arrogantly laugh as he vacated his corner of the stage. Had Jixiang Yun been able to hear his boisterous gloating, he’d likely be moaning and rolling around after recognizing that it was almost word-for-word what he’d exclaimed to Feng Jiao only moments after being knocked out.

Jiao took his seat next to his father, who looked down at his son approvingly. No words were exchanged between the two but Feng Zhipei patted his son on the back slowly with a grin on his face. Obviously, he was excited at his Jiao’s performance and was looking forward to his continued success. 

Feng Jiao, on the other hand, couldn’t help but demean his own performance. Sure, he’d won his match. He’d even done it in an extremely short amount of time, but that still left him feeling unsatisfied. As annoying as the boy had been, it was obvious to Feng Jiao that he was just a commoner with almost no fighting experience. Even the supposedly ornate iron sword seemed like a cheap replacement for a real weapon, carved to look more powerful than it really was. When he thought about it that way, Feng Jiao felt a bit guilty for potentially crippling the boy’s future prospects with a savage defeat. 

Time passed slowly as Feng Jiao contemplated the consequences of his victory. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that in order to succeed, others would have to fail. The path of hallowed arts might be an infinite set of stairs but there was a limited amount of room on each step. Just because somebody was trying to climb out of poorer circumstances did not mean that Jiao was obligated to not kick them down a few steps while he climbed. Such was life.

The tournament bracket was visible from where Feng Jiao was sitting after his match so he decided to study it more closely than he had previously. First, his eyes strayed to where his name had been. His opponent’s name was greyed out and Jiao’s was colored golden. Following the line his name was on to the right, Feng Jiao saw his name repeated once more next to another name, the winner from match 6.

Participating in the competition were 128 boys, or 64 matches which were fought four at a time. When the first 64 fights were concluded, the first match of the loser’s bracket would begin. The 64 losers from their first match would fight in 32 battles to determine which 16 were eliminated. The winners from groups 1-4 would fight it out, followed by 5-8 and so on. From those 32 matches, there would be 16 losers who would fight the current losing bracket to determine who would be eliminated. If one lost early on they would have to fight each round to stay in the tourney, only getting a break if an opponent was injured too much to fight in the losing bracket.

Another selection of names could be seen off to the right and, after reading a few, Feng Jiao realized it was the selection of girls. With only about 250 children choosing to participate in the competition, Feng Jiao realized just how many people didn’t choose to pursue immortality. In his own awakening ceremony, the Crouching Grass had brought nearly 100 children on its own and they were only a medium sized village. 

“Dad, why is it that there are so few people here compared to the amount who awaken?” Feng Jiao broke the silence he’d maintained since winning his match to ask a question of his father. Startled by his son’s voice, Feng Zhipei jumped a bit in his seat before replying.

“The path you’re walking is one that both your mother and I attempted to walk, little Jiao. Unlike you, both Xue’er and I had only average talent. I was accepted into a second-grade sect and your mother was allowed to follow me, along with a few of my other retainers. My grade five talent was nourished as well as it could be but my heart was never on cultivation.” Feng Zhipei trailed off a bit as he reminisced on his youth.

“With an average talent and an average sect, I was never destined to become a powerful cultivator. When you add to that the fact that your mother was only a grade four talent with less resources than me, you could understand why I didn’t put my heart into pulling ahead of her too much. I’d had a massive crush on your mother since we were young, so by the time we were both fifteen and left for the sect, I’d already decided to pursue her.” Zhipei wore a warm smile as he looked out into the clouds.

“That’s nice and all dad, but that wasn’t the question.” Feng Jiao was amused by his father’s absentmindedness. Every time he talked about Jiao’s mother he’d daze off and lose his train of thought, he was really smitten. It was cute, Jiao thought. Even if Jiao would never stop pursuing immortality for the sake of a relationship, he could still admire the sentiment. 

“Right, right. Well, I was getting to something even if I got a little lost. Basically, if it weren’t for the fact that my mother looked down on my crush on Xue, I never would have left for a sect. I wasn’t destined to get very far and I could have done better at home. Many people with average talents and martial spirits are like this. Most children don’t want to leave home. On the other side of the coin, there are several children like you that, for various reasons, are given permission to join the sect directly without having to participate. Martial spirits, talents, gifts in the Dao of alchemy or family connections. 

“Of course, there is also the fact that this is the winter tourney which always has less attendees. Snows get very heavy in parts of the region and block roads and there are generally less trade goods so caravans to the city aren’t as necessary. Add it all up and you get very small tournaments in the winter.” With his explanation complete, Feng Zhipei stopped talking. His son, Jiao, had always been hard to bond, only ever asking questions about technical stuff, not so much personal or emotional things. Still, he loved his son.

Feng Jiao, oblivious to the awkward silence and contemplation his father was doing, was mulling over what it meant to have less people in the tourney. Because summer was a much better time to caravan to the city, each and every one of the children participating here would be here because they were dedicated to cultivation. There would be less competition, but he was sure that the competition would be fiercer. 

The first round of battles concluded and the losing bracket took the stage a couple hours later. Feng Jiao kept his eye on seven or so boys who he thought would be a slight challenge but, when following the lines, realized that he’d only have to face two or three of them at the most as they’d fight each other before they got to him.

The losing bracket spun up and Jiao found himself watching the third stage. There he could see Jixiang Yun standing proudly, although bruised, staring off against his opponent. Jiao could not hear their words over the loud crowd around him, but from what he could see from their facial expressions and hands, his opponent was viciously mocking him while feigning sleep. 

The match started and Yun, not one to be outdone, rushed forward with the limits of his cultivation base cycling. Violent punches and kicks were thrown out in quick succession causing Yun’s opponent to back pedal even as he was cruelly beat. Every time the other boy attempted to throw a punch, Yun would headbutt the first and return a kick of his own. Within two minutes, Yun stood over a bruised, beaten, and bleeding opponent as he cowered on the floor of their sector with his hands over his head and his head between his knees. 

The overseer announced Yun the victor of that match as everybody watching cheered for him. It wasn’t often that they saw that kind of pure hate in an awakening tournament, the boy wasn’t even happy about winning his match it appeared. All eyes watched him as he turned and glared out into the stadium, fighting spirit flashing in his eyes. 

Only Feng Jiao was able to tell that it was, in fact, him that Jixiang Yun was staring at.