Gen sat in a quiet corner of the restored arena hall, Lorel lying unconscious beside him on a patch of smoothed stone. He was still, his earlier fury cooled into a watchful calm. He said nothing, his gaze fixed on the slow rise and fall of her chest.
The wispy bearded face appeared briefly, made a simple gesture, and a soft, silver light washed over Lorel's form. Her bruises faded from livid purple to faint yellow. The shallow cuts sealed into pink lines. The crushed shoulder and broken arm knitted with faint, audible pops. But the light could not erase the deep weariness, the spiritual exhaustion.
**"The flesh is mended,"** the old voice murmured to Gen alone. **"But the spirit's wounds run deeper. She can fight, if her will demands it. But not at her peak."**
Gen gave a single, slow nod, his eyes still on Lorel. "It will be enough. She wouldn't give up over something like this."
Liang sidled up, a knowing look in his eye. He nudged Gen with his elbow. "You. Getting all caring out of a sudden. What's next, flowers?"
Gen jerked away, pushing Liang's head aside. "It was necessity. Nothing else." His voice was gruff, but the tips of his ears were faintly red.
From a few paces away, Dou Yi watched, a small, intrigued smile playing on her lips. "So, Gen," she said, her voice carrying clearly. "This is the Lorel Feng linked to the son of the Immortal." It wasn't a question.
Gen turned his head away, ignoring her, but the discomfort was plain on his face.
Dou Yi laughed softly. She drifted closer, leaning in as if to examine Lorel, but her eyes were on Gen. He waved a hand at her as if shooing a persistent fly. "Leave it alone."
"I'm just observing," Dou Yi said, her smile widening. "I didn't know she was that powerful. Seven swords. A concept given edge." There was genuine respect in her tone, but also a sharp, competitive curiosity.
Juxian bounced over, his jar swinging. "I can't wait to test the Agile Mountain against that Supremacy! Such precision! But I shall wait," he added solemnly, "for Sister Lorel to be fully recovered. A contest must be fair!"
From his corner, Ning spoke without turning his head. "It was a great spectacle of learning. She provided excellent data."
At that moment, Lorel's eyelids fluttered open. The world swam into focus—not the shattered arena, but the smooth, cylindrical hall. And faces. The faces of the elites, ringed around her. And Gen, seated right beside her.
A vague memory surfaced—strong arms catching her, a firm chest. *Did he… carry me? In front of everyone?*
Her face flooded with heat, turning a brilliant scarlet from her neck to her hairline.
Chubbs, misinterpreting the flush, rushed to her other side. "My lady! Are you in pain? Do you feel unwell?"
"I'm… I'm fine," she managed, her voice hoarse. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, avoiding Gen's gaze. "Thank you… everyone, for your concern." As she looked around, she noticed something else. Dou Yi was standing very close to Gen, almost possessive. But the sting Lorel might have felt months ago was absent. Instead, she felt a quiet, solid warmth. She was *in* this circle. They were looking at *her*. Not as Gen's betrothed, but as Lorel Feng, who had just slain the Bug Monarch. She was at the center because of her own actions.
The other elites exchanged glances. No one moved to leave the informal circle around her. Above them, the leaderboard shimmered. Lorel's name had advanced, now sitting firmly among the top contenders.
Juxian cracked his knuckles, his cheerful energy returning full force. He turned to Gen. "Well then! It's time! I must test this **Eternal Body** of yours. I can't wait to see how the Agile Mountain fares against it!"
Gen jumped to his feet, a little too quickly. In his haste, his elbow bumped Lorel's newly-healed shoulder.
"Ah! Sorry," he muttered, scratching the back of his head, an uncharacteristically awkward gesture.
Lorel winced but saw the genuine, flustered apology in his eyes. Around them, Liang snorted, Dou Yi's smile turned into a quiet chuckle, and even Juxian grinned. The tension from the life-and-death struggle eased, replaced by the simple, relatable humor of the moment.
Lorel felt the overwhelming urge to find a hole to hide in from the embarrassment. But for the first time, she was surrounded by people her own age, looking at her—*really* looking at her—not with pity or duty, but with recognition. So, instead of hiding, she found herself laughing softly along with them, the sound still weak but real.
"I'm ready," Gen said, rolling his shoulders, his usual confidence settling back over him.
But on the arena platform—which had been silently recreated by the Tower's power—another figure was already waiting.
It was Kang Mao. His face was a mask of raw grief and fury, tear-tracks cutting through the dust and dried blood on his cheeks. He stood trembling, one arm pointing shakily towards their group. His accusing finger swept across them. It stopped on Gen, quivered with impotent rage. It slid to Lorel, trembling harder, a maelstrom of hatred and painful understanding. Then, finally, it settled.
On Chubbs.
The entire group stilled. The message was clear. Kang Mao sought vengeance, blood for blood. He could not hope to challenge Gen or Lorel. So he would target the one he perceived as the weakest link in their circle. The one who had cheered for Lorel, who stood with them.
Chubbs rose to his feet, a curse dying on his lips. He understood perfectly. *I'm seen as weak. Just you wait.*
"Be careful," Lorel said quietly, her smile gone.
"He's grieving," Gen added, his voice low. "I know Kang Mao. He's better than his brother was. Beat him, but… no need for another bloodbath."
Chubbs puffed out his chest, though his eyes were serious. "You all underestimate me too much. Just watch. Besides, Kang Mao is the younger brother. He can't be as strong."
From his distant perch, Baili Feng glanced over, his expression one of pure contempt. "Make yourself useful for once," he said, the words like chips of ice.
Chubbs blinked, then squared his shoulders, strangely heartened by what anyone else would have taken as an insult. He took it as a command, a recognition that he was expected to contribute.
He jumped onto the arena platform, landing with a solid *thump* that echoed his substantial weight. He stood facing Kang Mao, their names blurring and then solidifying above them in the glowing **VS**.
The bearded face shimmered into view briefly, gave an intrigued stroke of his spectral beard, and then faded back into the shadows, leaving them to it.
Chubbs faced Kang Mao, his usual theatricality gone, replaced by a grim resolve. "I understand your grief," he said, his voice steady. "But I will not be an easy stepping stone. I have trained for this. Chubbs does not fall here."
Kang Mao said nothing. His grief had burned away all words. He simply raised his arms. **Jingdao** energy, not the dense, shell-like light of the **General's Shield**, but a sharp, focused, and furious torrent, surged down his extended right arm. It condensed, elongated, and sharpened into a gleaming, solid-looking spear of pure golden force that extended four feet from his fingertips, humming with a high, violent pitch.
The **General's Spear**.
The air between them grew heavy with intent. The brother of the slain, armed with the family's piercing offense, faced the loyal friend, whose true strength none of them had ever seen tested.