Ethan stared in awe at the massive, open platform stretching before him.
The scale of the battle arena was unlike anything he’d expected—wide enough to accommodate dozens of fighters at once, the stones beneath his feet cracked and scarred from countless collisions.
But what drew his attention most was the arena’s organization: three distinct partitions divided the space, each section marked out by faded boundary lines, battered stands, and an atmosphere all its own.
He waited for Kael to explain, but instead, Kael simply began walking toward the leftmost partition, not sparing a glance for Ethan or for anyone else.
Ethan considered asking a question but instead chose to trust that Kael would offer him guidance—he wouldn’t bring Ethan here without a plan.
So, more out of cautious respect than understanding, Ethan fell in step behind.
As they moved toward the left section, all the eyes in the area seemed to lock on Kael. The temperature of the entire partition dropped so suddenly that Ethan could sense a palpable shiver moving through the crowd.
He watched as several exiles—men and women draped in patched robes, faces pale—stiffened and quietly stepped aside as Kael passed.
He felt the subtle shift of energy: legs nearly buckling, shoulders drawing in, some shuffling backwards as if trying to melt into the battered walls.
Ethan even saw one middle-aged cultivator’s hands tremble visibly, struggling to keep a training staff steady.
Others kept their heads lowered, gazes glued to the broken stones, refusing to meet Kael’s eyes; some risked a single glance but quickly looked away, faces etched with unease.
The arena, usually filled with the rowdy grunts and laughter of practice, had fallen eerily silent—so quiet Ethan could hear the ragged breaths of more than one disciple.
Fear, anger, resentment swirled in those looks, mixed with an undercurrent of something deeper that Ethan didn’t recognize.
The sheer reaction—the transformation from business-as-usual training to frozen silence—stunned him. What had Kael done to these people to earn this air of terror and dominance?
Disbelief and confusion lingered across Ethan’s expression, but he suppressed his questions. He needed answers, and Kael, or perhaps the others, would eventually provide them.
If Kael refused, Ethan was fairly confident he could corner one of the other exiles and wring out the truth, either through conversation or—if needed—sheer persistence.
Kael halted at the first partition, waving aside some anxious onlookers. Before them spread a series of small, marked arenas—squares of scored stone, marred again and again by practice strikes and falls.
Kael turned, a smirk curling on his lips.
"You’re confused about the three partitions, aren’t you?" His tone was matter-of-fact, but the smirk was almost theatrical—like he could predict every move Ethan would make, some smug mastermind out of a web novel.
Ethan stared, bemused, and began to wonder if the yin energy in the village was still meddling with his thinking.
He didn’t bother with ceremony and merely nodded, keeping his energy focused—that smirk wasn’t worth a reaction.
Kael studied the arena, back now to Ethan, arms folded.
"This is the normal practice area. It’s for exiles who want to hone their skills. People try new techniques, learn new martial arts, and generally work on growing, or at least maintaining something resembling progress."
He gestured toward a battered wooden statue standing at the edge. Its surface was marred with cuts and deep gouges, splinters poking out, and chunks missing from prior attempts to destroy it.
"What’s that?" Ethan asked, his voice loaded with genuine curiosity.
Kael replied, "That doll is a tool—mostly for cultivators below the Core Formation realm. It’s a strength test. If you can break it, your power’s above Foundation Establishment. Most can’t, but some try every day. People pass through, get frustrated, and eventually move on. It keeps them honest about their real standing."
His lips curled with a slight hint of pride; perhaps Kael had smashed a few of these himself long ago.
Ethan glanced at the doll, fighting the urge to challenge it. He was tempted to see just how strong he’d become, but all the fearful eyes on Kael made him think twice. Not today—not in front of this many people.
Kael, ever focused, now led Ethan toward the central partition.
The atmosphere here shifted: more observers, more quiet intensity.
This space was tighter, its boundary marked by carefully swept stone and battered equipment stacked haphazardly in corners.
"This is the sparring arena," Kael explained, gesturing to the rings.
"Here, two exiles settle grudges, practice matches, or sometimes fulfill bets. Rules are simple: no killing. Everything else is negotiable—could be no weapons, no spiritual energy, or even endurance matches. Disputes get settled face to face."
As Kael spoke, two exiles circled each other in a shallow ring, sweat marking their brows, eyes narrowed in wary determination. A third stood calmly nearby, officiating with a neutral gaze. The tension was less fearful here, more competitive—rivalry burned quietly, kept in check by necessity.
Ethan watched, intrigued.
This partition seemed to function as the heart of the village—a place where democracy and hierarchy collided, where enmities were resolved not by secret deals but by direct, physical contest.
Their journey continued, Kael leading the way toward the final—and clearly most forbidding—section of the arena.
The air here felt thick, nearly cloying with the residue of old Qi and spilled blood.
The stone was stained a ruddy brown, dented and broken by impacts; the smell of sweat, iron, and old agony seemed to linger.
Two figures locked in combat dominated the space.
Their robes hung in tatters, faces streaked with sweat and dark blots—one’s lip was split, the other’s shoulder hung limp, blood running freely. There was no referee here, no cheering crowd, just the raw struggle between two desperate people.
Kael kept a respectful distance, his face hardening for a moment—the only sign of emotion Ethan saw all afternoon.
Ethan felt a chill watching the two fighters batter each other. Something about the way they moved spoke of deeper grudges, an old pain that no rules could fully suppress.
The tension here was different: less about rivalry, more about killing.
Kael turned, voice low, and said, "This is the death arena."