51st of Season of Air, 59th year of the 32nd cycle

  The plateau stretched to Newt’s left and right, seemingly into infinity. A mere hundred feet ahead, stood the next wall, and Newt pulled himself up over the ledge before rushing towards the next wall while others hurried to do the same.

  He did not know whether he had reached it first, but the pressure that slammed against him would have staggered him a mere year ago. Newt hoped that meant he was first. Otherwise, climbing anywhere alone was going to be an impossible challenge.

  Before he managed to pull himself up a second time, the suppressive force dwindled to a speck of what it was for the first split second. A handhold at a time, Newt climbed, gripping each piece of bony support with the tips of his fingers, fearing a trap would spring in his face.

  Fifteen feet up, Newt placed his hand into the gap, pressing against something slender, yet cold and metallic. He pulled himself up, and peered into the hole, finding dozens of needles oozing with green slime.

  Poison? He did not know what else it could have been, but most poisons impacted cultivators to a much smaller extent than they did mortals. There was supposedly a large sect dealing in poisons, but they never achieved anything significant as far as he knew.

  After that glace, Newt hurried on. While the first wall concealed a single trap, that did not mean the second one would follow the same rule.

  He scaled ten more feet when someone cursed to his right. Without pausing his movement, Newt spared the exclaimer a glance. The familiar, burly man from the Thunder Titans scowled at his fingers, then toppled over and dropped some thirty feet as stiff as a rock.

  Newt kept climbing, a rival’s fall was something not worth watching, but a moment later he heard the body slam against the bony cliff with all the grace of dead wood. Five more thuds echoed with unnatural clarity, enough that he suspected the realm had made them more audible to unnerve the climbers. In fact, even the muttered words, screams and such seemed amplified.

  Then, as the already negligible pressure decreased further, reducing an easy activity into a relaxing one, the falls became more frequent. Newt reached the second plateau and rushed forward. His team was weak, they stood no chance at winning, but each time he scaled the wall first, he would help them all a fraction, and those fractions should add up after enough cliffs.

  ***

  “This is the third time this particular challenge, also known as, ‘No Luck Challenge,’ has appeared in the Sage’s Realm tournament. The first mention of it in the history books is from the seventeenth cycle, and then it reappeared in the twenty-fifth.”

  Sleek burned with the suppressed desire to interrupt Northstar. The woman’s history lesson was unrelated to the event, but that was fine. It was the early stages, nothing exciting was happening yet, and the elder in charge of the broadcast had warned him that he was stealing Northstar’s spotlight and interrupting her way too often.

  So, Sleek let her drone away, sacrificing the start of the event for the sake of getting a greater share once things grew exciting.

  Heavens, she’s listing the historical results of the grand sects in this event. Where did she even dig up that information? Sleek did his best not to drum his fingers against his desk while Northstar flipped through two tomes of notes she had made, then drummed at the wood regardless. Hardy and I were competing with Blaze and Flora for the number one spot, and here I am now. Instead of seizing the excitement to enthrall the viewers, we’re listing what cultivators long dead had done before our ancestors were born. Who cares!

  Sleek wanted to know what was happening in the woman’s head. Was she out to bury him? Did she not want the resources which came from being the best commentator? The opportunities?

  The questions disappeared from Sleek’s mind. His gut told him something was happening. He scanned the projections before realizing what that something was.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Only thirty participants remained on the starting wall. The lead one hauled her body over the edge and after taking the time to draw several deep breaths, she headed for the next wall.

  Those behind him wobbled. The weakest were the independent cultivators, and with the sudden increase of pressure…

  There! Sleek found what he was looking for. What’s the damn bastard’s name?

  If Hardy was his partner, Sleek would have just came up with one on the spot, but Northstar might correct him, and that would be embarrassing and unprofessional. The woman had no tact whatsoever.

  Sleek scanned his lists. Fortunately, he kept himself well organized, and swiftly found what he was looking for.

  “Billboa Rocky seems to be experiencing difficulty.” Sleek seized his chance while Northstar was taking a breath. “His grip is slipping, and the comical croc-trap hanging off his fingers is doing little to improve his condition.”

  Billboa’s face turned red from strain as he struggled to keep his footing, when another contestant threw his body over the edge, pulling himself away from the twenty-eight failures. The pressure increased, Billboa shuddered, then lost his grip.

  “Look at that, folks! Like dominoes, the fall of one, increases the pressure against the rest and starts a chain reaction!” The scene genuinely fascinated Sleek. Up until a moment ago, the contestants resisted, then as the pressure grew, even the sturdiest one fell, disappearing from the white realm of bone.

  Sleek scanned the screens, but there was nothing worth mentioning for now. Explorer’s Gate’s Newstar scaled the midway point of the third wall. The youth could handle the climb alone, he demonstrated it for a blink on the second wall, and for two seconds on the third, steadily pushing to elevate his deadweight sect.

  “Newstar Blazing Salamander’s valiant effort will propel his sect forward. There’s no way he can push his sect to victory this time, but if there was an award for the most outstanding cultivator, Newstar Blazing Salamander and Dandelion would be sharing it.”

  Speaking of the man, where is he?

  Sleek scanned the projections and found him near the bottom of the third wall. While Dandelion’s result was decent, Sleek had expected the man would perform better. Then again, physical strength was not Dandelion’s forte as far as he knew. Dandelion was fast and skilled with his techniques, not one with a monstrous physique like Newstar’s.

  Sleek made an intentional pause, to let Northstar take the initiative and drone on about her guesses on how the realm operated and what it tested, waiting to announce the failures from the second cliff. And from what he was seeing, it would be another round of overripe independent cultivators falling to the ground.

  Sleek found the line amusing. He wanted to use it, but there was too much potential for controversy. Independent cultivators posed little threat, but a grumpy grand sect’s disciple might stretch the statement once they fell. No, the moment of sharp wit definitely would lay a trap for the future, so Sleek held his tongue.

  Then, the stragglers from the second wall started falling as Newstar Blazing Salamander strained against the fourth alone.

  ***

  Leafwell remembered drowning in a pond when he was a boy. He was around five years old when water constricted his lungs and pulled him under. The pressure of the climb felt similar, enveloping him, crushing the air out of his lungs, with his arms and legs growing more sluggish with each passing moment.

  The notion seemed irrational, yet the realm was toiling to drown him. He clenched his teeth and pulled himself forward. He had no way to tell how many climbers accompanied him on the second wall, but it could not have been many. The pressure kept increasing, squeezing the life out of his lungs.

  He thanked the heavens for those reckless enough to poison themselves. Leafwell found the handhold with the needles more than halfway up. The careful approach had the benefit of not getting poisoned, but the slower speed came with the disadvantage of extending the drowning sensation to over twice its length.

  A part of Leafwell whispered seductively that he should abandon caution and hurry, another told him there might be more than one trap waiting for him, and he was not desperate enough to take the risk. Not yet.

  He wanted to look down, but check how many of the poisoned ones had recovered. Maybe if another joined the climb, it would become easier. He knew it was pointless, seeing would change nothing. Besides, he could only see so far, and the wall stretched towards the horizon on both sides.

  Leafwell’s fingers burned. The strain was slowly getting to him, he could almost see the thick, juicy leaves of the water lilies closing above his head. The pressure was making him delirious. Suddenly, his father’s hand plunged into the water and pulled him out.

  The memory of the scolding still echoed in his ears as he struggled for breath on the plateau, looking up. He had finished the second climb, the thought struck him after a second or two.

  Leafwell rolled to the side and looked at the third cliff. At least fifty competitors were still on the ground, some grunting and nursing injured hands, others laying frozen on their backs, working their spiritual energy until their paralysis passed.

  He looked up and shuddered. He was about to plunge back into the dark pond.