Meng Hao's first opponent was a bear.

The competition arena was a raised stone platform surrounded by the entire sect — elders in the viewing pavilion, Inner Sect disciples on the left, Outer Sect disciples packed shoulder to shoulder on the right. When Meng Hao's name was called, he climbed onto the platform and found himself facing a Spirit Bear that stood eight feet tall and drooled acid.

'This is not a cultivator,' he said to the referee.

'The beast arena is traditional,' the referee said. 'Survive for five minutes, or defeat the beast. Either counts as a pass.'

Meng Hao looked at the bear. The bear looked at Meng Hao. The bear looked hungry.

The referee dropped his hand. 'Begin.'

The bear charged.

Meng Hao fled. There was no heroism in it, no technique, no cultivation-adjacent strategy — just pure, instinctive, scholarly terror. He ran to the edge of the platform, the bear two steps behind, and at the last possible second, threw himself flat.

The bear went over the edge.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then the crowd erupted — half laughter, half appreciation for what they had to admit was, technically, a valid combat strategy.

'Pass,' the referee said, looking vaguely disappointed. 'Next round.'

Meng Hao lay on the stone platform, his heart hammering, and decided that he would celebrate his victory by not dying. That seemed like enough for one day.