Morning mist hung low over the Lin family arena.
The stone floor, still scarred from yesterday's duels, glistened under the pale light. Disciples filled every tier of the stands, voices overlapping in a restless tide.
"Who do you think will win?"
"Lin Feng!"
"Hmph, Lin Wang's the Patriarch's son—he's never lost!"
When the bell chimed, both fighters stepped forward.
Lin Feng cupped his fist. "Lin Feng."
Lin Wang replied with cool confidence, "You've done well to come this far, but the first place is mine."
The referee's hand dropped. "Begin!"
Lin Feng exhaled slowly through his nose, sinking his weight to his heels. His qi circulated down the Ren meridian, compressing in his dantian before surging toward his right arm. His pupils sharpened—then he moved.
His first step cracked the ground.
The burst of energy shot him forward like an arrow; air hissed around his body. He drove a straight punch toward Lin Wang's mid-section.
Lin Wang's reaction was instantaneous. He pivoted, diverting the blow with his forearm while channeling qi into his legs. The counter-shock still forced him a half-step back, his boots scraping against stone.
Too heavy, he thought. His body's like forged steel.
He retaliated with a sharp elbow strike, aiming for Lin Feng's jaw. Lin Feng twisted his torso, narrowly dodging. Their shoulders brushed; a muffled impact echoed.
Then Lin Feng's second punch landed.
BOOM!
Lin Wang was sent sliding several meters, dust pluming around his feet. His forearm trembled from the force.
"I underestimated him," he muttered, flexing his hand to restore circulation.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"Lin Feng has the upper hand in raw strength!"
Lin Wang steadied his breath and drew his sword.
Steel whispered from its sheath, radiating cold qi. "Split Sword Technique!"
He launched forward, sword blurring in a web of silver arcs. Each strike carried enough force to split stone; his qi weaved in precise pulses, minimizing wasted motion.
Lin Feng tightened his stance and raised both fists.
"Dragon Fist!"
The phantom outline of a dragon curled behind him—its roar blending with the roar of the crowd. His knuckles met the sword's path.
Bang!
Qi met qi, pressure exploded outward. The ground beneath them fractured. Lin Feng was thrown backward, blood tracing a thin line across his chest. Lin Wang stumbled too, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. Both stared at each other, panting.
Lin Feng's hand pressed the wound. He's fast. Faster than the wolves, faster than Ye Ning. I'll need the sword.
"You've forced me to use my weapon," he said quietly. "You do have some strength."
He drew the old, rust-covered blade. The crowd murmured—many sneered.
"That broken sword again?"
But when Lin Feng's qi touched the metal, faint gold runes pulsed along its surface. The air shifted; the pressure doubled.
Lin Wang felt his heartbeat quicken. That sword… it's alive.
Lin Wang charged, channeling everything into one decisive technique.
"Split Sword Technique—Second Form!"
A vertical arc of silver light carved through the air toward Lin Feng's neck. The speed created a vacuum, whipping Lin Feng's hair upward.
He didn't retreat. His right foot slammed into the floor; inner qi coiled up his spine like lightning up a rod. Both hands gripped the hilt.
"Azure Sword Art—Kill Any Under Heaven!"
A golden-white flare erupted from his blade. The two forces collided mid-swing.
BOOOOOOM!
A ring of compressed air exploded outward, shattering the arena's outer array. Protective talismans flickered desperately, then cracked like glass. The crowd shielded their faces as debris rained down.
Inside the storm of dust, the two silhouettes clashed again and again—steel striking steel, sparks cascading like meteor trails. Each impact echoed through the barrier like thunder.
clang! clang! clang!
Lin Feng's movements grew sharper, his qi more refined. Every slash followed the rhythm of his breathing—inhale, step, cut, exhale, redirect. The rusty sword gleamed brighter with each swing.
Lin Wang's muscles screamed under the counter-pressure. He tried to parry one last blow—too slow.
Lin Feng's sword roared down.
BOOM!
When the dust settled, silence reigned.
Lin Wang lay sprawled on the shattered tiles, both arms severed, his sword broken beside him. Lin Feng stood a few paces away, chest heaving, his robes torn and blood seeping from a diagonal cut across his torso.
"Lin Wang… was defeated."
The patriarch of the Lin family vaulted onto the platform, panic in his eyes. "Impossible!" he shouted, kneeling beside his son. His qi flared—an oppressive wave of xiantian energy slammed into the arena.
"How dare you injure my son!"
The invisible pressure swept toward Lin Feng like a tidal wave. Many spectators doubled over, coughing blood. But Lin Feng remained still. The energy rippled around him, unable to crush his frame.
"If he wasn't weak," Lin Feng said evenly, "he wouldn't have been injured."
A murmur spread—half fear, half awe.
On the viewing platform, the Sword Sovereign Sect envoy raised a hand. "Enough. The duel is finished. Let the top ten receive their prizes and make their choice."
The patriarch froze, then withdrew his aura, face dark with humiliation.
"I choose the Fire Pavilion!"
"I choose the Martial Sect!"
"Lin Feng, what is your choice?" the patriarch asked coldly.
Envoys began calling out promises—treasures, resources, cultivation manuals—but Lin Feng already knew.
"I choose the Sword Sovereign Sect."
He bowed slightly toward the envoy.
The envoy's eyes brightened. "Good choice."
"Congratulations," the others murmured politely.
"We leave in three days," said the Sword Sovereign envoy.
Lin Feng nodded. His pulse still thundered in his ears from the fight. "I feel the barrier loosening… I can break through soon."
Three days later, within the quiet of his room, Lin Feng sat cross-legged. Qi pulsed through every vein, the remnant energy of battle tempering his body. When he exhaled, a ripple of pressure spread through the room.
"I've reached the seventh-grade Mortal Realm—a first-grade Xiantian level expert," he said softly, opening his eyes. They gleamed with calm fire.
Outside, the Sword Sovereign envoy stood waiting beside a massive crimson-feathered bird whose wings spanned the courtyard.
"What a genius," the envoy thought, watching the aura around the boy stabilize. "He broke through right after the tournament."
Lin Feng stepped outside, gazing at the creature. "What a huge bird…"
"Get on," the envoy said with a smile. "We'll reach the sect in seven days."
As the beast lifted into the sky, Lin Feng looked back at Fire Cloud City—the Lin family shrinking beneath the clouds.
"This is the first time I've left home," he thought, tightening his grip on the hilt of the Sword of Destiny. "Let's see what kind of world the Sword Sovereign Sect truly is."
"We have arrived," said the envoy.
Lin Feng stepped off the massive bird's back, eyes widening in awe. "So beautiful…"
Before him stretched endless mountain peaks, each one floating in thin mist. Streams of spiritual energy cascaded between the cliffs like ribbons of light. The sect was vast — filled with towering stone gates, sword monuments, and countless disciples flying on swords or riding spirit beasts.
"Who is that being escorted by the Envoy?" whispered a few outer court disciples nearby.
"Go join the queue for the talent assessment," the envoy instructed.
"Talent assessment?" Lin Feng asked, a puzzled look on his face.
The envoy smiled faintly. "Talent measures your potential. A one-star talent can barely reach the Xiantian Realm, while higher stars determine how far you might ascend. It defines your future."
Lin Feng's eyes narrowed slightly. So this test reveals destiny itself… what will mine be?
He moved toward the testing ground.
Disciples gathered, whispering and laughing.
"Who's that? Just a seventh-grade Mortal Realm?"
"What's he doing here?"
Lin Feng ignored them.
A round, chubby youth waddled up to him, patting his chest proudly. "My name is Wang Jun — future ruler of the Lower Realm!"
Lin Feng blinked. "What the hell…"
The boy grinned. "You're new, right? Can we be friends?"
Lin Feng smiled faintly. "Sure."
"Good! That guy over there," Wang Jun said, pointing toward a handsome youth in fine robes, "is Ouyang Ming — young master of the Ouyang family. Five-star talent, ninth-grade Mortal Realm, only fifteen."
Lin Feng raised an eyebrow. "How do you know that?"
"I'm from a two-star family," Wang Jun said with pride, puffing out his chest. "We know things."
"Oh," Lin Feng replied simply.
"Next!" shouted an elder, seated before a glowing boulder.
Wang Jun walked forward nervously.
"Place your hand on the stone," the elder instructed. "The number of stars that light up represent your talent."
The fatty placed his hand on the boulder. One… two… three stars flickered to life.
He froze. "This isn't right, Elder! Please, let me retake it — I'm destined to rule the Lower Realm!" he cried, kneeling.
"Next," the elder said coldly.
Lin Feng stepped forward. He placed his hand on the stone — and the first star lit, then the second, third, fourth… fifth… sixth.
Gasps echoed through the crowd.
"Six-star talent! Oh my god!"
"Who is he?"
"Six stars haven't appeared in years!"
The elder's expression changed immediately. He took out a communication talisman, voice trembling. "I must inform the higher elders."
Lin Feng stared at the glowing stone, thoughts racing. The man was right. My destiny has changed. I can finally rise.
Moments later, powerful auras descended from the sky.
Several elders appeared in the air, robes fluttering as they landed one by one.
"I'm the Third Elder," said a middle-aged man. "Are you willing to become my disciple?"
"Old dog, you want to steal him? When did he become your disciple?" another elder snapped.
Within seconds, they were arguing like wolves over meat.
"Enough!" came a deep, resonant voice.
Everyone fell silent.
An old man with snow-white hair and countless wrinkles descended slowly, his presence far greater than the others.
"First Elder," the group said respectfully, cupping their fists.
The old man smiled faintly. "I'm a dying old man anyway. Lin Feng, are you willing to become my disciple?"
Lin Feng bowed deeply. He's powerful — his aura alone surpasses everyone here. This is a rare opportunity.
"Disciple greets Master."
"Good." The First Elder waved his hand, a faint ripple of qi lifting Lin Feng to his feet. "Come to my peak once you're done with the assessment." With that, he vanished into the air.
The other elders looked displeased.
"Hmph, First Elder stole him from us again."
Wang Jun waddled up grinning. "Boss — the future ruler of the Lower Realm, remember?"
Lin Feng sighed. "Don't call me boss. Senior Brother will do."
"Okay, Boss — I mean, Senior Brother! Let's go collect our disciple tokens and robes."
Inside the registration hall, an elder handed them two small jade tokens and folded robes.
"This is your disciple token," the elder explained. "It records your ranking and can be used to exchange points for resources. Outer court disciples wear white robes. Inner court disciples wear gold. Elite disciples also wear gold but with a dragon insignia. Core disciples wear blue."
Wang Jun raised his hand. "How do we earn points, Elder?"
"By completing missions and challenging other disciples. Points determine your worth in this sect."
The fatty grinned. "Boss, that peak over there is the Disciplinary Hall. And that courtyard — that's where the top ten outer court disciples live."
Lin Feng looked around. "Take me to the First Elder's peak."
The mountain stood isolated, surrounded by drifting clouds. A small wooden house rested quietly at the summit — simple, serene, and almost lonely.
Lin Feng bowed as he entered. "Master."
The First Elder sat cross-legged by a stone table, eyes half-closed. "Disciple," he said slowly, "I have nothing to give you. If you wish for resources, you must earn them yourself."
Lin Feng froze, stunned. "What?"
The old man smiled faintly. "Only through hardship can a blade be sharpened. Go and fight for what you desire." Then, with a wave of his hand, Lin Feng was dismissed.
Two months passed quickly. Despite his master's words, Lin Feng had received no cultivation resources. His progress slowed, and his spirit stones were nearly depleted.
He clenched his fists. "I need points."
"Fatty," he said one morning, "where's the Fighting Hall?"
The boy hesitated. "Boss… what are you planning to do?"
"Just watch," Lin Feng replied with a calm smile.
That afternoon, the crowd gathered inside the large circular arena. The stone platforms glowed with faint qi inscriptions.
Lin Feng stepped into the center. His white robe fluttered lightly in the wind.
"I, Lin Feng," he declared, his voice echoing across the arena, "challenge all top ten outer court disciples!"
The crowd erupted.
"What?! Did he just say challenge the top ten?"
"What a joke! He's only a seventh-grade Mortal Realm!"
"He must have gone insane!"
But Lin Feng's expression didn't waver. He stood there, hands behind his back, waiting — calm and composed, like a sword sheathed but ready to strike.