The silence that followed Chen's defeat was more than a lack of sound; it was a physical pressure. Twenty thousand spectators sat frozen, their breaths held in their lungs as if a single exhale might draw the attention of the monster standing on the sand. In the VIP boxes, the wealthy merchants and visiting dignitaries clutched their silk robes, their knuckles white. They had come to see a "cleansing"—the ritualistic crushing of a peasant who had forgotten his place. Instead, they were witnessing the birth of a cataclysm.
Su Meng stood in the center of the arena, his chest heaving with a slow, rhythmic power. Every time his heart beat, a faint ripple of distortion emanated from his navel, causing the air to shimmer like a desert mirage. The blue Qi he had absorbed from Chen's Thousand-Wave Palm was still being processed, channeled through his Iron Bones like liquid nitrogen, cooling the internal heat of the Celestial Forge.
High above, in the Grand Balcony, the Sect Leader—a man known as Lord Iron-Cloud—slowly rose from his throne. His eyes, usually as calm as a mountain lake, were now sharp and predatory. He didn't look at the fallen Chen. He didn't look at the terrified Elder Wang. He looked only at Su Meng's abdomen.
"That is no Dantian," the Sect Leader whispered, his voice amplified by his own massive cultivation, carrying to every corner of the coliseum. "That is a vortex. A violation of the natural laws of Qi."
Elder Wang, sensing an opportunity to salvage his family's honor, stood up beside the Sect Leader. "My Lord! It is as I feared! The boy has practiced a forbidden, demonic art! He isn't cultivating; he is consuming! This 'Dantian' is a blight! It must be purged before it poisons the Sect's spirit vein!"
Su Meng looked up, his neck muscles corded like steel cables. He didn't flinch under the collective gaze of the Sect's hierarchy. "Purged?" he laughed, the sound jagged and metallic. "You mean it's 'illegal' because you can't tax it? Because it doesn't come from a bottle or a pill your friends sell in the market?"
"Insolence!" Lord Iron-Cloud roared. He waved his hand, and the atmosphere in the arena changed. The golden sunlight seemed to dim as four figures descended from the hidden pillars of the stadium.
These were the Inner Shadow Guard. They were not disciples; they were the Sect's executioners, men who had traded their names and identities for raw, lethal efficiency. Each was at the peak of the Ninth Stage of Body Tempering, their skin grey and tough as rhinoceros hide, their eyes hollow and cold.
They landed in a perfect square around Su Meng, their heavy iron staves thudding into the sand in unison.
"Su Meng," the Sect Leader's voice boomed. "By the authority of the Iron Mountain, you are declared a 'Cultivation Deviant.' Your Dantian is a parasite. Submit to the soul-stripping seal, or be reduced to ash."
In the back of Su Meng's mind, the Old Man chuckled. He was still sitting on his wooden stool, but he had put down his tea. "The 'Law' has arrived, boy. Just like on Earth. When they can't control the talent, they call it a crime. What will you do? Kneel? Or will you show them that a Forge cannot be sealed?"
I'm done kneeling, Su Meng thought, his internal voice a snarl of lightning. On Earth, the law was a wall. Here, the law is just more Qi for the furnace.
"The only 'deviance' here," Su Meng shouted, his voice echoing Chen's shattered ornaments, "is that you think you own the air I breathe! If you want my Dantian, come and try to take it!"
The Shadow Guard moved with the precision of a single machine. Two lunged with their staves aimed at Su Meng's pressure points, while the other two circled, their Qi forming a restrictive "Binding Net" of grey energy that sought to lock Su Meng's joints.
Su Meng didn't wait. He unleashed the full, terrifying suction of the Celestial Forge.
"Pull!" he roared.
The grey "Binding Net" didn't lock him. Instead, the energy was violently yanked toward his stomach. The Shadow Guards gasped as they felt their own Qi being dragged out through their fingertips. It was like trying to hold onto a rope tied to a falling boulder.
Su Meng stepped into the guard of the first executioner. He didn't use a punch. He simply shouldered the man.
With the weight of the "Heavy Qi" reinforcing his Iron Bones, Su Meng's shoulder hit the guard like a battering ram. The guard's chest cavity collapsed instantly, his grey-hide skin no match for the localized gravity Su Meng projected. The man was launched thirty feet into the air, his iron staff snapping into two jagged pieces.
"He's eating their Qi!" a disciple in the stands screamed.
The remaining three guards panicked. They abandoned their precision and unleashed their "Killing Moves." Their staves glowed with a sickly, dark light—the Mountain-Crushing Strike. Su Meng didn't dodge. He wanted the impact. He needed the friction.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
The three staves hit Su Meng simultaneously—one on the skull, one on the spine, one on the ribs. The sound was like a titan striking a bell. The shockwave blew the sand out of the arena, revealing the cold, black bedrock beneath.
The spectators shielded their eyes. Surely, no human could survive three peak-stage strikes at once.
But as the dust settled, Su Meng was still there. He was standing in a small crater, his feet buried ankle-deep in the bedrock. His skin was glowing a dull, angry red, and steam was hissing off his shoulders. He was smiling—a terrifying, blood-toothed grin.
"Is that it?" Su Meng asked. He reached out and grabbed two of the staves while they were still pressed against his body.
He didn't pull them. He pushed his own Qi back through the weapons.
The "Heavy Qi" of the Celestial Forge traveled up the iron staves like a high-voltage current. The two Shadow Guards didn't even have time to scream. Their arms simply shattered, the bone-fragments shredding through their sleeves as the pressure of Su Meng's energy exceeded the structural limit of their bodies.
The fourth guard turned to flee, but Su Meng was faster. He moved not with a sprint, but with a "blink"—a sudden burst of gravitational acceleration. He appeared behind the guard and placed a hand on the man's back.
"Return to the mountain," Su Meng whispered.
He released a pulse of "Reverse Gravity." The guard was slammed into the arena floor with such force that the bedrock cracked in a spiderweb pattern fifty feet wide.
THE PRICE OF SURVIVAL
The Arena of the Iron Mountain was a ruins. The strike from Elder Wang had turned the sand into a crater of scorched glass, but that was nothing compared to the pressure coming from the high balcony.
Lord Iron-Cloud, the Sect Leader, stood up. He did not look at the crowd. He looked at Su Meng—a servant who was still breathing. He saw a body with no Dantian that was absorbing the Sect's Qi like a void.
"You have nerve, brat," Iron-Cloud's voice echoed, causing the stone pillars to vibrate. "You take the techniques, you break the laws, and then you stand there as if the world belongs to you."