The next morning, the sky over New Fornia was a deep, unbothered blue, as if the heavens had decided, "Whatever chaos you're about to face, not my problem."
Shunya stood at the entrance of the National Cultivation Government Organization's combat arena, clutching the small wooden number tag Jean had given him. It read #47, which he assumed was supposed to make him feel official. It didn't. It just felt like a lottery ticket to disaster.
The arena itself was… massive. Bigger than any stadium he had ever seen in his old world. High stone walls surrounded an open battlefield that looked like someone had mashed together three different terrains—flat stone in the center, grasslands to the east, and a suspiciously swampy patch to the west. Oh, and in the far corner, he could swear something moved in the shadows.
