The next day,
The outer court was ablaze with anticipation. Today marked the beginning of the Inner Court Tournament.
The sect arena, vast and imposing, stretched like a coliseum. Thousands of outer court disciples filled the stands, their murmurs and cheers forming a rolling tide of sound that echoed off the stone walls.
At the very center lay the battle platform—a massive stage carved with runic lines that shimmered faintly, strong enough to withstand the clash of Qi-infused strikes.
On the highest platform overlooking the arena, the elders had already taken their seats.
Five figures. Five pillars of the sect.
The First Elder, long gray hair cascading past his chest, stroked his beard thoughtfully. His eyes, sharp yet weary, scanned the crowd of outer court disciples.
"Three years have passed again… and yet I wonder if this time, I will finally see a disciple worth nurturing," he murmured, his voice low and contemplative. "Though, truthfully… I do not hold my hopes high. Year after year, the outer court offers only mediocrity."
Beside him, the Second Elder, broad-shouldered and solid, let out a low snort. His white hair was cropped short, his frame was like that of a battle-hardened general. Even at his age, his muscles could crush boulders with a single strike.
"Senior Brother, do you still chase dragons in a pond of carp? This batch will be no different—average seedlings, nothing more."
The Third Elder, clad in flowing Daoist robes, adjusted his sleeves and spoke with a calm, refined tone.
"Indeed. True talent has become rare. The ancient sects, the great clans, even the holy lands, snatch prodigies before they ever reach our doors. What remains are scraps, remnants of potential that should have been…"
A sigh passed on the First Elder's lips, heavy and solemn.
Then, a voice like a spark of tinder cut through the gloom
"Enough of your dreary talk, you old foggies. Must you always begin with complaints?"
All three pairs of eyes turned to her.
Among the five elders, one figure stood out like a phoenix among the crows. A woman.
The Fourth Elder—Lan Yaoye. (A/N: The first heroine has appeared!)
Her long rose-gold hair cascaded down her back, shimmering under the sun. Her eyes were molten red-gold, sharp and fiery, as if they could burn through the hearts of men. A crimson and black robe hugged her slim figure, embroidered with golden patterns that glowed faintly with spiritual energy.
A delicate red flower was pinned in her hair, gold-and-ruby jewelry gleamed at her ears and wrists, and her robe's daring neckline revealed a glimpse of snow-pale skin.
If the other elders were mountains—ancient, immovable, and silent—then she was like lively fire.
The First Elder coughed lightly, a dry tone coloring his words. "Junior Sister, youth of appearance does not change truth. We were born in the same generation. A decade younger does not make you less… ancient."
Lan Yaoye's eyes blazed. "Repeat that, old beard, and I will show you the price of your insolence! Can't you see that I maintain my figure flawlessly? Unlike you, whose hair has long turned white and your skin wrinkled!"
The Second Elder snorted but kept silent, wisely sensing the storm brewing.
The Third Elder, stroking his short beard, allowed himself a small, scholarly smile.
"Youth and beauty may deceive the eyes, yet time is impartial. No matter how smooth the skin or slender the waist… one cannot escape the years. Even you, Junior Sister, are well past a hundred—"
The air froze. The Third Elder felt an invisible weight settle upon him. Lan Yaoye's gaze sharpened, as if her sword hung unseen, a hair's breadth from his neck.
"Complete that sentence, and I will carve that beard you cherish off your face," she said, her voice low and molten, every syllable threatening to ignite.
The Third Elder cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair, his whiskers twitching nervously.
Lan Yaoye snorted softly, her fiery temper simmering but not fully spent.
Before the tension could erupt further, a voice, steady and commanding, cut through the air.
"Enough."
At the center of the elders' platform. The man seated there radiated an aura of authority, pressing down like the weight of a mountain. His black hair was streaked with silver, his face weathered yet stern, his eyes sharp with both wisdom and command.
Hu Feng, the Chief Elder of the sect, second only to the Sect Master, had spoken. His words were the law.
"Lan Yaoye, contain yourself. This is no place for petty quarrels. Today, the eyes of the entire sect are on this arena."
"Hmph," she murmured, folding her arms beneath her chest. Her fiery aura still simmered, but her tongue was silent.
Then Hu Feng slowly rose from his seat.
His hands clasped behind his back. Though his words were calm, his voice carried with spiritual force, echoing across the vast arena.
"I welcome all the disciples of the sect. Today, we gather once more for the Inner Court Tournament—a grand event held only once every three years!"
His gaze swept across the sea of outer court disciples.
"This year, too, many seedlings have grown strong and seek to step into the inner court. The path is difficult, and the struggle is merciless. Yet—only through battle can true dragons soar!"
The moment his words fell, the arena erupted in thunderous cheers. Shouts of determination, excitement, and nervousness mixed into a tide of voices that rolled through the air like storm waves.
Hu Feng raised a single hand, and silence immediately returned.
"Then let us begin the tournament!"
One after another, figures leapt down from the stand. In the blink of an eye, one hundred and sixty outer court disciples gathered on the arena platform.
Hu Feng's voice resounded once again.
"As always, the first trial shall be—survival of the fittest! Only twenty will advance to the next stage. The rest…" He paused, his eyes glinting coldly. "...will be eliminated."
Hu Feng's lips curved into a knowing smile. "I need not explain further. You all know what must be done."
On the arena stage—
Lin Chen stood among the crowd, his expression stiff.
'What the hell does that even mean?' He scratched his head inwardly, utterly bewildered. "Survival of the fittest"… sounds simple, but do they expect us to fight until only twenty are left? Or wrestle with each other like barbarians? Why not just say "beat everyone up" directly…
Before he could think further, the atmosphere had exploded.
Blades unsheathed, Qi surged like crashing waves, and disciples roared as they charged at each other. Some already clashed with sparks flying, while others tried to form alliances—only to betray each other seconds later.
Lin Chen sighed. Chaos. Of course.
Just then, a muscular youth with a bull-like frame spotted him. The veins on his arms bulged as he charged, his face twisting into arrogance.
"Today you'll serve as my stepping stone! Crawl down obediently!"
His fist was wrapped in Yellow Qi, the wind shrieking around it as he aimed it straight at Lin Chen's jaw.
But Lin Chen only gave him a lazy glance. His hand rose slowly, covered in faint crackles of lightning essence.
Pa!
The sound of the slap rang louder than the clash of swords.
The youth's eyes rolled back instantly. His cheeks ballooned to one side, spit flying. His tongue lolled out comically as he spun in the midair like a drunken chicken.
With a loud crash, he landed outside the arena, sliding across the ground. A neat trail of blood, teeth, and dignity followed him.
"Ughhh… wh-what happened…? Was that… was that a slap?" The youth groaned, clutching his face. His swollen cheek puffed up like a steamed bun.
"That guy doesn't even have basic thinking," Lin Chen muttered, shaking his head as he watched the first fool groan outside the arena. "Charging at your opponent head-on while shouting? What are you, a boar in heat? You should at least know to sneak attack. To fight like that… truly dumb."
Just then, another disciple stepped out from the chaos.
He was tall, his jaw sharp as a blade, and his sword gleamed coldly under the sunlight. His eyes carried the fire of ambition, a desire to carve his name into the annals of the sect.
He raised his sword high, his voice booming like a war horn.
"Become my stepping stone to greatness! Today I will defeat you and begin my path to becoming the sword saint!"
The crowd stirred, a few outer disciples whispering
"Look, it's Zhao Yunxiu, the sword prodigy of the outer court!"
"I heard he trained three whole years beneath the roaring waterfall, tempering his sword intent against the crashing waves. His strength is ranked among the top five of the outer court!"
Zhao Yunxiu leapt forward, his sword sweeping down in a brilliant arc. Sword-light shimmered
For an ordinary disciple, it was an attack of fear.
But Lin Chen only tilted his head, his expression calm, almost bored. "Stepping stone, huh? Let me send you to lie flat instead."
His palm rose casually.
Pa!
The crisp slap rang out across the Coliseum, echoing louder than Zhao Yunxiu's shout.
The youth's sword flew from his hands, spiraling high into the air before clattering across the stone floor. Zhao Yunxiu himself spun like a windmill, his limbs flailing as though he were caught in a storm.
He crashed outside the arena with a pitiful thud, his hair disheveled, his mouth foaming slightly as his eyes rolled back.
The crowd went silent for a heartbeat, then erupted into uproarious laughter.
"D-did he just slap him ?! Hahaha!"
"That's Zhao Yunxiu, the sword genius… defeated with a single palm to the cheek?"
Meanwhile, Zhao Yunxiu twitched on the ground, mumbling through swollen lips. "M-my… Sword Saint… dream…"
Lin Chen dusted his palm with a sigh, as if lamenting the poor state of martial arts. "Tch. These guys… too many openings. Their stances are unstable, their footwork messy, their Qi circulation clumsy. Do they even train properly? Or just swing their swords to look cool?"
[ You have undergone countless simulated battles against peak cultivators. You have even crossed blows with opponents who stood many stages above your own cultivation. Thus, your combat instincts and battle technique have already long surpassed the level of these ordinary disciples.]
Lin Chen's eyes lit up in sudden realization. "Ahh… so that's why it feels like everyone here is moving in slow motion. Makes sense."
All around Lin Chen, the atmosphere of the arena subtly shifted.
At first, disciples charged at him one after another, eager to prove themselves. Yet every clash ended the same way—a single move. A casual slap, a lazy kick, a flick of the wrist that sent bodies flying. None could last even a single breath against him.
Now, the once-boiling battlefield around him had grown strangely quiet. A wide circle of empty space surrounded his figure in the center of the stage. The other disciples lingered at the edges, glaring but refusing to advance.
"It's… it's too shameful," one muttered under his breath.
"Being eliminated is one thing," another whispered, his face pale, "but to be slapped off the stage… that humiliation lasts for a lifetime. Better to be defeated by a sword than to be reduced to a joke!"
Just then, cutting through the noise, a sudden shout rose from the stands
"Lin Chen! Lin Chen! Go Lin Chen!"
The cry startled everyone, including Lin Chen himself. He blinked, eyes narrowing.
"Huh? Someone's… actually cheering for me?" His brows furrowed.
That shouldn't be possible. He had no friends within the sect—not because he was some aloof loner, but simply because he never had the time to waste on such things.
Curiosity pricked at him, and his gaze swept through the stands.
Sure enough, there it was—the source of the voice. A skinny young man with shifty eyes and a fox-like grin, waving his arms enthusiastically as if Lin Chen were his sworn brother.
"Yan Shou?" Lin Chen's pupils contracted slightly.
That face… how could he forget? Yan Shou, the petty schemer who scammed him out four days ago.
And now that same scoundrel was cheering with all his might, his voice breaking with fake passion.
"Brother Lin! You're invincible! Show them your might!"
Lin Chen's lips twitched. "What in the heavens is that guy plotting now? Pretending like we're lifelong comrades?"
With a shake of his head, Lin Chen dismissed the thought. He turned his attention back to the arena.
The surrounding disciples still refused to approach, exchanging nervous glances. Their feet shuffled backwards, forming an ever-widening circle.
The once-chaotic battlefield now resembled a strange performance stage, with Lin Chen standing alone in the center, untouched, while his opponents shrank away as if he were the plague incarnate.
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A/N: If you enjoy my novel and want faster releases, please consider supporting with Power Stones!
Also, if you have any ideas or suggestions for the story, feel free to share them in the comments — I'd love to hear your thoughts.
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