The hundred cultivators who first emerged from the Hundred-Step Path were instantly engulfed by a roar—so thunderous that the arena's wooden frames trembled, as if an invisible behemoth was growling from the depths of the stands. When Wang Chen and his team stepped forward, their shoulders were squared in perfect unity, their footsteps steady, yet free of any ostentation. They had passed the trial, but more importantly, their wordless poise had already sent a clear message.
The main tournament would consist of one-on-one duels, but with a twist: each team could select their representative, and the first to secure three victories would advance. Success depended on depth and flexibility—and the Muay Thai Sect had both in spades.
Their first opponents were the Iron Body Sect, a group that prided themselves on impenetrable defenses and looked down on what they dismissed as "tricks" with open contempt.
In the preparation room, Elder Guo slammed the match scroll flat on the table, his finger tapping sharply on the paper. "They'll be dead certain Kael will take on their strongest defender, or Jian will test his sharp strikes against that tough shell—their thoughts are written all over their faces."
Li cracked a grin, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Then we'll do the exact opposite. Let's keep 'em guessing."
Wang Chen said nothing. He only lifted his fingertip and traced a faint arc in the air. No words were needed; the quiet certainty in his gaze said it all.
When the announcer called the Muay Thai Sect's first combatant, Wang Chen stepped onto the arena's sandy floor.
A murmur of confusion rippled through the crowd, quickly giving way to laughter. Even Bron—the Iron Body Sect's "black iron giant"—snorted in disdain, his voice rough as scraped stone. "This twig? I could snap him with a single sneeze!"
The gong rang out, its echo lingering in the air.
Bron charged forward, each step slamming into the ground hard enough to make the arena shudder, as if he meant to stamp through the earth itself. There was no technique to speak of—just raw, crushing force, aimed straight at Wang Chen.
Wang Chen did not conjure a light sphere, nor summon any magic. He simply raised his hand, palm up, and met the oncoming fist head-on.
A collective gasp swept the stands—suicide, everyone thought.
But when fist met palm, there was no sound of breaking bones. Wang Chen flowed backward, bending like a reed in a storm, his feet skimming the sand as he guided Bron's momentum past him, letting it harmlessly dissipate to the side.
Bron stumbled, his eyes blazing with frustration, and unleashed a flurry of punches. Yet every blow found only Wang Chen's yielding adaptability. Wang Chen moved like a wisp of shadow—not because he was fast, but because he had read Bron's strength like an open book: he knew where it came from, and exactly how to let it pass.
"Stop hiding and fight, coward!" Bron roared, his voice hoarse as he activated Iron Mountain Crush. His skin instantly glinted like scrap iron, each punch carrying the weight of a small mountain.
This time, Wang Chen conjured his light sphere. But it was no shield—it curved like a concave dish, positioned perfectly in the path of Bron's fist.
The moment fist hit sphere, the orb trembled, swallowing the brute force whole. It channeled the energy downward, then exploded into a focused shockwave that slammed into the sand.
BOOM.
Sand erupted upward in a yellow cloud. Bron stumbled, flailing his arms to steady himself, but every punch he threw only sank him deeper into the sand—until the grains swallowed him up to his ribs. The Iron Body Sect's top fighter froze, his ultimate technique having failed in the most humiliating way.
Wang Chen stood before him, his voice calm enough to cut through the arena's chaos. "Your strength is great—enough to move mountains. But it's just brute force. You've never truly understood its nature."
With that, he turned and walked away. The referee had barely finished declaring "Victory to the Muay Thai Sect" when the stands erupted in cheers. Wang Chen had never thrown a single offensive blow; he had defeated his opponent using nothing but the man's own strength.
In the stands, Zhang Wei's face turned as pale as paper, his knuckles white from gripping the railing. Liang Jin's jaw was tight, fire practically spilling from his eyes—their plan had collapsed entirely. Wang Chen was not just strong; he was a wild card, one who played by no rules at all.