As Li Yan walked, he passed multiple arenas already occupied, elders standing watch as competitors prepared themselves. When he reached Arena Thirty-Two, he stopped at its edge.
A green-robed elder stood at the center, posture relaxed but alert. The arena's pillar displayed the current match:
[Round: 1
Match #: 2
Participants: #32 vs. #36
Names: Wu Yan vs. Lei Bo]
The match began.
Wu Yan advanced first, his sword veiled in condensed darkness Qi. His slash was direct, efficient. Lei Bo met it head-on, his spear spinning in a tight arc, the clash ringing sharply as Qi rippled outward.
"Your strength is decent," Lei Bo said coldly. "But without precision, it's meaningless."
They exchanged several probing strikes, neither overcommitting.
Lei Bo shifted first.
With a sharp pivot, he drove his spear forward. Darkness Qi surged along its length, extending beyond the weapon itself like a shadow spike aimed at Wu Yan's chest.
Wu Yan twisted aside at the last instant and countered, forcing Lei Bo back.
The arena bore fresh scars—shallow cuts, punctures—evidence of their escalating force.
Lei Bo leapt into the air, Qi darkening further as he thrust repeatedly.
"Shadow Spear Barrage!"
Multiple shadow projections streaked downward.
Wu Yan didn't retreat.
"Predictable."
He cut through the projectiles cleanly, then surged forward. His footwork blurred, leaving faint afterimages that split Lei Bo's focus for a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
Wu Yan feinted left, then struck from the right. The downward arc of his blade smashed through Lei Bo's guard, knocking the spear from his grasp.
"Enough."
The overseeing elder stepped forward.
"Winner: Wu Yan."
Lei Bo bowed stiffly and withdrew. Wu Yan lowered his sword and returned to the waiting area, expression composed, victory accepted without excess.
Li Yan watched silently.
The quality was decent. The intent was there.
But it wouldn't be enough against him.
He shifted his gaze toward the arena's entrance.
Match Eight will be soon.
The pillar beside Arena #32 pulsed once, then updated.
[Round: 1
Match#: 8
Participants: #1 vs. #61
Names: Li Yan Tian vs. Feng Jiao]
Ding.
The soft chime from Li Yan's bracelet sounded almost lost amid the rising murmur of the stadium.
Li Yan stepped forward, calm and unhurried. Across the arena platform, Feng Jiao stood already in position—black hair tied back tightly, black eyes sharp with intent. His build was slim but honed, his posture disciplined. No wasted motion. No nervous shifting.
Li Yan's Spiritual Sense brushed over him once.
"Four stages lower," he noted.
As the match announcement echoed through the stadium, the crowd responded instantly. Whispers rippled outward, climbing the stone tiers, spreading to the elder platforms like a tide.
"That's him—Li Yan Tian."
"The one who reached the hidden level."
"Arena thirty-two—don't blink."
Even disciples from other ranks turned their heads. Elders leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing with interest.
All eyes converged on the arena thirty-two.
Li Yan stepped forward and raised his hand. A sword emerged from his storage ring—sleek, unadorned, balanced to near perfection. Its surface reflected the sunlight faintly, runes embedded along the fuller pulsing in a restrained rhythm.
No elemental flare. No aggressive aura.
Quiet. Clean.
Across from him, Feng Jiao summoned his own weapon. His blade exhaled darkness the moment it appeared—thin tendrils of black Qi curling along the steel like smoke seeking air. The contrast between the two swords was immediate and striking.
Feng Jiao cupped his fist. "Senior Brother Li," he said evenly, though tension edged his voice. "I'm honored to have this opportunity. I hope to learn something valuable today."
Li Yan acknowledged him with a slight nod. Nothing more.
High above, among the elders, Cao Lian tilted her head. "Didn't Li Yan possess a darkness-attributed sword?" she asked quietly.
Ji Hong smiled, eyes still on the platform. "He didn't. This one is neutral."
"Why?"
"He chose a neutral one," Ji Hong replied. "He doesn't want an advantage. He wants clarity."
The elder overseeing the match raised his hand.
"Begin."
Feng Jiao moved instantly.
His blade came down in a heavy vertical arc, dark Qi trailing behind it like a tearing shadow. The air screamed as the strike descended, pressure rippling outward across the arena platform.
Li Yan didn't retreat.
He raised his sword and met the attack head-on.
Clang!
Steel rang sharp and clean. Sparks burst outward, skittering across the stone. The impact reverberated through the platform, the sound echoing into the stands.
Feng Jiao pivoted mid-motion, turning the rebound into a horizontal slash aimed at Li Yan's ribs.
Li Yan stepped half a pace back and parried.
Another clash. Another spray of sparks.
The rhythm of steel-on-steel tightened, each exchange crisp and controlled. Feng Jiao pressed forward, chaining attacks together—high, low, sweeping arcs meant to force openings.
Li Yan yielded ground slowly, not retreating so much as adjusting. His sword moved just enough.
No wasted swings. No excess force.
A thin veil of dark Qi began to coat his blade—not to strike, but to absorb. Each impact bled off momentum, dispersing Feng Jiao's power before it could accumulate.
"You're only defending?" Feng Jiao snapped, frustration creeping into his tone. "Do you think I'm not worth attacking?"
He surged forward again, faster this time.
Three strikes. Then five.
The pressure mounted. Feng Jiao's Qi surged harder, the platform groaning faintly beneath their feet. Dark energy rippled around his blade, his attacks growing heavier, sharper.
Yet Li Yan remained unmoved.
His breathing stayed steady. His posture never collapsed. His blade became a flowing barrier—fluid, seamless, unbroken. Each parry arrived at precisely the right angle, redirecting force rather than resisting it.
The tip of Li Yan's sword barely trembled.
The crowd began to quiet—not from boredom, but from tension. This wasn't a spectacle. This was control.
Feng Jiao felt it.
His steps grew sharper. His swings are more aggressive. His breath is uneven.
"Fight back!" he growled, veins standing out along his neck. "Why won't you fight back?!"
Li Yan's eyes finally sharpened.
"Are you finished?" he asked calmly.
The words landed harder than any blow.
"Let me give you the lesson you asked for," Li Yan continued, voice level, precise. "Never allow anger to enter your mind during combat. The moment it does, your blade becomes predictable."
Before Feng Jiao could respond, Li Yan moved.
To the spectators, he vanished.
No flare. No distortion. Just absence.
A blur crossed the arena platform.
When Li Yan reappeared, he stood directly in front of Feng Jiao. His sword rested lightly against Feng Jiao's throat—steady, unwavering, its edge aligned perfectly.
The dark aura shimmered faintly, restrained but absolute.
Feng Jiao froze.
His blade hung mid-swing, muscles locked. A thin line of cold sweat slid down his spine. One twitch—one breath too deep—and the match would end in blood.
The elder didn't hesitate.
"Match concluded. Winner—Li Yan Tian."
The arena inhaled sharply.
Gasps rippled outward. Even seasoned disciples blinked in disbelief. Conversations died mid-word. What they had expected to be a prolonged struggle had ended in a single decisive moment—yet no one could say it had been easy.
Li Yan withdrew his sword and stepped back, the motion as calm as everything before it.
Feng Jiao exhaled shakily, then lowered his blade. He cupped his fist, bowing deeply. "Senior Brother Li… I will remember your words."
Li Yan inclined his head in return.
No lecture. No victory speech.
He bowed once to the overseeing elder and stepped down from the arena platform.
The pillar beside the platform flickered and updated.
[Round: 1
Match#: 14
Participants: #28 vs. #40
Names: Zhao Min vs. Cheng Wei]
Li Yan glanced at it briefly, then lowered his gaze to his bracelet. New text surfaced across the dark screen.
[Round: 2
Match#: 5
Arena#: 33
Opponent#: 29 — Zhou Tian
Status: Waiting]
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Li Yan's lips.
"So it's you," he murmured.
He turned and began walking toward Arena Platform #33, his steps measured, unhurried. Yet his attention never wandered. As he passed nearby platforms, his eyes tracked ongoing battles with quiet intensity—stance angles, foot placement, Qi timing, moments where restraint failed, and openings formed.
Too aggressive.Overcommitted.Poor recovery.
Each observation filed itself away.
The first round concluded a little over thirty minutes later. One by one, white-ranked disciples exited their arena platforms—some victorious, others visibly shaken. Thirty-two matches. Thirty-two winners.
The field narrowed. The second round would cut that number in half.
A soft chime sounded at Li Yan's wrist.
[Round: 2
Match#: 5
Arena#: 33
Opponent#: 29 — Zhou Tian
Status: Begin]
Li Yan ascended the steps to the platform. Zhou Tian stood opposite him, already waiting.
He looked thinner than before, but sharper. His stance was tighter, shoulders squared, breath controlled. Nervousness lingered at the edges, but it was restrained—disciplined. His cultivation had indeed risen since the Hunting Ground encounter.
"Two stages lower than me," Li Yan assessed. "But he improved a stage."
He nodded faintly. "You've improved."
Zhou Tian's eyes flickered, surprise crossing his face before resolve hardened it. "I did hard work after we met back then."
Around them, the arena quieted. Even elders leaned forward slightly. This wasn't curiosity alone—it was expectation. Everyone wanted to see whether Li Yan would continue dismantling opponents with the same quiet inevitability.
Both of them summoned their swords.
Li Yan's blade appeared first—clean, neutral, unadorned. Zhou Tian followed, jagged and darker, its surface pulsing faintly with condensed Qi.
The overseeing elder raised his hand. "Begin."
Zhou Tian moved instantly.
Dark Qi surged as he swung, releasing a crescent slash that screamed through the air, tearing toward Li Yan with cutting pressure. The platform's surface cracked where the energy skimmed past.
Li Yan waited.
At the last possible instant, he shifted—just enough.
The slash tore past him and struck the arena ground behind, scorching a black groove across the platform.
Zhou Tian didn't pause. A second arc followed, sharper, tighter, angled to cut off retreat.
Li Yan stepped back half a pace. The blade passed so close it stirred his robes, then detonated against the ground in a burst of dust and debris.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Zhou Tian advanced, chaining his attacks together now—third, fourth, fifth slashes, each one faster, denser, driven by increasingly precise control. He wasn't flailing. He was pressuring.
Li Yan retreated in short, efficient movements. No wasted distance. No dramatic dodges. His sword remained low, inactive, his body doing the work.
"Why won't you draw your blade?" Zhou Tian snapped, frustration bleeding through discipline.
Li Yan answered calmly, "I'm watching."
That only fueled him.
Zhou Tian inhaled sharply, Qi flaring outward in a dark halo. "Then watch closely."
He planted his foot and unleashed his technique, pressure rose sharply—clean, disciplined, far better than most at his level.
Li Yan's eyes flickered. "Not bad."
Dark Qi poured into Zhuo Tian's sword as he slashed repeatedly, faster and faster, until the air itself seemed to fracture. A storm of overlapping slashes converged on Li Yan from multiple angles, sealing off space and cutting escape routes.
The platform trembled under the barrage. Stone shattered. Dust erupted upward, swallowing Li Yan completely.
The arena held its breath.
Zhou Tian stood panting at the edge of the cloud, chest rising and falling, sweat streaking down his temple. His grip tightened around his sword.
"…That should be enough," he muttered.
The dust shifted.
Then parted.
Li Yan stood at the center of the ruined stone, untouched. Not even his sleeves were torn.
His body bore the faint sheen of tempered strength, Qi circulating smoothly beneath the surface, having dispersed the brunt of the impact before it could reach flesh.
He tilted his head slightly. "The structure was good," he said evenly. "But your output exceeds your control."
Zhou Tian's pupils shrank.
Li Yan vanished.
An afterimage lingered where he had stood a heartbeat ago.
Zhou Tian turned—too late.
Li Yan reappeared directly in front of him, sword raised, then stopped. The blade came to rest lightly against Zhou Tian's neck, its edge aligned with lethal precision.
No pressure.
No flourish.
Just inevitability.
Zhou Tian froze, breath caught in his throat.
The elder stepped forward immediately. "Match concluded. Winner—Li Yan Tian."
Sound returned to the arena all at once.
Cheers. Gasps. Whispered disbelief.
Li Yan drew his sword back as Zhou Tian lowered his sword as well, slowly, then bowed deeply. "I understand," he said quietly.
Li Yan inclined his head in acknowledgment and stored his blade. He descended the platform without looking back.
Li Yan's gaze was already forward.
The next match awaited.