"A forgotten face is a weapon no one sees coming."
The gong sounded.
Two hundred disciples stepped onto the black stone stage. The invisible formation hummed to life around them, sealing the arena. Above, thousands of outer sect disciples watched from the stands, their voices merging into a dull roar.
Lu Chen walked to the edge of the crowd and stopped.
He looked ordinary. His face was forgettable. His robes were grey and unmarked. His aura was nowhere to be felt. He was a piece of furniture that had somehow learned to stand on two legs.
That's the goal. hold up — is that a compliment or an insult?
That's not reassuring.
The disciples around him eyed each other warily, sizing up threats, forming temporary alliances. Lu Chen did none of these things. He simply stood there, hands loose at his sides, waiting.
High above, in one of the best seats of the arena, three disciples lounged with the easy confidence of people who had nothing to fear.
Gou Fen, Bai Lu, and Wei Shan were among the hundred who had secured battle tokens, a golden ticket that let them skip the chaos below and watch from the shade. They were not the strongest disciples in the sect. But they were strong enough to have gotten their tokens early, and that, in their minds, made them royalty.
Gou Fen leaned forward, scanning the stage. "Spot anyone interesting?"
Bai Lu pointed. "There. That one."
They looked. A grey-robed disciple stood near the edge. Unremarkable face. Suppressed aura. Not stretching, not meditating, not even looking at his opponents. Just standing there, hands at his sides. Like a cabbage waiting to be chopped.
Gou Fen snorted. "That guy? Five minutes. Tops."
"Five minutes?" Wei Shan raised an eyebrow. "You're generous. One minute."
Bai Lu didn't look up from cleaning his nails. "Five seconds."
"Five seconds? That's harsh."
"I'm being realistic. Look at him. He's not even holding his sword properly. Background character. Probably wandered in from somewhere else."
The other two laughed. Around them, disciples who had overheard murmured in agreement. No one argued. No one looked closer.
Because there was nothing to see.
They turned their attention to the more promising fights and forgot about the cabbage entirely.
A disciple pushed past Lu Chen. A broad-shouldered, Body Tempering 7, with the kind of confidence that would soon be properly tested. He glanced at Lu Chen, looked away, then glanced back. His lip curled.
"Tch."
One syllable of pure dismissal. He'd looked and seen nothing. No threat. No challenge. Just a grey robe with a forgettable face.
He raised his sword and charged.
Well, Lu Chen thought. That was easy.
The battle began without fanfare. Disciples clashed across the stage in a chaos of steel and spirit energy. Auras flared. Techniques exploded.
Up in the stands, the crowd roared for the flashy fights. A disciple from Talisman Peak unleashed a torrent of fire talismans that engulfed three opponents at once. Flames roared. The crowd cheered.
Then someone almost coughed blood.
"Wait — did he just burn through a dozen high-grade fire talismans?"
"Those cost fifty contribution points each."
"He's going to be eating spiritual paste for a month."
"Worth it, though. Look at those three — they're crispy."
"Crispy?"
"You heard nothing."
A swordswoman from Weapons Peak moved so fast she left afterimages, cutting down four disciples before any of them could react. The crowd gasped. A brawler with arms like tree trunks picked up a smaller disciple and threw him off the stage like a sack of rice. The crowd laughed.
No one watched Lu Chen.
He parried the first strike lazily, his sword barely moving. The broad-shouldered disciple pressed forward, swinging wildly, convinced he had the upper hand.
"Die!" Clang.
"DIE!" Clang.
"Just—" Clang.
The disciple's face was turning red. He couldn't understand why nothing was landing. Lu Chen wasn't even trying. He kept his movements small and contained, nothing that would draw attention. Just a mediocre disciple holding his own against an equally mediocre opponent.
In the chaos of two hundred fighters, no one noticed.
Good.
I'm being low-key.
...Maybe a little.
Sometimes I wonder if you're actually on my side.
The broad-shouldered disciple was sweating now. His swings getting slower. His breathing heavier. Lu Chen could have ended him at any moment, just a flick of the wrist, a Thunder Strike but that would be memorable. Memorable was the enemy.
He kept parrying.
Around them, the stage was clearing. Disciples fell one by one, groaning or unconscious or pretending to be. The crowd counted down as bodies accumulated one hundred and eighty... one hundred and fifty... one hundred and twenty.
"Are they really alive?."
"Yes why wouldn't they be?"
"If anyone dies Elder Chen wouldn't let the culprit go."
In the stands, the three disciples with battle tokens were fully engrossed in the flashy fights. They had not glanced at the cabbage in several minutes.
Lu Chen's opponent finally broke.
"SEN! GET OVER HERE!"
A second disciple broke away from his own fight. Lean, quick, eyes that had already taken out two opponents. He glanced at Lu Chen, then at his partner.
"This guy?"
"He's a wall! I can't get past him!"
Sen's eyes narrowed. "Together, then."
They attacked from both sides.
Ganging up on me?
That's rude.
Still rude.
He decided to teach them a lesson.
The two disciples lunged simultaneously. One high, one low. A coordinated strike that would have caught most cultivators off guard. Lu Chen watched them come.
And smiled.
Gate of Falling Immortal.
Two kicks. One to each opponent. Fast, precise, and targeting a location that required no further description.
The disciples raised their swords. Activated defensive techniques. Threw up defensive barriers.
All of it useless.
The kicks connected.
Right where it hurt most.
The two disciples' eyes widened. Their mouths opened. No sound came out. Their defensive techniques flickered and died. Their swords clattered to the ground. Their bodies folded like paper.
Somewhere in the distance, future generations wept and decided to find another father.
They ganged up on me.
Where's the fun in that?
Lu Chen looked around. The stage had cleared to about sixty disciples. No one had noticed his brief moment of justice. Too busy with their own fights.
He picked his next target and resumed playing.
The pattern repeated.
Find an opponent. Trade blows. Keep it low-key. Let them tire. Then, when they made a mistake or called for backup. Gate of Falling Immortal. One kick. Two kicks.
Each time, the opponent collapsed. Each time, Lu Chen moved on. Methodical. Efficient. Utterly forgettable.
I'm conserving energy.
...Both.
The crowd was thinning. Twenty-five disciples left. Twenty-two. Twenty-one.
Lu Chen scanned the stage and paused.
A disciple lying face down near the edge. Limbs splayed. Utterly still.
Xuan Hong.
[TO BE CONTINUED...]