The journey back to Jakarta was silent. Arga sat in the center of the private jet, the Heavenly Lotus floating in a localized field of gravity between his palms. He wasn't touching it; he was breathing it. Every time he inhaled, a strand of violet mist entered his lungs, circulating through his rejuvenated meridians before settling in his dantian like liquid starlight.
Beside him, the Frost-Horned Python's Core pulsed with a cold, blue light. The contrast between the solar heat of his internal fire and the glacial essence of the core was creating a perfect balance—the Yin-Yang Fusion necessary for the Third Cycle.
"Master," Yasmine whispered, breaking the silence as the city skyline appeared through the cockpit window. "General Surya just received a high-priority transmission. While we were in the mountains, the Martial Arts Alliance of Indonesia held an emergency summit."
Arga didn't open his eyes. "An alliance? You mean a gathering of frightened sheep?"
"They are calling you a 'Rogue Cultivator' who disrupted the balance of the city's underworld," Yasmine continued, her voice tight. "The Great Master of the Iron Fist Sect, the High Priestess of the Lotus Shade, and the Hidden Sword of the West have formed a coalition. They have issued an ultimatum: surrender your cultivation techniques and the Surya family's protection, or face 'Heavenly Judgement' at the Grand Martial Arena tonight."
Arga's lips curled into a thin, dangerous smile. "Heavenly Judgement? They use the name of the Heavens so lightly. They have no idea what truly watches from above."
"They have also taken a hostage," Yasmine added, her voice dropping an octave. "They seized Siska Wijaya. They know she was at the Peak of the Clouds. They believe she is your 'weakness'—the key to making you submit."
The air in the cabin suddenly dropped twenty degrees. The windows of the jet frosted over instantly, and the pilot struggled to keep the craft level as Arga's killing intent flared.
"My weakness?" Arga finally opened his eyes. The golden light was gone, replaced by a terrifying, abyssal void. "They think a woman I discarded is a shackle for a Sovereign?"
He stood up, the Heavenly Lotus and the Beast Core vanishing into the storage space of his divine subconscious.
"They want a show, Yasmine. They want to prove to the city that they are still the masters of the shadows. Very well. Tell the General to prepare the motorcade. We aren't going to the Peak of the Clouds. We are going to the Arena."
The Grand Martial Arena was a hidden colosseum built beneath an old industrial warehouse on the outskirts of Jakarta. It was a place where blood was spilled to settle debts that the law couldn't touch.
Tonight, the air was thick with the scent of incense and the presence of hundreds of martial artists. At the center of the stone ring, three figures sat on elevated chairs.
In the middle was Great Master Iron Fist, a man whose arms were as thick as tree trunks and plated in scarred skin. To his left, The High Priestess, an elegant woman in green silk whose fans were hidden blades. To his right, The Hidden Sword, an old man whose eyes were permanently closed, yet his aura cut the air around him like a razor.
Siska Wijaya was tied to a wooden pillar at the edge of the ring. Her face was bruised, and her eyes were wide with a terror she had never known. She looked at the three masters, then at the entrance, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Arga, don't come, she thought, even as a part of her screamed for him. These people aren't like the guards. They are monsters.
"He won't come," Great Master Iron Fist boomed, his voice echoing through the chamber. "The boy is a coward who hides behind the Surya family's tanks. Once the sun sets, we will execute the girl and march on the Peak of the Clouds."
Suddenly, the massive steel doors at the end of the arena didn't just open—they exploded inward.
The shockwave sent the front row of martial artists flying. Through the smoke and twisted metal, a single figure walked forward. He wasn't wearing armor. He wasn't carrying a weapon. He was dressed in a simple black t-shirt and cargo pants, his hands in his pockets.
Every step Arga took left a cracked footprint in the solid stone floor.
"I heard there was a judgment being passed tonight," Arga said, his voice quiet yet reaching every ear in the room. "I came to see who among you is qualified to be the judge."
The Hidden Sword opened his eyes for the first time. A flash of silver light erupted from his pupils. "You are Arga? You killed the Shadow Crow?"
"I erased a nuisance," Arga replied, stopping at the edge of the ring. He didn't even glance at Siska. His eyes were fixed on the three masters. "And now, I see three more nuisances sitting on high chairs."
"Impudent brat!" the High Priestess hissed, snapping her fans open. "You stand before the pillars of the Alliance! Kneel and hand over the Nine Sun technique, and we might let the girl live as your servant."
Arga let out a short, dry laugh. It was a sound of pure, cold amusement.
"Kneel? To you?"
Arga stepped into the ring. As his foot touched the sand, a golden pillar of light erupted from his body, reaching the ceiling of the warehouse. The pressure was so immense that the weaker martial artists in the stands collapsed, vomiting blood from the sheer weight of his aura.
"You speak of the Alliance," Arga said, his voice now sounding like the grinding of tectonic plates. "But I see only three ants standing in the path of a hurricane."
Great Master Iron Fist roared, leaping from his chair. His arm doubled in size as he funneled all his internal Qi into a single, mountain-shattering punch. "Iron God's Demolition!"
Arga didn't dodge. He didn't even raise his hands. He simply exhaled.
A blast of pure, white-hot Qi met the Iron Fist mid-air. The sound was like a bomb going off. The Great Master's arm didn't just break—the bones disintegrated into dust inside his skin. He was sent flying backward, crashing through his own throne and into the stone wall behind it.
The Arena went deathly silent. One of the strongest men in the country had been defeated by a breath.
Arga looked at the High Priestess and the Hidden Sword.
"Who is next?" Arga asked, a golden flame flickering in his eyes. "I have a Third Cycle to complete, and I find that the blood of 'Masters' makes for excellent fertilizer."