The Outer Sect Arena was a cauldron of noise and violence.
Ten raised stone platforms had been erected in the center of the plaza. On each one, disciples clashed with swords, fists, and fireballs. The air smelled of ozone and sweat.
"Victory to Chen Wei! Arena 3!"
"Liu Ming is down! He can't stand!"
"Healer! We need a Healer at Arena 5!"
Li Fan stood in the waiting area, clutching his wooden number plate: 499.
He looked around. The disciples waiting with him were a mix of nervous pacing and arrogant posturing. Some were meditating to conserve Qi; others were frantically sharpening their swords.
Li Fan did neither. He was eating a steamed bun.
"Look at him," a disciple whispered nearby. "Eating before a fight? He'll vomit if he gets punched in the gut."
Li Fan ignored them, chewing slowly.
Carbohydrates for short-term energy, he thought. And it makes me look like an idiot who doesn't understand the gravity of the situation.
"Number 498 and Number 499! Arena 7!"
The referee's voice boomed over the noise.
Li Fan swallowed the last bite of his bun, wiped his hands on his robes, and walked toward the platform.
His opponent was already there.
It wasn't Ma Liu. It was a burly youth holding a heavy iron staff. He was shirtless, revealing muscles that glistened with oil. His aura was solid—Qi Condensation Layer 3 (Peak).
Iron Staff Wu. Known for his brute strength and lack of mercy.
Wu looked down at Li Fan—who was skinny, unarmed, and visibly trembling—and grinned.
"Li Fan?" Wu scoffed, swinging his staff lazily. "I heard you registered just to donate your entry fee. You should have just given the stone to me. I would have bought you a drink before breaking your ribs."
The crowd around Arena 7 gathered. They weren't there to see a good fight; they were there to see a massacre. Humans loved to watch a weakling get crushed; it made them feel secure in their own mediocrity.
"Senior Brother Wu," Li Fan squeaked, bowing clumsily. "Please... please go easy on me. I just want to exchange a few moves to gain experience!"
"Experience?" Wu laughed. "I'll give you the experience of pain!"
"Begin!" the referee shouted.
Wu didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, the iron staff whistling through the air, aiming straight for Li Fan's shoulder. It was a simple, brutal overhead smash.
Li Fan watched the staff descend.
To his Layer 4 eyes, it was moving through molasses.
Trajectory: Vertical smash. Speed: Slow. Openings: Seven.
Option A: Step in, strike the throat. Result: Instant death.
Option B: Side step, kick the knee. Result: Crippled leg.
Option C: The Clown Protocol.
Li Fan chose Option C.
He yelped, a high-pitched sound of pure terror. He didn't dodge gracefully. Instead, he threw himself sideways as if he had slipped on a banana peel.
Whoosh.
The staff slammed into the stone tiles where Li Fan had been standing a split second ago. Sparks flew.
"You rat!" Wu roared, annoyed that he missed. He swept the staff horizontally, aiming for Li Fan's legs.
Li Fan scrambled backward on his hands and knees, looking pathetic.
"Don't hit me! Don't hit me!"
He rolled away, barely avoiding the sweep. He stood up, looking disoriented.
"Stand still!" Wu shouted, charging again.
This time, Wu used a martial art: The Sweeping Iron Mountain. His staff blurred, creating a wall of pressure.
Li Fan's eyes narrowed microscopically.
Now.
He waited for Wu to commit his weight forward.
Li Fan stepped back, but he "accidentally" stepped on the hem of his own long robe.
"Whoa!"
Li Fan flailed his arms, his balance failing. He tripped backward, his feet leaving the ground.
It looked like a complete accident. A spectacular failure of coordination.
But as he fell, his right foot lashed out in a flailing kick. It looked random, but it tapped the exact center of Wu's staff at the moment of impact, disrupting the kinetic energy transfer.
The staff wobbled. Wu, expecting resistance, overextended.
Li Fan landed on his butt. But the momentum carried him sliding backward across the smooth stone tiles.
He slid... and slid...
Right off the edge of the platform.
Thump.
Li Fan landed in the dirt outside the ring.
The arena went silent for one second.
Then, laughter exploded.
"Did you see that?!"
"He tripped! He tripped on his own robe!"
"Hahaha! Trash! Absolute trash!"
Iron Staff Wu stood on the platform, confused. He hadn't even landed a clean hit. He felt cheated, but then he heard the referee.
"Winner: Iron Staff Wu! Li Fan is out of bounds!"
Wu raised his staff, soaking in the cheers. "Too easy! The wind blew him over!"
Li Fan lay in the dirt, dusting off his robes. He looked up at the jeering crowd. He looked at Ma Liu, who was laughing so hard he was holding his stomach. He looked at Ye Qing in the VIP box, who didn't even glance at Arena 7, finding it beneath his notice.
Li Fan stood up, rubbing his butt theatrically.
"Ouch..." he muttered loud enough for people to hear. "The floor is too slippery! Unfair!"
"Go home, Li Fan!" someone threw a vegetable peel at him. "Go clean the toilets!"
Li Fan hung his head in shame and scurried away from the arena, disappearing into the crowd.
Five Minutes Later
Li Fan sat under the shade of the distant willow tree, far away from the noise of the tournament.
The "shame" vanished from his face instantly. He took a sip of water from his skin.
Fight Analysis:
Energy expended: 1%.
Damage taken: 0.
Public Perception: Harmless idiot.
Objective: Complete.
He reached into his inner robe and touched the cool surface of the Blue Ice Token given to him by the City Lord.
The crowd was fighting for fifty slots. They were bleeding, breaking bones, and revealing their trump cards.
Li Fan had his slot secured days ago.
"Fight for the scraps," Li Fan whispered, watching a disciple get carried off on a stretcher. "While you fight for the right to enter, I am planning how to own the place."
He closed his eyes, resting his head against the tree bark.
In three days, the Secret Realm would open.
In three days, Li Fan would step into the mist.
And when he walked out, the power balance of the Small Pond Sect would be rewritten in blood.
But for now... he enjoyed the breeze. Being a loser was surprisingly relaxing.