The footsteps came to a halt right in front of the fragile wooden door.
Tian Cang closed his eyes, every sense stretched tight like a bowstring. The thud of boot soles against the corridor floor, breaths that were terrifyingly steady, the distribution of weight from each person in the narrow space outside—at least six of them.
He stood silently in the dark room. His breathing slowed and deepened, bringing his body into the most tranquil combat state possible.
The way they positioned themselves around the door, the way they kept their killing intent from leaking too early—these were people accustomed to reaping lives. Ordinary soldiers would be restless; they would breathe heavier, letting their intent seep through the smallest cracks. These men were silent, like sharpened blades resting in their sheaths.
The blades of the Blood Flame, sent to sweep away the refuse.
CRASH!
The wooden door shattered into splinters.
Six dark figures flooded in like a deluge. They lunged with a singular purpose: to finish it cleanly and quickly. The leader charged straight ahead, a short blade in his hand glinting with cold steel, aimed directly at Tian Cang's heart.
Tian Cang took a long stride forward, moving against the momentum of his opponent's attack. The safety zone was breached in an instant. Before the assassin could adjust, Tian Cang's palm slammed hard into the man's elbow.
CRACK!
The sound of snapping bone was crisp. Tian Cang seized the broken arm and, with a ruthless yank, jerked the man toward him, turning him into a living shield.
SHLIK! SHLIK!
Two blades from behind pierced through their comrade's body. Hot blood splattered onto Tian Cang's face, but his eyes remained chillingly calm. He released the corpse of his human shield and vanished from his position in a movement unnervingly fast for a Mortal Firmament.
He appeared at the right flank of the second man. A direct punch to the pressure point on the neck.
Thud.
The man collapsed like a log. Tian Cang required only absolute precision, striking the most vulnerable spots with just enough force to snap the thread of life.
The remaining three froze for a split second, but their professional instincts forced them to quickly shift tactics. One retreated, drawing a hand-crossbow. The other two closed in from both sides, forming a pincer maneuver.
Structured coordination. Ordinary soldiers couldn't pull this off.
Tian Cang tilted his head slightly. A bolt tore through the air. He slipped away at a miniscule angle, just enough for the arrow to graze his shoulder and thud into the wooden wall behind him. Immediately, he spun, delivering a sweeping kick to the shin of the man closing in from the front.
Snap!
As that man buckled, a second bolt flew from the crossbowman, piercing the head of his falling comrade. Tian Cang had calculated that trajectory in advance.
The killing rhythm was broken. A single moment of hesitation from the crossbowman was more than enough. Tian Cang closed the distance, clamped his hand around the man's throat, and used him as a screen against the final assassin's path.
The last man stood rooted to the spot. For the first time, the confidence of a predator shattered, replaced by clear hesitation in his eyes.
Tian Cang looked at him over the shoulder of his living shield, his voice as flat as the earth before a tremor:
"You are dead."
The man roared to dispel his fear, lunging in a desperate horizontal slash. Tian Cang shoved the living shield forward with all his might.
SHLIK!
A head fell. Blood sprayed like a crimson fountain, obscuring the vision. Amidst that mist of blood, Tian Cang entered like a ghost—a punch concentrated with all his weight and experience pierced through the opponent's chest.
THUD!
Six men. A floor soaked in blood. The room returned to silence.
Tian Cang exhaled a long breath. His heart was beating faster than usual, but his hands were steady, his mind cold. That was more terrifying than the exhaustion itself. Why did killing feel so natural and easy to him?
"How unfortunate... I'm starting to get used to it."
"What's so unfortunate about getting used to it?"
A calm voice, laced with a hint of admiration, rang out from the doorway.
Tian Cang turned.
Standing there was a youth with a refined bearing, carrying only a single, simple longsword hanging at his hip. The pressure radiating from this person was entirely different from the soldiers just now—silent and heavy, like a deep lake before something rises from the bottom.
"I thought this was just a routine waste-disposal session." The newcomer stepped inside, his eyes scanning the corpses strewn across the floor before settling on Tian Cang. A faint smile appeared. "It seems I've found something far more interesting."
He drew his sword.
There was no blinding aura, no grand magical effects. Just a sliver of cold steel sliding from its scabbard, reflecting the morning light with a razor-sharp, clean edge that was disturbingly pure.
Tian Cang's instincts screamed: Danger.
This person was entirely different from the soldiers before. This was a true genius—someone capable of ending Tian Cang right here before the blade even got dirty.
The youth stepped forward. A single stride seemed to collapse all spatial distance.
SHLIK!
The blade was already pressed against Tian Cang's neck. He saw the result of the thrust but missed the movement of the swing entirely. Tian Cang tilted his head, but his Mortal Firmament body was half a beat slower than his consciousness; a streak of blood still sprayed from a cut on his neck.
"Good reflexes." The youth flicked his wrist slightly, the blade changing direction in mid-air as smooth as flowing water. "But your technique is too crude."
SHLIK!
A deeper cut appeared on Tian Cang's shoulder. For the first time since his rebirth, he was forced to retreat. This opponent used pure swordsmanship—no mana, no enhancements—just skill reached to absolute purity, as if every strike had been practiced tens of thousands of times until the movement itself became invisible.
Tian Cang lowered his center of gravity, his crimson eyes observing every miniscule vibration from his opponent.
No openings. No wasted force. Extremely fast at reading movements. Exactly like that Holy Kingdom assassin, but a human version.
He decided to change his approach. Stop. Stand still. Wait.
The youth raised an eyebrow, showing genuine surprise for the first time.
"Learning in the middle of a fight? Not bad."
He suddenly vanished, his footwork so sophisticated that the naked eye only saw the empty space where he had just stood. Tian Cang spun, desperately using his bare hand to intercept the sword's path.
SHLIK!
Tian Cang's palm was slashed open, blood flowing profusely, but he had caught the blade for a split second. That was all he needed.
He entered close-quarters range, where the longsword lost its advantage. A vicious punch aimed straight at the opponent's heart.
The youth tilted his body at a miniscule angle, just enough for Tian Cang's fist to graze his clothes.
In an instant, the sword was horizontal against Tian Cang's throat.
Silence filled the room.
Each drop of blood from Tian Cang's palm hit the wooden floor, rhythmic as a countdown clock.
"You lost."
Tian Cang stared into his opponent's eyes, his voice deep:
"What is your name?"
The youth smiled faintly, sheathing his sword in a lightning-fast motion. "No need to know yet. Perhaps you'll die before you can even memorize the name."
HOOOO... HOOOO...
Outside, a long horn blast sounded, signaling a shift in the training camp. The youth frowned with regret.
"How annoying. Time to assemble."
He retreated toward the door, his back fading into the dim corridor. He paused for a beat without turning around:
"You are very interesting. Don't die too soon—at least not until I finish you off with my own hands."
Tian Cang stood silently in the room full of corpses.
His palm throbbed with pain. The cut on his neck continued to weep blood. This Mortal Firmament body had been pushed near its limit after just two battles in one morning.
But what occupied his entire attention was the feeling of loss.
He had stood on battlefields where enemies were many times stronger than him; he had pushed his Blood Firmament until his body disintegrated; he had lost an arm and still lunged at his opponent's face. The feeling of losing—the sensation of knowing your every move was read and every escape closed—he thought he had grown used to that long ago.
It turned out, it still hurt.
He clenched his bloody fist. Beneath the skin, the crimson fissure suddenly throbbed like a second heart, surging with heat—as if the thing sleeping in his blood had felt the humiliation and wanted to wake up.
Tian Cang's gaze sank into the shadows.
"Next time... I will be the one holding your head."
Outside, the Blood Flame Selection Camp began to descend into chaos. Horns, shouted orders, the sound of feet running in multiple directions. Someone had discovered what happened in Room 17.
The game had truly begun.