Boo all you want—can boos carve half a catty of flesh from Qi Xiu’s bones?
Since the sect leader had set the glorious example, Pan Rong followed it to the letter. He stord the stage, flung every talisman and spell in his pouch like a gambler throwing dice, saw zero effect, then imdiately cupped his fists and surrendered.
The boos that followed were twice as loud.
Even Wang Juan could only shake her head with a wry smile. “You… really.”
Qi Xiu shrugged. Zhan Yuan, the proudest face in all of Blackriver Market, had just been laughed off the stage by his own custors. Why should they care about strangers’ opinions? With Chu-Qin’s strength, they were never going to win the crowd’s love anyway.
Pan Rong hopped down and bowed. “Sect Leader, I’d like to go keep Elder Zhan company.”
Qi Xiu knew the two were thick as thieves. He nodded. After a mont’s thought, Huang He asked to go as well. Permission granted.
On stage, the mood suddenly shifted.
A White Mountain nobody faced a Guanghui Pavilion elite. Seeing no path to victory, the man shalessly copied Qi Xiu’s playbook—then raised the stakes. He hurled a filthy, corrosive artifact that splattered across his opponent’s treasured robe, dropping its grade on the spot. Then he promptly forfeited.
The Guanghui disciple nearly spat blood. The crowd, however, roared with approval. Sa tactic, completely opposite reception.
Even Qi Xiu could only give a helpless laugh.
Next up: Zhang Shishi.
He would sooner die than imitate the “coward style,” but fate has a sense of humor. His opponent turned out to be Zhao Teng—the very sa Zhao Clan cultivator who once helped Chu-Qin raise boar-fish. An old acquaintance, late-stage Qi Refining, and smiling like they were back at the breeding pens.
Both n cupped fists politely.
Zhang Shishi planted his Heavy Earth Shield, then sacrificed his pride and joy: the second-tier low-grade Dao-Earth Life-Growing Pagoda, bought with every spirit stone he’d earned selling those sa boar-fish. It was ant to beco his natal artifact soday. Today it would earn its keep.
The pagoda shot skyward, swelling to twice a man’s height, wrapped in thick moral-earth spiritual power, and crashed down like divine judgnt.
“Fine treasure!” Zhao Teng praised silently. Shoulders rolling, his natal phantom blossod—one towering spirit tree, one coiling vine. A sphere of verdant wood-aspected power blood atop the tree and caught the pagoda dead-on. The vine split, whipping toward Zhang Shishi from both sides.
Zhang Shishi blocked one tendril with his shield. The other brushed his ribs—then politely withdrew.
Zhao Teng wasn’t here to maim an old friend.
“Brother Zhao’s virtue matches his strength. I concede.” Zhang Shishi bowed, clean and quick. The two descended the stage still trading courtesies.
Wang Juan offered her usual comntary. “At least two combat-type natal gifts, wood-aspected power exceptionally pure. Your earth was perfectly countered. Nothing shaful.”
Zhang Shishi accepted the words with a nod, but the disappointnt in his eyes couldn’t be hidden. Qi Xiu sighed inwardly. The man’s pride burned hotter than most.
Shen Chang went next—flailed spells like a drunk, surrendered, then asked leave to join the others back at Blackriver Peak.
As the first round neared its end, Qi Xiu finally spotted the pattern in the drawing lots: cultivators from the sa sect never t, and evenly matched fights were suspiciously rare. The big sects sailed through with barely a sweat. Soone had planned it that way from the beginning.
“White Sand Gang, Sha Konghe!
Versus—Chu-Qin Sect, He Yu!”
He Yu’s turn.
The entire sect sward him with last-second advice. Qi Xiu spoke first, then Zhang Shishi, then Yu Denuo grabbed his sleeve and kept talking until the steward barked at them to let the boy fight.
Wang Juan watched the fuss, brow creasing, but in the end said nothing.
He Yu stepped onto the stage.
Scarlet Chu-Qin robes fluttered though there was no wind. The second-tier Water-Nurturing Sword rested casually in his hand. He didn’t strike a pose—he simply existed, and the arena seed to quiet for a breath.
Every loose cultivator below felt the sa thought: Damn, what a face.
His opponent, Sha Konghe of the White Sand Gang, looked like a bandit who’d lost a fight with a cactus and decided to lean into it.
“Heh heh, pretty boy, let grandpa play you to death!”
A chorus of female cultivators promptly cursed him into the ground.
He Yu’s expression didn’t change. He raised his sword and pointed—not at the throat, just a polite invitation.
“Please.”
Sha Konghe took the lack of imdiate attack as contempt. Fury flashed. He clawed at the air behind He Yu; a spectral crane talon materialized and raked for the back of the skull. At the sa ti, phantom crane wings flared from his own back. He shot forward like a diving raptor.
He Yu’s eyes lit up. “Well t!”
The half-refined Water-Nurturing Sword streaked out—more to buy space than to wound. At the sa mont he spun, slamming a palm of thick earth power into the incoming talon. The phantom shattered. Without pause he flicked a finger; an Ice Spike lanced upward.
Sha Konghe twisted mid-air, dodging the sword, swatted the spike aside, then closed the distance in a storm of claw shadows that swallowed He Yu whole.
Golden light flashed—He Yu unfolded a tal-Elent Barrier. Claws rang against it like hail on a bronze bell.
The sword that had missed curved back, stabbing for Sha Konghe’s spine.
“You think I’m scared to trade blows?!”
Sha Konghe dropped to the ground, wings vanishing. A talisman flared; earthen ropes burst from it and lassoed the flying sword, binding it tight. No matter how He Yu urged, the blade only trembled uselessly.
“Ha! All looks, no substance—just like the rest of your trash sect!”
He laughed and unleashed another barrage of claw shadows, thicker than before.
He Yu remained serene. When the golden barrier flickered near collapse, he simply slapped down another. An Ice Spike shot out as casual return fire. He looked like he could do this all day.
Sha Konghe’s sneer twisted into rage. White sand condensed beneath his feet, swirling into a howling desert tempest that roared toward He Yu.
Perfect.
He Yu’s palm touched the stage. “Now!”
A translucent pillar—half jade, half liquid—rose silently behind him. At his lifting gesture, the arena floor exploded upward. A spear of ice thicker than a man’s thigh erupted between Sha Konghe’s legs, aid sowhere extrely unforgiving.
Sha Konghe roared in fury and terror. Crane wings flared again; he rocketed straight up, barely escaping castration.
He Yu’s other hand chopped down.
A second ice spear materialized in mid-air, perfectly intercepting.
Sha Konghe twisted desperately. Too late—one arm clipped, phantom wings shattered, body tumbling.
He hit the stage hard, scrambled up, talisman already in hand—
Only to find a third ice spike kissing his forehead.
Sha Konghe stared cross-eyed at the tip for a heartbeat.
Then he laughed, rough but genuine, and dispersed his technique.
“I lose.”
The fight had lasted less than ten breaths from start to finish, yet not a single person in the stands had blinked.
When the cheers finally broke loose, they shook dust from the rafters.
Chu-Qin disciples scread themselves hoarse, palms red and stinging, faces flushed with sothing fiercer than joy.
For the first ti all day, the laughter in the arena wasn’t aid at them.
It was for them.
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