"Number Seven, Wang Li… versus Number Three, Mu Waner!"
The elder's voice tore through the arena, sharp as a blade.
The noisy crowd instantly fell quiet.
A boy stepped forward.
He looked no older than twelve. His frame was lean, his clothes plain—but his eyes… were disturbingly calm.
Wang Li.
Opposite him, Mu Waner walked out, her leather armor glinting under the sun. Her movements were steady, confident—like someone who had never once doubted victory.
They stopped several meters apart.
Their gazes collided.
The air tightened.
"Fight!"
The word fell—
—and the arena exploded into motion.
Wang Li moved first.
Two steps.
That was all it took.
The distance vanished.
His body dropped low as his leg swept forward in a brutal sliding kick aimed at Mu Waner's core.
Fast. Decisive. Ruthless.
Mu Waner's pupils shrank. She raised her arms to block.
Boom!
A dull explosion echoed.
The force behind the kick surged through her defenses like a crashing wave. Her body was thrown backward, boots carving deep trails into the sand as she was forced back nearly five meters.
She barely stabilized.
But—
Her expression didn't change.
Not even a flicker.
The crowd stirred.
"He attacked first? And that heavy?"
"Does this kid even know what mercy is?"
"He's going all out against a girl…"
Their voices overlapped, filled with disbelief.
Wang Li didn't hear a single word.
Or rather—
He chose not to.
This fight wasn't about pride.
It wasn't about honor.
It was survival.
No background. No backing. No second chances.
If he lost here… he was nothing.
So—
He stepped forward again.
No hesitation.
This time, his arm drew back—and punched.
The instant his fist moved, the air around it twisted, compressing violently as if unable to withstand the force.
"Great Success Boxing Technique!"
A shocked voice rang out.
Pressure descended.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Even the spectators felt their breathing grow uneven.
But Mu Waner—
Remained calm.
A soft hum spread across the arena.
A sword chant.
Clear. Resonant. Deadly.
Her hand moved.
The sword left its sheath.
No—
It vanished.
Only an afterimage lingered.
"Perfection Sword Technique!!"
The cry this time was filled with awe.
A perfected technique.
At the same realm—invincible.
The blade shot forward like a streak of cold light, carrying an invisible suppression that locked onto Wang Li, freezing the very space around him.
Everything slowed.
Everything—
Except Wang Li.
A grin slowly spread across his face.
Crooked. Cold. Unfazed.
'Perfection?'
His eyes darkened.
'I've stood there before…'
'And I've stepped beyond it.'
His cultivation path was different.
The Mountain and Seas Art.
A forbidden road that shattered perfection—only to rebuild something greater.
Every time he reached perfection, he broke it.
Every time he regressed, he evolved.
And now—
Someone dared use a single perfected Yellow-grade technique to suppress him?
Ridiculous.
Wang Li didn't stop.
Didn't slow.
Didn't hesitate.
The invisible force pressing down on him—
Shattered.
His fist surged forward.
The sword descended.
They met.
Clink—
Crack!!
For a split second, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then—
The blade broke.
Cleanly.
Fragments exploded outward, glittering like shards of light.
Mu Waner's eyes widened in disbelief.
Her perfected technique—
Shattered?
Impossible—
But reality didn't wait for her to understand.
Wang Li's fist had already arrived.
Boom!
It slammed into her abdomen.
Her body folded.
Then flew.
She was sent soaring through the air before crashing heavily onto the arena floor.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Mu Waner lay motionless.
Unconscious.
The dust slowly settled.
At the center of it all—
Wang Li stood alone.
Still.
Calm.
Unshaken.
As if he had merely done something trivial.
"…Cough."
The elder's voice finally broke the stillness.
"Number Seven… Wang Li wins."
Even he sounded uncertain.
As if what he had just witnessed… defied logic.
The crowd erupted—
—but not in cheers.
In fear.
"He broke a perfected technique…"
"With his bare hands…"
"What kind of monster is that?"
Their gazes shifted between Mu Waner's unconscious body and Wang Li's unmoving figure.
A chill spread.
"What a ruthless person…"
"Don't provoke him."
"He's definitely entering the outer sect…"
Wang Li didn't react.
Not to the whispers.
Not to the fear.
Not even as Mu Waner was carried away, her condition miserable.
He simply stood there.
Waiting.
Eyes fixed on the elder.
Calm.
Detached.
As if none of it mattered.
---
"Those who ranked at the top…"
The elder's voice rang out once more, drawing everyone back.
"…are now recognized as outer disciples of the Spirit Stream Sect."
A ripple of excitement spread.
But it didn't last long.
"Tomorrow—you will enter Spirit Mountain."
Silence fell again.
"You are required to hunt and kill at least one Rank Two beast."
Tension surged.
"The nine peaks of the sect each hold their own inheritances. Only those chosen may enter."
A pause.
"Whether you are selected… depends entirely on your performance."
Among ten—
Sometimes only one was chosen.
Sometimes—
None.
Wang Li's gaze flickered.
He understood.
Without entering a peak, he would remain nothing more than a nameless outer disciple.
No status.
No resources.
No future.
And most importantly—
No techniques.
His Mountain and Seas Art had reached a bottleneck.
Without new techniques to devour and fuse…
He would stagnate.
But inside the sect—
Opportunities were endless.
For the first time—
A faint glint of anticipation appeared in his eyes.
---
High above the arena—
Hidden within drifting clouds—
Twelve figures floated silently.
Each radiated an aura so vast it distorted the air around them.
Among them—
A woman drank lazily from a wine jar.
White hair.
Silver eyes.
Purple robes flowing like mist.
Until now, she hadn't cared.
But during that clash—
She had seen it.
Something no one else did.
Her lips curved.
'Fusion of techniques…'
'Not imitation… not combination…'
'But true integration.'
Her gaze locked onto Wang Li.
'A flawed perfection… or…'
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
'The beginning of something beyond perfection?'
"Wang Lu."
A voice interrupted her thoughts.
A middle-aged man smiled faintly.
"Found someone interesting?"
"Planning to finally take a disciple?"
Wang Lu tilted her head, taking another slow sip.
"Why?" she said lazily. "Is the Sect Master planning to interfere with my Tenth Peak?"
The man chuckled awkwardly.
"Well… your peak has been empty for years—"
The temperature dropped.
Instantly.
"Are you saying…"
Wang Lu lowered the wine jar.
"…that I'm old?"
The surrounding elders stiffened—then burst into laughter, unable to hold it in.
The Sect Master froze.
"That's not—"
"Oh?" she cut in, her voice soft… dangerous. "Then you're wishing for my early death?"
Silence.
Absolute silence.
The Sect Master opened his mouth—
Closed it again.
Before he could respond—
She continued.
"Tell me… Sect Master."
"Do *you* have a successor?"
He blinked.
"What does that—"
Wang Lu smiled.
Slowly.
Coldly.
"You're already middle-aged."
"Surely… you shouldn't die without one."
A chill ran down his spine.
"Since you care so much about me…"
She leaned back slightly, eyes gleaming.
"Why don't I help you choose one?"
That smile—
Playful.
Cruel.
Unpredictable.
Far below—
Wang Li stood in the arena.
At that exact moment—
He smiled the same way.
---
And in the next instant—
A voice echoed directly into Wang Li's mind.
Soft.
Lazy.
Yet unquestionable.
**"Brat… do you want to become my disciple?"**
Wang Li's pupils shrank.
Because that voice—
Did not come from the arena.
It came from the sky.