After half a day's journey on foot, Mo Fan's steps finally transitioned from the muddy paths of the waste area to the broad bluestone-paved road leading to the Azure Cloud Sect's outer court martial arena.
On his back, the [ Pale Bone Scepter ], wrapped in layers of coarse cloth, swayed slightly with his steps, exuding an unshakeable, mountain-like steadiness.
The moment he truly stepped into the martial arena, a wave of fanatical sound—far surpassing the Spirit Testing Ceremony—hit him in the face.
If the Spirit Testing Ceremony was a "solemn grand gathering" filled with ethereal immortal aura and gathered sect higher-ups, then the Outer Court Grand Tournament before him was a "gladiator arena" overflowing with sweat, ambition, and the most primal desire for slaughter.
The massive martial arena was divided into several zones. Over a dozen giant stages constructed from hard Vajra rock rose from the ground. The area was a sea of people, gathering almost all the outer court disciples of the Azure Cloud Sect.
In the Azure Cloud Sect, the hierarchy was as rigid as iron: Personal, Inner, Outer, and Servant—like an insurmountable pyramid.
Most outer court disciples only possessed low-grade Spirit Roots. If they wanted to enter the inner sect to enjoy higher-tier methods and resources, the most reliable way was to break through to the [ Foundation Establishment Stage ].
But for bottom-tier cultivators lacking resources, this was akin to an idiot's daydream.
Therefore, this long-awaited Outer Court Grand Tournament became their only shortcut!
As long as one could fight their way into the Top 8 in these cruel arena matches, they would be granted exceptional qualifications to become an inner sect disciple. If one could charge into the Top 4 or even win the championship, there were crazy additional rewards, such as top-tier magical artifacts and the legendary "Foundation Establishment Pill," capable of completely shedding one's mortal shell.
This was the "leaping the dragon gate" for all outer court disciples to defy their fate. Win, and soar into the azure clouds; lose, and continue struggling in the mud.
Mo Fan tightened his washed-out, slightly frayed servant's cyan uniform, carrying his "firewood stick" on his back, and walked straight to the registration desk.
"Name, cultivation level, affiliation... Hmm?"
The managing disciple in charge of registration was writing furiously with his head down. Catching a glimpse of Mo Fan's shabby servant clothes in his peripheral vision, his brows instantly twisted into a dead knot. He looked up and waved his hand impatiently like swatting a fly.
"Go, go, go! What's someone from the servant district doing joining the fun? This is the Outer Court Tournament, swords have no eyes! Are you, a mortal doing heavy labor, going up there to die? Get lost, don't get in the way here!"
His shout immediately attracted the attention of the outer court disciples queuing nearby.
Looking at Mo Fan's tattered clothes and the coarse cloth stick on his back, a burst of disdainful laughter erupted from the crowd.
"Are servants these days going crazy thinking about cultivation? Daring to fight in the arena with a firewood stick?"
"Probably got bullied too much normally and wants to try his luck here, haha!"
Facing this mockery, Mo Fan didn't act like those hot-blooded, brainless protagonists in storybooks, angrily rushing up to shout clichés about 'the river flowing thirty years east and thirty years west.'
He just stood there calmly. His hand had already reached into his chest toward the iron token granted by Elder Liu Yun, ready to use the most simple and crude physical method—"flexing his VIP ID"—to break the deadlock.
However, before he could pull the token out, a gasp suddenly came from the crowd.
"Wait! This guy looks familiar... Holy shit! Isn't this the one currently riding the wave, the wood Spirit Root genius A-Song's brother?!"
"It's him! The one named Lu Xiaoqi! I heard he's not only the Sect Master's personal disciple's brother, but he also holds an iron token personally bestowed by Elder Liu Yun!"
At these words, the surrounding mocking laughter was cut off as if by a knife, stopping abruptly.
The managing disciple, whose face was full of impatience just a moment ago, shuddered violently, his hand dropping the pen. His face instantly turned pale as a sheet, and cold sweat whooshed down his forehead.
Although he was an outer court manager, in front of a Sect Master's personal disciple and a Golden Core elder, he wasn't even worth a fart.
Watching the managing disciple's face change faster than flipping a book, Mo Fan's hand paused on the iron token in his chest. He didn't reveal his trump card. Instead, he smoothly withdrew his empty hand and tapped seemingly casually on the registration roster.
Then, the corner of his mouth hooked up slightly, revealing a smile that looked honest but was actually full of profound meaning.
"You've worked hard, Senior Brother. Before I came, I specifically made sure to bring greetings to all you Senior Brothers on A-Song's behalf."
Mo Fan wasn't the rigid type who only talked about "independence and self-reliance." In this cultivation world governed by worldly wisdom and connections, since he had the clout of A-Song and Elder Liu Yun to borrow, he naturally wouldn't let it go to waste. Borrowing the tiger's skin to make a banner—this was zero-cost deterrence.
Gulp.
The managing disciple swallowed hard. His previous arrogance instantly melted into a flattering, dry laugh.
"S-So it's Brother Xiaoqi! Aiya, blame me for having eyes but failing to see Mt. Tai, blame my clumsy eyes!" The managing disciple nimbly pulled out a brand-new wooden contestant number plate and respectfully handed it to Mo Fan with both hands. "Since you are Junior Brother A-Song's elder brother, you naturally have the qualifications to compete! This is your number plate, wishing you a victorious start!"
"Thanks."
Mo Fan took the number plate, didn't spare him another glance, turned, and walked into the waiting area.
He didn't make a fuss over the offense just now. After all, tangling with this kind of snobbish, trend-chasing minor character was completely meaningless except for wasting time.
Entering the waiting area filled with formal disciples, Mo Fan's out-of-place servant attire still drew side glances. But he paid them no mind. He found an inconspicuous corner, planted his coarse-cloth-wrapped "long rod" on the ground, and sat down leaning against a stone pillar.
He closed his eyes, seemingly resting his mind.
But under the cover of his eyelids, he covertly activated [ Death Vision ].
Hum—
The boiling human voices around him instantly faded away. The colorful world shed its disguise, transforming into cold black, white, and gray.
In his field of vision, those brightly dressed, high-spirited outer court disciples on the martial arena instantly turned into blurry humanoids burning with various colored soul fires.
This was the absolute rational "wallhack scan" unique to a Necromancer.
"Mostly mid-stage to late-stage Qi Condensation..."
Mo Fan's gaze swept over the entire venue like radar, rapidly conducting intelligence analysis.
Although most people's soul fires swayed vigorously (indicating abundant spiritual Qi), their bone density was mediocre, even appearing somewhat fragile to Mo Fan. These were typical "squishy mages"—heavy on offense, light on defense. As long as he got close, he could shatter them with one strike of his stick.
Of course, there were a very few exceptions.
In several corners of the crowd stood a few burly men with knotted muscles and vigorous Qi and blood. In Death Vision, the red light representing Qi and blood inside them was visibly much thicker, and their bones presented a faint metallic luster.
These were body cultivation seedlings. After all, in this world, unless one's Spirit Root was truly too poor, no one was willing to suffer the inhumane bitterness of body tempering.
"Definitely a bit harder than normal mages."
Mo Fan evaluated silently in his heart.
But under the ruthless comparison of Death Vision, the Qi and blood radiance and bone strength of these people, compared to Mo Fan—who had already reached [ Iron Bones Stage Consummation ] and had been tempered thousands of times by Corpse Poison...
It was simply like comparing fireflies to the bright moon; unable to withstand a single blow.
"If it were two or three months ago, even the weakest among these people would be an immortal master that servant Lu Xiaoqi could only look up to, or even kneel before."
Mo Fan slowly opened his eyes, deactivating the vision. A profound, cold light flashed in the depths of his eyes.
"But now... they are too weak."
DONG—!
Just then, a deafening war drum sounded in the center of the martial arena, interrupting Mo Fan's thoughts.
"The Outer Court Grand Tournament officially begins!"
With the vigorous shout of the presiding elder, the entire arena instantly boiled.
Mo Fan looked down at the wooden plate in his hand: Group C, Number 73.
The number was quite far back; it probably wouldn't be his turn until the afternoon.
But he didn't continue resting his mind or nervously adjusting his internal breathing like the other disciples waiting in the back. Instead, he straightened his spine, opened those eyes honed to unparalleled sharpness at the bottom of the cliff, and looked with keen interest at the central stage.
This was the first time since transmigrating that he could observe the combat styles of the "orthodox Qi cultivators of the Mystic Realm" up close, systematically, and safely.
Know yourself and know your enemy, and you will never be defeated in a hundred battles.
Amidst the tidal wave of cheers, two figures leaped up, landing on opposite sides of the stage.
They were two outer court disciples dressed in neat white robes, both at late-stage Qi Condensation, their eyes revealing an extreme thirst for the inner sect.