Making way back through the crowded plaza toward the waiting area adjacent to Category A Arena, Lordi arrived just as the fifth preliminary match of the current round was reaching its conclusion on the raised platform.
One fighter lay unconscious or possibly dead on the arena floor, while the victor stood over him with arms raised in triumph, blood spattering his robes and face in patterns that suggested the fight had been brief but extremely violent.
The blue-robed official overseeing that particular platform was already approaching to check on the fallen fighter's status and officially announce the outcome.
After a brief examination and what was presumably confirmation that the loser would survive with appropriate medical attention, the official's voice rang out clearly across the arena.
"Victor: Competitor Number Nine. Saive Bahn! Match concluded!"
Then he immediately consulted his match roster and called out the next pairing that would keep the tournament moving forward on schedule.
"Following match: Category A, Competitor Number Eleven versus Number Twelve! Competitors, ascend to the platform immediately and prepare for combat!"
Twelve. That number hit Lordi's consciousness with the force of a physical blow, ringing in his skull like a dull bell of doom.
That was him.
That was his number, his turn to step onto that blood-stained platform and prove whether he deserved to be here or whether he was about to be publicly humiliated—or worse, seriously injured or killed.
The moment he'd been simultaneously dreading and trying to mentally prepare for had finally, inevitably arrived, and despite all his attempts at psychological readiness he felt completely unprepared for what came next.
The blood on the stone platform was still fresh from the previous match. The victor Saive Bahn from that just-concluded battle was descending the far steps with the casual confidence of someone who'd just confirmed his superiority through violence and felt no need to question his capabilities.
The man's eyes passed over Lordi as they crossed paths, the victor heading down while Lordi prepared to ascend, and that brief moment of eye contact felt like a blade glancing off stone.
Lordi found himself completely unable to confidently assess how powerful his opponent Deane Doome would actually prove to be. The uncertainty was maddening because it left him unable to properly strategize or mentally prepare for what specific challenges he'd face.
Instead of useful tactical analysis, Lordi's mind kept circling back obsessively to one particular horrible memory that seemed to have burned itself permanently into his consciousness: the absolutely lethal battle with Donovan Valdez during that catastrophic Outer Sect task to the Hanz Estate.
With just one distant punch from that terrifying senior brother who'd earned the title "Mister First Dominator" through years of crushing anyone foolish enough to challenge him, Lordi had been hammered completely off the cliff edge of Twin Peak Hill with such overwhelming force that he'd had no opportunity to defend or brace himself or do anything except experience the horrifying sensation of his body ragdolling through empty air.
He remembered his mouth filling instantly with blood, the copper taste flooding his senses as if internal organs ruptured from the impact's shockwave. He remembered his whole body erupting in excruciating pain so intense that consciousness itself had become questionable, every nerve screaming simultaneously in a chorus of agony that transcended anything he'd experienced before or since.
He'd been on the absolute verge of death in that moment, his cultivation foundation cracked, his meridians shredded, his body broken in so many places that recovery had seemed impossible even with spiritual medicine and formation healing. Only luck and intervention from little girl wraith Yunny had saved him from dying in that haunted estate.
And now, staring up at the platform where he'd soon face Deane Doome, Lordi's paranoid pattern-recognition kicked in with observations that definitely weren't helping his mental state.
Man... both names started with "Do" and contained those double O's—Donovan, Doome.
The similarity felt like some kind of devil joke or ominous sign.
What if Deane Doome was genuinely as powerful as Senior Brother Valdez had been?
What the hell was he supposed to do if he found himself in another situation like that cliff battle, except this time without any kind ghost nearby who might intervene before he was actually killed?
The tournament rules explicitly stated that killing your opponent was completely legal and carried no punishment—if Doome decided to go for lethal force, there'd be nothing to stop him except his own restraint or mercy, neither of which seemed particularly reliable in demonic sect disciples.
Damn...
Lady Joanie's instructions echoed in his memory with uncomfortable weight. She'd told him explicitly to win first place in this entire Grand Outer Sect Tournament, had delivered that command with the casual certainty and didn't particularly care about the difficulties involved in fulfilling her demands.
But oh shit... thinking about it seriously, about what that actually required him to accomplish, it was way too dangerous to even attempt combat with someone potentially on Donovan's power level!
He wasn't ready for that kind of fight, didn't have techniques or capabilities sufficient to bridge that kind of gap if Doome really was as overwhelmingly strong as the worst-case scenarios suggested.
Lordi had advanced to peak of Ninth Layer himself recently, had felt the increase in his cultivation and the expansion of his capabilities, but that didn't translate to confidence that he could actually survive against another Ninth Layer expert who'd potentially been at that realm longer and had better techniques and more combat experience.
A cold numbness began creeping up his limbs from his feet toward his core. The numbness warred constantly with a frantic, fluttering terror in his chest that made his heart race and his breathing become shallow and irregular. Lordi took a deep, deliberate breath to try steadying his badly frayed nerves, consciously attempting to impose control over his autonomic reactions through willpower and breathing techniques. But the attempt at calm only made him more aware of how badly his body was betraying his fear—his palms had gone slick with cold sweat that made his hands feel clammy and unreliable, his mouth had gone completely dry as if all moisture had been sucked out by terror, leaving his tongue thick and uncomfortable.
Shit... this was it...
The crowd's ambient murmur, which had been a constant background noise throughout the tournament, suddenly swelled into something louder and more intense—a hungry wave of anticipation and excitement as spectators realized another match was about to begin and positioned themselves for optimal viewing. They were eager for the next display of violence and cultivation prowess, completely unconcerned with whether the fighters involved wanted to be there or whether the matchup was fair or whether someone might be seriously hurt.
Lordi was about to become the next performer in this theater of pain and blood, the next piece of entertainment for a crowd that would cheer equally loud whether he won or was carried off the platform on a stretcher, and every instinct he possessed screamed at him to flee while he still could.
Yet somehow, despite the terror and the desperate desire to be literally anywhere else, his feet—feeling heavy as millstones, each step requiring conscious effort to execute—carried him forward toward the platform steps with mechanical inevitability.
Hearing his number called that his moment had finally arrived despite some of his hopes that maybe somehow the tournament would be cancelled or postponed or that he'd be given more time to prepare, Lordi forced himself to take another deep breath in a desperate attempt to steady nerves.
Hundreds of eyes in the surrounding crowd seemed to track his movement, Lordi began walking toward the platform steps with what he hoped looked like deliberate, measured strides.
At precisely the same moment Lordi ascended the platform and placed his foot on the very center of his half, the atmosphere around the entire competition grounds suddenly shifted.
A strange, deeply unsettling wind swept across the plaza from no apparent source, but something distinctly spooky and profoundly wrong. The wind carried within it sounds that made people's skin crawl with instinctive horror: countless women's voices crying out in anguish and terror, high-pitched wails that spoke of suffering beyond normal human experience.
The temperature plummeted several degrees in an instant, the pleasant warm afternoon air that had characterized the day suddenly replaced by penetrating chill that felt fundamentally wrong for the season and location. It was immediate and absolute, as if someone had opened a doorway to some frozen hell dimension and let its atmosphere spill into the mortal realm.
Spectators throughout the crowd physically shivered despite many of them being cultivators whose bodies should have been largely immune to normal temperature variations. People wrapped arms around themselves reflexively against the unnatural cold that seemed to penetrate deeper than mere physical temperature should be able to reach, bypassing skin and muscle to chill them at some fundamental level of existence.
Multiple disciples in the crowd began muttering nervously, recognizing that whatever was happening was something genuinely dangerous.
A localized whirlwind materialized in the center of the arena platform seemingly from nowhere, spinning rapidly and gathering intensity before abruptly dispersing with dramatic flair.
Where the wind had been, a figure now stood—a cultivator whose very presence radiated menace and wrongness.
His face was deathly pale, complexion so bloodless and corpse-like that he might have been dead himself rather than alive. His expression carried undisguised malice, eyes glittering with barely concealed violence and anticipation of inflicting pain. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his head and directed his gaze toward Lordi, fixing him with a look of such concentrated malevolence that it felt almost like a physical attack—a sinister, predatory glare that promised suffering.
"It's Senior Brother Deane Doome!"
"Wow! Brother Doome!"
"Hell yeah!"
The crowd around Category A Arena immediately erupted with enthusiasm, completely ignoring Lordi's presence.
All attention and energy focused exclusively on the clearly favored fighter, disciples shouting their support and admiration with genuine fervor.
"The rumors are true! Senior Brother Deane Doome advanced to the peak of ninth layer of Qi Refinement just recently, and his progression speed has been absolutely extraordinary!"
"Dude! Pay respect! You have to know Brother Doome's achieved the fastest cultivation advancement of any sect comrades on Ghost Shade Peak in the past hundred years! Nobody in living memory has climbed through the cultivation stages as quickly as he has!"
"Senior Brother Deane's natural talent is genuinely remarkable, almost unprecedented in its quality," another voice chimed in with obvious admiration. "If not for the unfortunate circumstances of his birth, if he'd come from a better family with proper connections, there's absolutely no way he would have been initially assigned to our Ghost Shade Peak when he joined the holy sect. His placement here was a bureaucratic error based on background rather than merit."
"Exactly right! With Senior Brother Doome's supreme skeletal structure and spiritual root quality, even if he didn't qualify for assignment to elite peaks like Raven Silk Peak where only the absolute best go, he should have at minimum been placed on mountains like Ghost Palm Peak or Blood Whirl Peak—solid high-tier locations that get reasonable resources and attention. Being assigned to Ghost Shade Peak, which everyone knows is basically the bottom of the Outer Sect hierarchy, was genuinely unfair to someone of his caliber. He deserved better from the start."
"Well, fortunately the Grand Competition has finally begun, which gives talented disciples stuck in unfortunate circumstances a chance to demonstrate their true worth," someone observed with satisfaction. "As long as Senior Brother Doome can fight his way into the top one thousand competitors in the entire Outer Sect—and there's no doubt he'll achieve that easily—he'll naturally attract attention from higher-level sect officials. They'll recognize his value and arrange for better resources, training opportunities, and social position. His current unfortunate placement will be corrected through merit."
As Lordi absorbed these enthusiastic testimonials about his opponent's exceptional qualities and overwhelming advantages, a memory suddenly surfaced from his earlier experiences.
He recalled that when he'd departed for the Outer Sect task to Hanz Clan Estate months ago, when Garrick Blackthorn and the other participants had learned that Lordi hailed from Ghost Shade Peak, their expressions had become notably strange—subtle but unmistakable reactions that suggested the name meant something specific and not particularly flattering.
At the time, with other pressing concerns demanding his attention and the task preparation taking priority, Lordi hadn't bothered to investigate what those peculiar reactions signified.
But now, listening to how these sect comrades casually referenced Ghost Shade Peak being "at the bottom" and how assignment there represented something close to punishment or misfortune, the implications became crystal clear.
Ghost Shade Peak was apparently the absolute lowest-ranked mountain in the Outer Sect hierarchy—the place where disciples with no connections, mediocre talent, or unfortunate backgrounds got dumped by default when the sect didn't know what else to do with them.
Lordi's gaze drifted toward Deane Doome, standing at the opposite end of the platform basking in the crowd's adulation and support, clearly the overwhelming favorite in this matchup.
Despite the disadvantages of coming from the sect's worst mountain, this person commanded absolute confidence from everyone watching. Nerve seemed to grow more tense, muscles tightening in his shoulders as the reality of his situation became undeniable. A single bead of cold sweat formed on his temple and began sliding slowly down the side of his face.
Even if Ghost Shade Peak as a whole might be inferior to other Outer Sect mountains in terms of average disciple quality, even if most people assigned there were genuinely mediocre, Deane Doome clearly represented a dramatic exception to that pattern. For this particular individual to earn such overwhelming, one-sided approval and enthusiastic support from so many fellow disciples despite coming from a disrespected mountain peak, his personal strength and combat capabilities must be genuinely extraordinary—far above the typical level.
A firm decision crystallized in Lordi's mind as he processed all this information and accepted the reality that he might be genuinely outmatched here.
When the match began, when that official gave the signal to start fighting, he would immediately deploy his full combat capability without holding anything back. He'd throw everything he had at Deane Doome and hope his own various advantages and training were sufficient to secure survival.
However, if it became clear during the early exchanges that he genuinely couldn't win, if he found himself seriously outmatched and in danger of severe injury or death, then he would immediately and without shame surrender.
Yes, safety first is my Dao.
Fairy Lith's favor and the competition victory were certainly important objectives that he very much wanted to achieve, but at the end of the day nothing—absolutely nothing—was more important than preserving his own life.
With this pragmatic survival-first strategy established in his mind, Lordi reached back over his shoulder and slowly, deliberately drew the Blade of Life Hater from its sheath mounted on his back. The weapon emerged smoothly, its crimson-stained bone edge seeming to drink in the ambient light as it came free. He settled into a ready stance, blade held in both hands at a position that allowed for immediate offensive or defensive response, his feet positioned for optimal mobility and balance.
Across the platform, Deane Doome observed Lordi's preparation stances with an expression of complete indifference bordering on contempt. Internally, his thoughts were occupied with the subtle signal that Lee Hatre—one of the registration officials and a man with connections to Lee Bane, the sect Elder of Ghost Shade Peak—had given him earlier.
Although Deane didn't know the specific details of how this young brat Lordi Payne had managed to offend someone connected to Elder Lee Bane's faction, the particulars didn't actually matter.
What mattered was the political calculation: Elder Lee Bane's face and favor were worth selling, and doing this "favor" of eliminating someone who'd angered the elder's family would earn Deane valuable goodwill with a powerful Sect figure. Such connections could prove invaluable for advancing his own position.
Moreover, practical considerations beyond politics made this an attractive opportunity. That blade the young brat was carrying looked genuinely high-quality—clearly a superior weapon worth substantial $tones if he could claim it from the corpse after the match ended.
Just based on wanting that blade for himself, Deane had already decided this opponent needed to die. His killing intent had been set before the match even began.
As for whether someone who possessed such an expensive weapon might have powerful backing that would make killing him dangerous, whether someone wealthy enough to own that kind of blade might be connected to people who'd seek revenge—Deane genuinely wasn't concerned.
He understood Ghost Shade Peak's demographics intimately after years of living here. The vast majority of disciples assigned to this mountain were people with no significant backing or influential connections, individuals whose skeletal structure and spiritual root quality measured as merely average rather than exceptional. They were, in other words, nobodies—disciples the sect had essentially written off as unlikely to amount to much.
The few exceptions to this pattern—those rare individuals with actual family connections or political backing who ended up on Ghost Shade Peak despite their advantages—were always clearly identified before their arrival.
People like Lee Sagwoon and others from connected families had their identities communicated to senior disciples in advance, with clear warnings about which newcomers were protected and which could be safely bullied or exploited. Deane had been a senior disciple on Ghost Shade Peak for years now, long enough to be thoroughly familiar with the mountain's social hierarchy and politics. He knew exactly which people he could offend with impunity and which ones were untouchable due to external protection. Among the short list of protected individuals, there was no one named Lordi Payne. In fact, there wasn't even a single person with the surname Payne on that protected list.
"I'll let this kid land a few attacks first, let him think he's got a chance," Deane calculated internally, his eyes glittering with predatory anticipation as he refined his strategy. "Can't let him surrender immediately when the match starts—that would ruin all the fun and waste this opportunity. I need to give him just enough false hope that he'll commit to actually fighting. Then, once he's relaxed his guard and stopped thinking about retreat, once he's fully engaged and no longer keeping the surrender option at the front of his mind, I'll immediately strike at his throat with maximum force. I'll crush his windpipe so thoroughly that he physically won't be able to speak the words of surrender even if he wants to. At that point, with him unable to officially forfeit, I'll be free to take my time... to slowly torture him and make an example of him without any sect officials interfering to stop the 'legitimate match.'" His lips curled into a cruel smile at the thought.
This would serve multiple purposes at same time. Everyone watching would see clearly what happened to people who became Deane Doome's enemies, who crossed him or interfered with his interests. The demonstration would be educational for the entire Ghost Shade peak's competitors.
Additionally, if his next scheduled opponent—whoever drew the lot to face him in the following round—witnessed this brutal execution and got appropriately terrified, they might simply forfeit without fighting rather than risk similar treatment. That would save Deane effort and conserve his energy for later, more challenging matches where he'd actually need to exert himself.
"This young brat looks far too young and inexperienced, his face a ridiculous mask of forced composure that barely conceals his nervousness and fear. Arrogant fool," Deane thought with internal contempt, his sneer deepening.
He slowly extended both arms outward to his sides, hands open with fingers spread. As the crowd watched in fascination, a faint luminescence began manifesting across both of his hands—light that seemed to come from within his flesh rather than being reflected from external sources. The glow intensified gradually, and as it brightened his hands themselves began changing, taking on properties that seemed more weapon than flesh. His fingers started looking less like human digits and more like blade edges, sharp and deadly. Simultaneously, the outline of his hands began blurring, their edges becoming indistinct and hard to focus on visually—a disorienting effect that would make predicting his strikes significantly more difficult during actual combat.
On the opposite end of the platform, Lordi had already positioned his Blade of Life Hater horizontally before his body in a defensive-ready stance, the crimson-stained bone blade held firmly in both hands. His feet were spread in a wide, stable base, weight distributed for explosive movement. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight with tension, prepared to launch himself forward at maximum speed the instant the official gave the signal to begin.
But as Lordi watched Deane's dramatic preparation and saw his opponent's hands transforming into something inhuman and deadly, cold sweat began pouring down his face in earnest. The confident determination he'd been trying to maintain was crumbling under the weight of genuine fear as he confronted the reality of who he was fighting. His thoughts raced with increasing panic. "This Deane Doome may have reached the ninth layer just like me, which on paper sounds like we're evenly matched, but he's famous throughout the peak while I'm completely unknown. That reputation doesn't come from nowhere! He must have used legitimate training methods and proper technique to advance, building his Dao pillar correctly through all the traditional stages. Meanwhile, I took shortcuts—the AllFullOS System's One-Click-Cultivation bypassed huge portions of normal training, and I know I didn't properly complete all the Bone Tempering Arts refinements that most ninth-layer cultivators went through. My physical structure is probably much weaker than his. Against someone with proper training who's actually famous for combat prowess, I might be no better than a mediocre rogue cultivator..."
Even as these terrified thoughts flooded Lordi's consciousness, Deane continued his preparations. A strange, almost mocking smile spread across his pale face, and then he deliberately closed his eyes—a gesture of such overwhelming confidence and contempt that it sent shivers through Lordi's spine. With his eyes shut, Deane began channeling spiritual energy through his body in a way that made his entire form start glowing. Wisps and tendrils of crimson light emerged from his skin, gradually intensifying until his entire body was bathed in blood-red radiance. The visual effect was genuinely terrifying, like watching a demon manifest in physical form.
This dramatic display triggered gasps and shocked exclamations from many of the high layer Qi Refinement Stage cultivators watching from the crowd—experienced disciples who immediately recognized what technique was being demonstrated.
"Blood Boiling Technique?! He's activating Blood Boiling right from the very start?!" someone shouted with obvious disbelief.
"Going all-out immediately with a desperation technique in the very first exchange? Does Deane Doome have some kind of blood feud with this unfamiliar opponent? Why would he need to use such an extreme method against someone unknown?" another voice questioned, genuinely confused by the tactical choice.
Lordi felt his heart plummet as he recognized the implications. Under the enhancement of the Blood Boiling Technique—a martial method that dramatically amplified combat power by essentially setting one's own blood on fire with spirit energy—Deane Doome's aura pressure had surged to genuinely frightening levels. The ninth-layer aura he was now emanating felt astonishingly dense and concentrated, qualitatively different from normal ninth-layer cultivation.
Standing there completely bathed in crimson light, his eyes blazing with evil red luminescence that made his pupils look like pools of blood, his lips curled in that quiet, sinister smile—Deane resembled nothing so much as a malevolent demon staring down at a helpless mortal awaiting death. The comparison wasn't metaphorical; he genuinely looked like something that crawled out of hell to harvest souls.
The truth was that Lordi still carried deep psychological scars related to fighting any ninth-layer cultivators. Back when he'd been at the seventh layer of Qi Refinement during that catastrophic mission to Han Family Manor, he'd found himself forced into combat against several fellow disciples who were at the ninth layer. Those exchanges had gone absolutely disastrously—he'd been completely outmatched across the board, unable to defend effectively or mount meaningful offense. That trauma had left him with a lingering psychological aversion to ninth-layer opponents, an instinctive fear response that surfaced whenever he faced someone at that level.
Even though he'd since advanced to the ninth layer himself, even though he theoretically should now be competitive with people at that stage, the fear remained. And in this specific case, his anxiety was amplified by the fact that he knew absolutely nothing about Deane Doome's actual capabilities, fighting style, or specific techniques beyond this frightening display. He had no intelligence, no preparation, no strategic advantage—just raw terror and the sinking certainty that he was about to get hurt badly.
Cold sweat continued streaming down Lordi's back, soaking through his robes as his mind went into overdrive trying to formulate some kind of viable strategy. Which attack should he lead with? Which specific technique would give him the best chance of landing a meaningful hit? Where should he position himself initially? What retreat path should he plan in case he needed to disengage? The questions multiplied faster than he could answer them, his thoughts spiraling into increasingly frantic what-if scenarios.
But even as Lordi tried to think strategically, even as he attempted to calm his racing heart and focus on concrete tactical decisions, his anxiety only intensified as the seconds ticked by. The blue-robed official was methodically verifying both competitors' identities, checking them against his roster, then delivering the standard speech about match rules and regulations.
With each word the official spoke, with each passing moment that brought them closer to the actual start signal, Lordi could feel his nervousness escalating toward outright panic. The fear of being crippled, of suffering permanent injury that would end his cultivation career before it had properly begun, began consuming his thoughts and crowding out rational analysis. His breathing grew rapid and shallow, his hands trembling slightly as they gripped his blade.
Finally, having completed all the required preliminary procedures and confirmed that both competitors understood the rules, the blue-robed official delivered his terse command.
"Begin!"
The instant that single word left the official's mouth, before its sound had even finished echoing across the arena, Lordi's body erupted with brilliant blood light that matched or exceeded Deane's own luminescence.
His Blade of Life Hater simultaneously burst into crimson-red mist, spirit energy flooding into the weapon like crazy until blade and wielder seemed to merge into a single entity of concentrated killing intent.
In that fraction of a second, operating on pure panic-fueled instinct rather than conscious strategy, Lordi and his blade transformed into a streak of crimson light that shot forward with such explosive speed that the human eye could barely track the movement.
One instant he was standing at his starting position; the next instant he'd crossed the distance to his opponent, a red comet burning across the platform.
SPLAAASSH!
Before anyone in the crowd could fully process what had just happened, before spectators' brains could catch up to the evidence their eyes were transmitting, Deane Doome's body was falling apart. His expression—that cold, disdainful sneer, that quiet sinister smile—remained frozen on his face like a death mask as his torso separated.
The cut was so clean, so perfectly straight, that for a brief moment the two halves of his body remained upright, still technically connected by the thinnest thread of flesh before even that gave way. Then gravity asserted itself: the left half of Deane's body toppled toward the left side of the platform while the right half fell toward the right, internal organs spilling from the exposed cross-section in a grotesque display.
The inertia of Lordi's sprint carried him straight through the space where Deane's body had been standing moments before, his blade completing its arc. He came to a stop several paces beyond, the Blade of Life Hater still held in both hands, pointing diagonally downward in the follow-through position. For several long seconds he simply stood there frozen, his expression one of complete and utter astonishment bordering on disbelief. His mind struggled to process what had just occurred.
The arena fell into shocked silence as everyone tried to comprehend what they'd just witnessed.
What the actual fuck...?!
This Deane Doome—this supposedly formidable expert who everyone had been so confident would win easily—had been so pathetically weak?
In that tension moment, in his panic and fear, Lordi hadn't even consciously decided which technique to use or how to execute his attack. Operating on pure instinct with his conscious mind essentially bypassed by adrenaline, he'd somehow spontaneously synthesized and combined multiple different techniques he'd learned.
Without deliberate thought or planning, his body had merged the most devastatingly powerful offensive strike from Krogh Hanz's Crimson Tide Sword Art—the technique called Whale-Slaying Explosion that was designed to cut through massive demonic beasts—with the essential brutal principles and violent blade methodology that he'd absorbed from Fairy Lith's Blood Fiend Blade Art.
The two completely different weapon arts had somehow flowed together in that single desperate attack, complementing each other to produce something more lethal than either technique alone.
And the result had been... this.
Complete, overwhelming, instant victory in one blade strike.
PS: Happy weekend! So sorry for the wait, but I'm back, and here it is—the start of the Grand Outer Sect Tournament! We're diving straight into the action with a bang first blood! Really hope you enjoy this one!