The entire area surrounding Category A Arena fell into absolute, shocked silence.
Every single spectating disciples froze in place, either sat or stood, their expressions locked in various stages of disbelief and stunned incomprehension as their minds struggled to process what they'd just witnessed.
One strike! Just one single blade strike!
Deane Doome—the powerful cultivator who had been universally recognized and praised as one of Ghost Shade Peak's absolute top-tier experts, someone whose peak Ninth Layer combat prowess had been considered virtually unquestionable—had been killed instantly with one clean slash! The man's body literally cut in half so fast that most people hadn't even registered the attack happening!
Before this match had begun, before the official had given the signal to start fighting, every single person watching had operated under certain firm assumptions about how events would unfold.
The general consensus had been that one of two scenarios would occur. Either Deane Doome's unfortunate opponent would take one look at who he was facing, recognize the impossibility of victory, and immediately surrender to avoid pointless suffering.
Or alternatively, Deane would simply demolish his opponent with brutal efficiency, ending the fight within seconds through overwhelming superiority. Even in the most pessimistic projections, even if someone imagined complications or unexpected difficulties arising, the absolute worst-case scenario anyone had contemplated was that Deane might win less decisively than expected—perhaps taking a few extra exchanges to secure victory, maybe sustaining minor injuries in the process.
Not a single person in the entire assembled crowd had seriously entertained the possibility that Deane Doome might actually lose this fight. And the notion that he could be instantly killed, cut down so fast that he never even had opportunity to defend himself or demonstrate his supposedly exceptional combat abilities? That outcome had been literally unthinkable, beyond the realm of plausible scenarios that anyone bothered considering.
The shock was compounded by how few people had actually seen what happened with sufficient clarity to understand the lethal move of Lordi's attack.
The overwhelming majority of spectators—probably ninety nine percent or more of those watching—hadn't managed to track Lordi's movement at all.
From their perspective, this nobody had simply vanished from his starting position as though teleporting, then reappeared on the opposite side of the platform in what seemed like the same instant, with Deane Doome's bisected corpse collapsing between those two positions.
They'd completely missed the actual strike itself, their eyes unable to follow movements executed at such tremendous speed.
Only the small minority of spectators who possessed particularly sharp observational skills or who'd been watching from optimal angles had caught even a glimpse of that crimson streak crossing the platform, and even they couldn't claim to have seen the technique clearly enough to analyze or replicate it.
Even the blue-robed Foundation Stage strength deacon who'd been officiating the matches—a cultivator whose experience and cultivation level placed him far above these Qi Refinement Stage Outer Sect disciples, someone who should have been able to observe their techniques with casual ease—found himself showing visible surprise for the first time all day.
His perpetually neutral, almost bored expression cracked, revealing genuine shock as he reassessed what he'd just observed.
What incredible movement technique!
What devastating blade art!
The speed and precision of that attack had been genuinely extraordinary, the kind of performance that transcended normal Outer Sect competition standards.
The deacon's professional analysis kicked in at once, evaluating the implications of what he'd seen: That single blade strike, executed at that velocity with that much concentrated killing intent, would have posed serious problems for any ordinary peak Ninth Layer Qi Refinement cultivator—they simply wouldn't have had time to mount adequate defense even if they recognized the attack coming.
More concerning from a purely survival standpoint, even a deacon enforcer who'd ascended to Foundation Stage through Human Path Dao Pillar might have struggled to evade that blade! The attack had been fast enough and deadly enough that someone at the Early Phase of Foundation Stage could potentially be caught and killed if they weren't paying full attention or if they'd grown complacent about threats from supposedly weaker opponents.
When did Ghost Shade Peak produce such an exceptional rising talent?
How had this young cultivator escaped notice until now?
The mountain was notorious throughout the Outer Sect as a dumping ground for mediocre disciples—cultivators who lacked exceptional spiritual roots, who came from unremarkable backgrounds without useful family connections, who possessed adequate but unspectacular talent that marked them as unlikely to achieve great things.
It was where the sect essentially warehoused disciples they didn't expect much from, people who'd probably spend their entire careers stuck at Qi Refinement Stage and never advance beyond the outer sect's lower tiers.
Yet here was someone who clearly didn't fit that profile at all, someone whose combat ability suggested genuine genius-level potential.
The deacon studied Lordi more carefully, using his Foundation Stage level spiritual sense to assess age and physical development. Judging by his facial features and bone age, this young man couldn't be more than twenty years old—still barely more than a youth by cultivation world standards!
How could someone so young, someone assigned to the sect's least prestigious mountain, demonstrate such outstanding skill?
Barring any catastrophic accidents or truly terrible luck, this young man's eventual advancement to Foundation Stage seemed virtually guaranteed. He possessed the right combination of youth, skill, and raw talent that historically produced core Inner Sect disciples and future sect pillars.
In that single moment of reassessment, the deacon's entire attitude toward Lordi underwent fundamental transformation. He quickly abandoned any traces of the mild contempt or dismissiveness that Foundation Stage cultivators often unconsciously maintained toward Qi Refinement stage disciples. Instead, he began regarding Lordi as a near-peer—someone who would almost certainly join the ranks of Foundation Stage within a few years and therefore deserved to be treated as a future colleague in the holy sect's middle management rather than a disposable low-level member. His expression shifted subtly, taking on notes of respect and professional courtesy that hadn't been present before.
In the midst of this stunned silence that had fallen over the arena and its surroundings, Lordi was the first person to recover his mental equilibrium and shake off the shock that had frozen everyone else.
He slowly resheathed the Blade of Life Hater, sliding the weapon back into its mounting position with deliberate control. Then he turned to face the officiating deacon, offering a respectful bow appropriate for addressing a superior before speaking with polite uncertainty. "So... I won? That's correct, yes?"
The deacon jerked slightly, yanked from his analytical thoughts back to his official responsibilities. He focused on Lordi with newfound intensity, studying him for a moment before finally announcing the result in a voice that carried across the now-silent arena.
"Category A, Number Twelve is victorious! Congratulations to you!"
"Next match: Category A, Number Thirteen versus Category A, Number Fourteen. Competitors, prepare to ascend to the platform!"
Only after the official declaration did the spell of silence finally shatter. The assembled spectators erupted into chaos, conversations exploding simultaneously from dozens of different groups as everyone tried to process what they'd witnessed and share their reactions with neighbors. The noise level went from absolute quiet to near-deafening roar in seconds, a tsunami of confused, excited, speculative voices all talking over each other.
"Holy mama's shit!"
"What! The! Fuck!"
"Who the abyss is this Category A, Number Twelve?!"
"Fuck me! Does anyone actually know who that was?"
People shouted, trying to be heard over the general din.
"I have no fucking idea! I've never seen him before in my life!"
"Are we absolutely certain he's actually from our mountain peak? Could there have been some administrative error?" Voice responded with obvious suspicion.
"Think about it logically—according to holy sect laws, competitors of Grand Outer Sect Tournament can only participate in preliminary rounds at their officially registered home peak. You can't just show up wherever you want. The penalties for violating that rule are absolutely devastating—fines ranging from tens of thousands to possibly millions of spirit stones depending on the specific circumstances and the judges' mood."
"Hell fuck?... There's no way Senior Brother Doome could have provoked someone wealthy and powerful enough to risk those kinds of penalties just to eliminate him in a preliminary match. It doesn't make economic or political sense. This has to be a legitimate Ghost Shade Peak disciple." The speaker's analysis was delivered with confidence, though the underlying confusion remained evident.
"I know exactly who he is! I saw his name when I was placing my bet earlier!" someone suddenly shouted with the excitement of someone who possessed valuable information.
"Senior Brother Deane Doome's opponent was listed as Lordi Payne! That's his name—Lordi Payne!"
"Lordi... Payne...? Wait, that surname... could he possibly be that worthless moron from the Payne clan of Deerspring Town? The petty clan heir that everyone makes jokes about?" The question carried notes of disbelief.
"No, no, you're thinking of Honine Payne—that's the pathetic one everyone knows about. I'm personally acquainted with that waste of cultivation resources, and trust me, you absolutely cannot compare him to this Senior Brother we just watched. The gap between them is astronomical, like comparing a fly to a dragon!" The correction was delivered firmly.
"I'm also familiar with Honine Payne's reputation. That guy acts like a trained dog following that Sun Elaine around, completely without dignity or self-respect. If he possessed even one-tenth—just ten percent—of the presence and capability that this Lordi Payne just demonstrated, heh, the roles would be completely reversed. Sun Elaine would be the one playing the obedient dog, desperately trying to win his favor instead of the other way around!" The speaker said with a contemptuous laugh.
"Mother of abyss! He killed Deane Doome with a single blade strike! With that kind of overwhelming combat power, he could probably advance through all three preliminary rounds using just one hand, barely putting forth effort! Fuck! I need to rush over to the betting station immediately and put money down before the odds shift!" This exclamation was accompanied by the speaker literally sprinting toward Kay Gool's station.
That final comment triggered a mass realization throughout the crowd.
The large group of disciples who had initially been surging toward Lordi's position, clearly intending to introduce themselves and attempt to curry favor with this newly revealed powerhouse, abruptly reversed course mid-approach.
Like a flock of birds suddenly changing direction, they pivoted as one and stampeded toward Kay Gool's betting station instead, their priorities instantly shifting from social networking to financial opportunity. Within seconds, all the bookmakers found themselves surrounded so thoroughly by eager bettors that literally not even water could have penetrated the press of bodies—he was completely trapped behind a wall of disciples all shouting their wagers and waving Spirit $tones.
Having descended from the arena platform after his shockingly easy victory, Lordi immediately began making his way toward Kay Gool's station with clear purpose and intent.
As he walked, he fished out his betting receipt from his storage pouch, preparing to collect his winnings. Simultaneously, his mind was occupied with mentally cursing out all those sect comrades who'd been so enthusiastically praising Deane Doome before the match started, building him up as this supposedly invincible battle expert.
If it weren't for their excessive hype creating doubt and nervousness in Lordi's mind, if they hadn't made him second-guess his own capabilities and approach the match with such anxiety, he would have confidently wagered dozen hundred thousand D-$tones on himself instead of the conservative five grand he'd actually bet! The difference in potential winnings was staggering and painful to contemplate. Those silly bastards had essentially cost him a fortune through their misplaced confidence in Deane!
Observing how the massive crowd was surging toward the betting station and recognizing that he'd face serious delays if he tried to navigate through that mass of bodies using normal methods, Lordi didn't waste time with conventional approaches. He activated his Blood Spectre Footwork Art, his form blurring like a crimson thunder. He materialized directly in front of Kay Gool's position before anyone else could reach the bookmaker, claiming first place in line.