Kay Gool stood behind his table looking distinctly uncomfortable, his smile forced and strained rather than genuine. Although the vast majority of Ghost Shade Peak's disciples had rushed to place bets on Deane Doome for that previous match—probably ninety five percent of all wagers had been on the supposedly certain victor—these individual bettors were generally quite poor by sect standards. Even when disciples went all-in, betting everything they could scrape together, most could only produce six or seven hundred Spirit $tones total. Many of the poorest disciples had been able to wager only several dozens Spirit $tones, their entire liquid wealth barely qualifying as meaningful currency.
So despite the massive volume of bets placed on Deane Doome and despite that forty-point spread in odds that should theoretically have generated substantial profit for the house, after paying out Lordi's hundred thousand Spirit $tone winnings, Kay Gool hadn't just failed to profit—he'd actually lost tens of thousands of Spirit $tones! The match had been a financial disaster for his operation.
The only reason Kay Gool wasn't seriously considering refusing to pay or attempting to renege on the debt—a course of action that crossed his mind more than once as he contemplated the damage to his finances—was because he'd witnessed Lordi casually bisect Deane Doome with a single blade strike. Someone who could kill that effortlessly, who possessed such overwhelming combat prowess, was absolutely not someone a smart bookmaker would try to cheat or antagonize. The potential consequences of making an enemy of such a powerful young cultivator vastly outweighed any amount of Spirit $tones that might be saved through fraud.
With 100k D$t successfully transferred into his storage pouches, Lordi found his mood substantially improved despite his earlier frustration about conservative betting. This was still a massive windfall by any reasonable standard, enough wealth to fund his cultivation activities for months or even years depending on how carefully he managed resources. The heavy weight of so much currency felt deeply satisfying.
Because the preliminary competition's second round wouldn't begin until every single match from the sprawling first round had been fully completed across all the various arena platforms scattered throughout the tournament grounds—a scheduling structure deliberately designed to give tournament officials sufficient time to properly organize the revised brackets based on actual results rather than projected outcomes, to verify that all match records had been accurately documented without errors or disputes, and to allow surviving competitors adequate time to rest and recover from whatever injuries or spiritual energy depletion they'd sustained during their initial fights—Lordi found himself with a significant block of free time stretching before him with no immediate obligations or pressing tasks demanding his attention.
Rather than simply remaining in the designated waiting area doing absolutely nothing productive while anxiety about his next matchup gradually built to unbearable levels, rather than sitting alone with his thoughts replaying his fight with Deane Doome over and over while his paranoid imagination conjured increasingly horrifying scenarios about whoever he'd face next, Lordi made the practical decision to use this unexpected period of enforced leisure productively by moving through the tournament grounds and systematically observing matches still in progress on other arena platforms throughout the venue.
His goal in this reconnaissance was partly distraction—keeping his mind occupied with external analysis rather than internal worry—but mostly serious intelligence gathering about the overall competitive landscape he was operating within. By watching other fights carefully, by analyzing techniques and combat styles and general competence levels being demonstrated throughout the preliminary rounds, he could get a much better sense of what skill tier he should expect from potential future opponents and whether his own capabilities placed him in the upper, middle, or lower ranges of this particular tournament's participant pool. Understanding where he stood relative to the average competitor would help him calibrate his strategies and set realistic expectations about how far he could reasonably advance through the brackets before inevitably encountering someone whose abilities exceeded his capacity to overcome through technique or tactics alone.
What Lordi discovered through near an entire hour of careful observation, moving from platform to platform and watching dozens of individual matchups with the analytical focus he'd developed through his Earth action gaming background and his previous cultivation survival training, was simultaneously reassuring for his immediate prospects and somewhat disappointing from a pure competitive standpoint where he might have hoped for more impressive displays of martial prowess.
The overwhelming majority of competitors throughout the entire venue on Ghost Shade Peak—and he was being conservative when he estimated probably ninety-five percent or even higher of all tournament participants he'd observed—were cultivating at either the seventh layer or eighth layer of Qi Refinement Stage. Those two cultivation levels absolutely dominated the participant demographics, representing the standard strength tier for outer sect disciples who'd been with the sect long enough to develop respectable foundations but hadn't yet approached the threshold where Foundation Establishment breakthrough became a realistic near-term possibility.
He barely saw any Ninth Layer cultivators at all during his extended observation period, despite watching literally dozens of matches across multiple platforms and sampling from different brackets and categories. The occasional Ninth Layer fighter would appear, standing out immediately through the distinctive nine-ring spiritual pressure crack, but they were genuinely rare exceptions rather than common occurrences—perhaps one Ninth Layer cultivator for every twenty or thirty matches, if that. And as for actually witnessing two Ninth Layer cultivators facing each other in direct competition, both fighters displaying that nine-ring pattern and presumably delivering the kind of high-level techniques and sophisticated combat exchanges that Lordi had been somewhat hoping to observe for educational purposes?
That particular matchup hadn't occurred even once in all the hours he'd spent watching preliminary rounds progress. Such ninth-versus-ninth pairings seemed to be virtually nonexistent in these early tournament stages on Ghost Shade Peak, whether because there simply weren't enough Ninth Layer participants for probability to generate many such matchups, or because the bracket system somehow deliberately avoided pairing the strongest competitors against each other in preliminary rounds to ensure they advanced to later stages where more spectators would witness their capabilities.
Looking at this statistical distribution objectively, analyzing it from a pure probability perspective divorced from any emotional investment in outcomes, Lordi had to admit with dark amusement that Deane Doome's luck really had been absolutely terrible in ways that bordered on cosmically unfair. Among all the possible opponents Doome could have drawn through the supposedly random lot assignment system, among all the various sect comrades scattered throughout the massive participant pool who he might have faced for his opening match, he'd somehow managed to be paired specifically against one of the extremely rare Ninth Layer cultivators participating in this particular tournament venue. The odds of that specific pairing occurring through genuinely random selection were astronomically low—probably less than one percent chance, maybe significantly less depending on exactly how many total participants there were and how many had reached Ninth Layer. Poor bastard had essentially hit the absolute worst possible lottery. If Doome had been paired against literally ninety-five percent of the other available opponents, he probably would have won his preliminary match easily and advanced to the next round without serious difficulty. But instead he'd gotten Lordi, had faced someone whose cultivation level matched his own and whose martial techniques—thanks to AllFullOS system advantages and desperate preparation—had proven sufficient to overcome Doome's experience advantages. Just catastrophically bad luck from Doome's perspective, though obviously excellent luck from Lordi's viewpoint since it meant one less dangerous fight he'd need to survive in the future.
Approximately half a day later, the first round of preliminary competition finally reached its official end across all venues simultaneously. The completion was marked by three resonant gong strikes that rang out in perfect synchronization, the coordinated signal somehow audible throughout the entire massive competition area despite the ambient noise of crowds and ongoing administrative activities. The sound carried that particular quality of formation-enhanced projection that allowed it to reach every corner of the grounds clearly without being painfully loud in any specific location, and it served as official notification to all remaining participants and assembled spectators that the organizational pause between rounds had concluded and the second round would commence shortly, with all match assignments and bracket pairings having been finalized based on careful analysis of first-round results and performance assessments.
After surviving the first round of competition and successfully advancing to the next stage, all the contestants who'd managed to win their initial matches were now resting in designated areas positioned adjacent to their respective arena platforms, separated by category and bracket to facilitate efficient heed, when their next fights were scheduled. These rest areas had been set up with comfort and amenity like an aristocratic garden party—actual furniture had been provided rather than just bare ground or simple meditation mats, suggesting the holy sect wanted to project an image of valuing its talented disciples enough to provide them with decent treatment between matches.
Lordi found himself sitting on a surprisingly soft cushioned couch that was far more comfortable than anything in his previous mortal dwelling had been, the upholstery some kind of spirit beast leather that naturally helped circulate ambient spiritual energy in beneficial patterns for passive recovery. He wasn't alone in the rest area—dozens of other successful first-round competitors occupied similar seating scattered throughout the space, some meditating to restore their spiritual energy reserves, others chatting quietly with neighbors about their matches or speculating about potential future opponents, a few simply sitting in exhausted silence as the adrenaline from their earlier fights gradually wore off and left them feeling drained.
They were all waiting somewhat impatiently for the official assigned to their category to arrive and deliver the traditional words of encouragement that sect protocol apparently required be given to outer disciples who had successfully advanced past preliminary rounds, formal recognition of their achievement and exhortation to continue pursuing excellence in future matches. The steward would also explain any rule modifications or special conditions that might apply to second-round competition, clarify scheduling expectations, and generally ensure everyone understood what would be expected of them going forward.
At the same time this bureaucratic speech-making was scheduled to occur, Lordi could see mortal servants beginning to circulate through the rest area carrying elaborately arranged platters and serving implements, moving from victor to victor distributing what was apparently the sect's standardized reward package for successful preliminary competitors. The servants bore fruit platters artfully arranged with various spirit fruits cut and displayed to maximize visual appeal, alongside pots of fragrant tea that released wisps of visible qi energy suggesting ingredients of respectable quality had been used in its preparation—all provided as tangible signs of the sect's official praise and material reward for disciples' unremitting dedication to cultivation and their pursuit of advancement along the Great Dao.
Although Lordi, like most outer sect disciples who'd been formally inducted into cultivation for any significant period of time, theoretically followed the traditional path of severing ties with excessive attachment to mortal world pleasures and had theoretically begun the standard practice of fasting and abstaining from food consumption in favor of sustaining his body primarily through spirit energy absorption and occasional spirit elixirs when calories were genuinely needed, he had in practical terms only been a formally initiated cultivator for less than a full year at this point. His transition from mortal eating habits to proper cultivator dietary practices remained incomplete, his body still very much accustomed to and craving regular food intake in ways that more experienced disciples had long since trained themselves past. So when a servant placed one of those elaborate fruit platters directly in front of him on the low table positioned before his couch, when he got a close look at the colorful array of spirit fruits that had been cut open to reveal their fragrant, glistening flesh—translucent segments that caught and refracted the midday sunlight streaming through the rest area's open sides, practically glowing with concentrated spiritual energy and looking more appealing than anything he'd eaten in months—there was absolutely no possibility that he could resist such obvious temptation.
While most other contestants around him in the rest area immediately stored their provided fruit platters and spiritual tea directly into their storage pouches with barely a glance, treating the sect's generous provisions as resources to be saved for later optimal use rather than immediate consumption, clearly intending to either sell the items for spirit stones or carefully ration them during future cultivation sessions when the spiritual energy boost might provide tactical advantages, Lordi took one look at the feast before him and abandoned all pretense of cultivator dignity or restraint. He simply devoured the entire platter with uninhibited gusto, grabbing pieces with his hands and stuffing them into his mouth with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been surviving on poor grains for far too long and had suddenly encountered actual delicious food.
The fruits were extraordinarily good—sweet and tart and bursting with flavors that his mortal palate recognized as superior to anything he'd tasted in his previous life, while simultaneously providing noticeable rushes of spiritual energy that spread through his meridians with each swallow. He worked his way through the entire arrangement systematically, not leaving a single piece uneaten, then moved on to the spiritual tea which proved equally excellent despite still being almost too hot to drink comfortably.
Several contestants sitting on nearby couches, most of whom had entered meditative states to maximize their recovery time between rounds and optimize their spiritual energy restoration before their next fights, couldn't help but crack open their eyes and stare with poorly concealed expressions mixing disdain and disbelief as they observed Lordi's completely shameless eating display.
They were clearly thinking something along the lines of "Where did this unsophisticated bumpkin come from? What kind of outer sect disciple acts like a starving mortal at a feast when provided with sect rewards that should be carefully preserved and strategically consumed? He's eating far too much right before continued strenuous competition—he'll probably feel nauseous and end up vomiting during his next match when the physical exertion combines with an overfull stomach, completely embarrassing himself and wasting all that valuable spiritual nutrition." The judgment was obvious in their expressions and body language even though none of them quite dared to voice their criticism aloud, choosing instead to exchange knowing glances with each other that communicated shared superior understanding of proper cultivator behavior that this obviously inexperienced fool clearly lacked.
But despite their internal mockery and their certainty that Lordi was making a stupid mistake that would cost him in his next fight, not a single one of those silently judgmental contestants actually said anything critical out loud or offered him advice about proper competition nutrition management. After all, they had all just recently witnessed—many of them from uncomfortably close proximity in the spectator sections—Lordi casually and efficiently killing the locally infamous Deane Doome, who had also been at the Ninth Layer cultivation level and whose reputation throughout Ghost Shade Peak suggested he should have been a genuinely formidable opponent, with what had appeared to be a single decisive strike that had ended the fight almost before it properly began. That demonstration of overwhelming martial capability had earned Lordi a certain degree of wary respect or at least cautious fear from his fellow competitors, none of whom particularly wanted to antagonize someone who might be significantly more dangerous than his unremarkable appearance and bumpkin eating habits suggested.
the gong rang again.
Hearing this signal and recognizing it was time, with the assist of the mortal servant, Lordi wiped clean his hand and looked up to Category A Platform. He positioned himself in the appropriate waiting area, ready to ascend when his number was called.
"Second round of preliminary competition now begins!" the blue-robed deacon announced with formal authority, consulting his updated bracket sheet. "First match: Category A Arena, Competitor Number Two versus Number Four. Competitors, ascend immediately!"
Number Two was that Seventh Layer Qi Refinement Stage pale face cultivator who'd demonstrated corpse puppet control techniques during his first-round victory. Number Four, in contrast, had reached the Eighth Layer of Qi Refinement Stage, giving him a clear cultivation advantage. Both competitors ascended to the platform and took their positions, waiting for the official start signal.
The moment the deacon opened his mouth and pronounced the word "Begin," before he'd even finished fully articulating that single syllable, Number Two spoke up with zero hesitation whatsoever.
"I surrender! I forfeit this match!"
His voice was loud and clear, ensuring there could be no ambiguity about his intentions.
His reasoning was perfectly logical though. During his first-round match against an opponent at the exact same Seventh Layer cultivation level as himself, he'd been forced to expend considerable effort and resources to secure victory. The fight had been genuinely difficult and draining. Now he was being asked to face someone at the Eighth Layer—a full stage higher, representing a substantial gap in spiritual energy reserves, physical enhancement, and overall combat capability.
What possible reason did he have to subject himself to a beating against a clearly superior opponent? If he actually tried to fight, he'd suffer painful injuries at minimum, and if his luck was particularly bad he might even die on that platform, his cultivation journey permanently ended. Why take such risks when the outcome was essentially predetermined? Far better to simply acknowledge reality, accept the loss gracefully, and preserve his health and resources for future opportunities where he might actually have winning chances.
"Category A, Number Four is victorious," the deacon acknowledged with a slight nod, making a notation on his bracket sheet. "Next match: Category A, Number Five versus Category A, Number Eight. Competitors, proceed to the platform!"
These two cultivators were both at the Seventh Layer of Qi Refinement Stage—evenly matched in terms of basic cultivation level, which meant neither had obvious cause to surrender before testing their relative skills. Therefore, neither one voluntarily forfeited. After the deacon delivered his standard rules reminder and gave the starting signal, both fighters immediately launched into action, demonic techniques flashing as they began genuinely trying to kill or disable each other in earnest combat.
Taking advantage of this brief window while the current match was in progress and attention was focused on the platform, Lordi made his way through the crowd once more to approach Kay Gool's betting station. However, before he could even open his mouth to inquire about placing a wager on himself for his upcoming second-round match, another disciple standing nearby beat him to it, calling out his bet announcement first. "Second round, third match—I'm betting on Lordi Payne to win! Here's my stake!" The disciple thrust forward a pouch of Spirit $tones with obvious enthusiasm.
"I'm also betting on Lordi! Put me down for maximum allowed!" another voice immediately chimed in, not wanting to be left out of what seemed like easy money.
"Here are three thousand Spirit $tones—count them!" A different cultivator suddenly burst through the crowd, breathing heavily from exertion, his face flushed as he desperately pushed a substantial pile of spirit stones across Kay Gool's table. His words came out in a rush, barely pausing for breath. "I just spent the last hour tracking down and borrowing money from every single person I know, calling in every favor I could think of! I'm betting absolutely everything on Lordi Payne! Put it all down on him winning!" His eyes gleamed with the fervent intensity of someone who thought they'd identified a sure thing.
"Hold up, hold up. The rules have been revised effective immediately," Kay Gool interrupted firmly, his tone brooking no argument or negotiation. "Starting now, for all remaining preliminary round matches, each individual bet is strictly limited to a maximum of 500 D-grade $tones. That's the absolute ceiling—nobody can wager more than that amount on any single match, regardless of how confident they are or how much wealth they possess."
"What?! Why is there suddenly a limit? That's completely unfair!" The borrower who'd just proudly declared his three grand wager protested loudly, his voice rising with indignation. "In the first round of competition, just a short while ago, you weren't imposing any maximum bet restrictions! People were wagering whatever amounts they wanted! What gives you the right to change the rules mid-competition?"
"What applied in the first round applied to the first round. What applies now is what I just told you—five hundred Spirit $tones maximum per bet, take it or leave it!" Kay Gool shot back with obvious irritation, his patience worn thin by constant complaints. "If you don't want to accept those terms, if you think five hundred $tones isn't worth your time, then step aside and let the next person place their wager! I don't have time to argue with every person who wants special treatment!"
Internally, Kay was seething with frustration at how this entire day had turned into a financial disaster.
Damn these greedy bastard all!
The entire point of operating as a bookmaker, the whole reason for sitting here managing bets and calculating odds, was supposed to be making a substantial profit! He should have been accumulating wealth steadily throughout the day as favorites won predictable matches and longshots lost as expected. Instead, right from the very beginning with that catastrophic first match, he'd lost tens of thousands of Spirit $tones paying out on that impossible Lordi Payne victory! And now these ungrateful motherfuckers had the audacity to complain that he wasn't letting them exploit him further? They seriously expected him to continue accepting unlimited wagers that would bankrupt his operation if Lordi kept winning? Even if he did have powerful backing and connections that protected his betting operation from official scrutiny, even if influential people ensured he could operate without harassment, that didn't mean Spirit $tones simply materialized from thin air! His backers provided political protection, not unlimited capital to cover losses!
Hearing this declaration of new restrictive rules, recognizing immediately that his profit potential had just been severely curtailed, Lordi felt a surge of frustration and disappointment. He stood there listening as that disciple who'd borrowed three thousand $tones hesitated, visibly wrestling with the decision of whether betting just five hundred was worth the effort.
After several seconds of internal debate, the man finally made up his mind: "Fine! I'll bet the five hundred maximum! But while we're at it, what odds are you offering on Lordi Payne now? What's the payout ratio?"
"Two fifty to one," Kay stated flatly, his expression making clear this was non-negotiable.
Hearing those words, Lordi didn't waste another second. Without saying anything to Kay Gool or acknowledging the bookmaker's existence, he simply turned on his heel and walked away from the betting station, heading back toward the arena platform. There was literally no point in standing there any longer.
Five hundred Spirit $tones maximum bet combined with one hundred to one odds meant that even if he won his next match, even if victory was absolutely guaranteed and risk was zero, the maximum possible profit he could extract from this situation was a pathetic two Spirit $tones. Two! After all the effort of walking over there, placing the bet, waiting for the match, then returning to collect winnings—all that work for two Spirit $tones? It was barely worth the time investment! The amount was so trivial it might not even cover the spirit energy he'd expend during the actual fight!
Dude! Fucking hell!
If he'd known in advance that Deane Doome possessed such a fraudulent, undeserved reputation—that the man's supposed expertise was hollow and his combat ability pathetic—Lordi would have deliberately held back during their match. He should have let Deane gain the upper hand initially, should have played the role of someone struggling and barely holding on through desperate defensive techniques. He could have acted like he was being overwhelmed, making it look like he was just barely surviving through frantic, uncoordinated responses. Then, after creating the impression that he was completely outmatched and probably doomed, he could have staged a dramatic reversal—"finally finding an opportunity" through pure luck and managing to land a killing blow almost by accident in a moment of incredible fortune.
If Lordi had performed that kind of theatrical display, if he'd made his victory look like an impossible lucky break rather than a demonstration of overwhelming superiority, people might have concluded he'd won through fluky circumstances rather than genuine skill. They'd probably still consider him relatively weak, maybe assume he'd just gotten extraordinarily lucky at exactly the right moment. Under those circumstances, he could have placed another massive bet on himself for the second round, capitalizing on people's continued underestimation to make another fortune before his true capabilities became widely known!
But no—instead of thinking strategically about reputation management and betting opportunities, he'd fought with genuine effort for survival and demonstrated clear superiority. Now everyone knew he was strong. Not just strong but potentially dominant. Which meant not just right now but for every single subsequent match throughout the preliminaries, he'd have zero opportunity to profit from betting! The bookmakers would never offer favorable odds on him again after what they'd seen. His own success had destroyed his best revenue stream!
If it weren't for the fact that his primary objective was finding a way to ride on Fairy Lith's coattails—securing her favor and patronage by winning the first place in this Grand Outer Sect Tournament—Lordi genuinely would have been tempted to bet against himself! The financial incentive to deliberately lose was actually substantial given how unfavorable the odds on his victory had become. Of course, actually throwing a match would completely undermine his main goal, but the sheer economic logic of it was difficult to ignore...
The match currently in progress on the platform concluded shortly thereafter, with Competitor Number Eight emerging victorious after a hard-fought exchange. As that winner descended and officials updated their bracket notations, the third match of the second round was called.
"Category A Arena, Number Nine versus Category A, Number Twelve!" the deacon announced clearly. "Competitors, ascend to the platform immediately!"
Lordi walked up the steps onto the arena surface with relaxed confidence, taking his designated starting position. His assigned opponent for this match was a cultivator at the Seventh Layer Qi Refinement Stage—two full stages below Lordi's own ninth-layer cultivation, representing an absolutely massive gap in capability that made the outcome essentially predetermined before any exchange occurred.
The opponent took one look at Lordi, clearly recognized who he was facing, and came to an instant pragmatic decision about his chances. He spoke up immediately, not even waiting for the official to finish his rules explanation: "I surrender! I forfeit this match!" The words came out so rapidly, delivered with such decisive speed, that Lordi hadn't even reached for his Blade of Life Hater yet. His hand was still a foot away from the weapon's hilt when his opponent had already completed his surrender and begun descending from the platform. The entire "match" lasted perhaps three seconds from when they'd both stepped up to when the opponent had departed.
"Next match!" the deacon called out, barely pausing to acknowledge what had just occurred. "Category A Arena, Number Fourteen versus Category A, Number Fifteen! Competitors, proceed!"
Number Fourteen was one of Ghost Shade Peak's rare ninth-layer Qi Refinement cultivators—one of the extremely uncommon individuals at that level who'd drawn lots for Category A Arena. Number Fifteen, in stark contrast, was only at the seventh layer. This matchup had absolutely zero suspense or uncertainty about its outcome. Number Fourteen won with casual efficiency, not even needing to deploy any particularly sophisticated techniques or tactics. His opponent recognized the futility immediately and surrendered within the first exchang preserving his health rather than taking an unnecessary beating.
having barely exerted himself at all during the brief match, Competitor Number Fourteen descended from the platform after his easy victory. The man immediately changed direction and began walking toward where Lordi was standing. As he approached, his expression was friendly and open, carrying none of the wariness or competitive tension one might expect between rivals in an ongoing tournament.
"Greetings, this humble's name is Jaberg Fance! Haha, Dear Junior Brother Payne, I wonder if you might spare a few moments to speak privately with me about a matter of potential mutual interest?" His tone was respectful and polite.
Lordi studied the man briefly, assessing whether this represented some kind of trap or threat, but the man's demeanor seemed sincere enough. After a moment's consideration, he nodded his agreement. "Certainly, Senior Brother Fance. I'm willing to hear what you have to say." The two of them began walking together away from the crowded arena area, navigating through clusters of spectators until they reached a relatively secluded mountain woods where their conversation wouldn't be overheard by casual eavesdroppers or people trying to gather intelligence on competitors.
Once they'd achieved adequate privacy, once Lordi was confident nobody was positioned close enough to listen in on their discussion, he turned to face Jaberg directly and asked the obvious question. "So, Senior Brother Fance—what guidance or advice do you wish to share with me? What prompted you to seek this private conversation?"