( The bet,)
The silence after the beast's fall did not break immediately.
It settled.
Like dust returning to stone.
The massive body of the Red-Eyed Mammoth Tiger lay motionless at the center of the shattered arena floor. Cracks spidered outward from where it collapsed, spiritual runes beneath the ground flickering weakly as they struggled to stabilize the impact zone.
The air still carried its pressure—lingering, heavy—but the killing intent was gone.
And with it—
the battlefield's identity shifted.
What remained were five figures standing amid ruin.
Breathing.
Bloodied.
Unbroken.
Wei exhaled slowly, lowering his dual blades. His silver-white robe, torn at the shoulder and dust-streaked along the hem, fluttered faintly in the cooling wind. The black pill's residual qi still circulated within him, steadying his breathing, anchoring his recovery.
Ji Na stood slightly ahead, blade still angled down but no longer raised.
Mu Ta leaned on her weapon briefly, catching her breath.
The fatty wiped blood from his lip, laughing under his breath despite exhaustion.
Luli released her defensive stance, shield artifact dimming as she finally relaxed.
Lulu twirled her dagger once before sheathing it, gaze scanning the fallen beast one last time.
A realization spread quietly through the crowd.
Not loud.
Not announced.
Just understood.
They were no longer "low stage cultivators."
Not in perception.
Not in presence.
Not in the way they stood.
They had survived something that should not have been survivable at their level.
And that alone changed how they were seen.
Above the arena—
the announcer's voice returned, slightly strained but still formal.
"…The Red-Eyed Mammoth Tiger has been successfully subjugated."
A pause.
Then, more carefully:
"…The participants of the low-stage round have demonstrated exceptional coordination and survival capability beyond expected limits."
The tone shifted subtly.
Not praise.
Recognition.
A new projection appeared above the arena.
Names.
Ranks.
Outcomes.
"…Out of eighty-nine participants," the announcer continued, "…fifteen have been eliminated during the trial phase."
The words hung in the air.
Then the list appeared.
Not just names.
But a designation.
"DISGRACED"
A ripple passed through the audience.
No one spoke loudly.
They didn't need to.
Because everyone understood what that meant.
The shame of elimination in this tournament was not simple failure.
It was public memory.
Recorded.
Preserved.
Carried for years in every clan discussion, every future opportunity, every whispered judgment.
For many cultivators—
it was worse than injury.
Worse than defeat.
It was social death.
In the stands, a few faces went pale.
Not because they were surprised—
but because they had feared it.
"…Fifteen," someone murmured.
"…That's actually merciful compared to past rounds…"
"…No, look at the reason tags… internal betrayal, opportunistic kills…"
Whispers spread like threads through fabric, weaving tension into the air again.
Then—
a shift at the highest platform.
Guards stepped aside.
Silence deepened.
And the presence arrived.
The King.
He entered with measured calm, his robes simple yet unmistakably authoritative, layered with subtle gold threading that caught light only when he moved. His expression was composed, neither harsh nor warm—simply absolute in presence.
Beside him walked the Queen, her elegance quiet but undeniable.
And slightly behind—
the Princess.
The entire hall reacted instantly.
Every clan leader, elder, disciple, and attendant bowed deeply in unison.
Fabric rustled in waves—heavy robes folding, sleeves lowering, heads dipping in practiced respect. Even the air itself seemed to tighten under the collective gesture.
"Rise," the King said softly.
No force.
No pressure.
Yet everyone obeyed immediately.
Wei, still standing below among the survivors, glanced upward briefly.
His expression did not change.
But his attention sharpened.
The King took his seat.
The Queen followed.
The Princess remained composed, her gaze scanning the arena below with quiet curiosity that lingered slightly longer on certain figures.
Especially the group that had survived.
The announcer resumed quickly, voice steadier now.
"…We now proceed under royal observation."
A faint shift passed through the arena.
Not visible.
But felt.
Elder voices from various clans rose in low conversation.
One elder from a mid-tier sect leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowed.
"…Spirit Realm pressure…"
Another beside him nodded slowly.
"…He is concealing it well, but there is no mistake."
A pause.
"…The King has entered Spirit Realm."
That statement alone tightened the atmosphere further.
Spirit Realm.
A threshold few reached.
And fewer survived entering.
Another elder murmured, almost unwillingly:
"…To step into that realm requires tribulation refinement."
"…Not ordinary cultivation."
"…He crossed the threshold recently."
The implications settled heavily.
A ruler who had already surpassed mortal cultivation limits.
Now watching the same battlefield where low-stage cultivators had just rewritten expectations.
Below—
Wei adjusted his grip slightly on his sword.
He could feel it too.
Not hostility.
Not intent.
But presence.
Like the weight of an ocean sitting still above him.
Ji Na noticed his slight pause.
"…You feel it too?" she asked quietly.
Wei exhaled once.
"…Yeah."
A pause.
"…The real pressure just arrived."
Around them, the group subtly tightened formation again—not for beasts now, but instinctively responding to the atmosphere shift above.
The fatty straightened slightly.
"…So that's the King, huh…"
Mu Ta frowned.
"…He feels… unreal."
Luli said nothing, but her grip tightened again.
Lulu glanced upward briefly.
"…We're being watched differently now."
Above—
the Princess leaned slightly forward.
Her gaze settled on Wei for a moment longer than the others.
Not judgmental.
Not cold.
Just observant.
Then she spoke quietly to someone beside her.
No one below could hear.
But the attention it drew was immediate.
The announcer cleared his throat.
"…Proceeding to post-battle acknowledgment phase."
Below, Wei exhaled slowly.
His expression remained calm.
But his mind had already adjusted.
The battle was over.
Yes.
But the world watching them had only just begun to change.
The arena had barely recovered its breath—
and already it was being asked to bleed again.
The King's hand lifted slightly.
A small gesture.
Effortless.
Absolute.
The announcer froze.
For a fraction of a second—no more.
But in that instant, the entire hall felt it.
The weight of a ruler who had stepped beyond ordinary cultivation.
The kind of presence that did not need to speak loudly to be obeyed.
"…Continue."
The King's voice was calm.
Soft.
Yet it carried through the entire arena without resistance.
The announcer swallowed.
His ornate robe—deep crimson with gold-thread embroidery—shifted stiffly as he bowed slightly toward the royal platform before turning back to the battlefield below.
"…Participants," he began, voice regaining its trained projection, though the strain had not fully left it, "…due to your… exceptional display…"
A brief pause.
Even he seemed uncertain how to phrase what had just occurred.
"…the distinguished guests present have expressed a desire to witness more of your abilities."
The arena grew still.
"…As such," he continued, forcing composure back into his tone, "…the stage remains open to the low-stage participants."
"…Effective immediately."
Silence.
Then—
disbelief.
"…Are they serious?" Mu Ta muttered under her breath, her shoulders still trembling faintly from exhaustion.
The fatty outright groaned, dragging a hand down his face, leaving a streak of dust and blood.
"We just fought a monster eight levels above us!"
He gestured wildly toward the fallen beast, its massive corpse still dominating the center of the arena like a monument to near-death.
"Our qi is drained, our cores are strained, our bodies are half-broken—and they want more?!"
Luli exhaled slowly, her robe shifting as she adjusted her stance again.
"…This isn't about fairness anymore."
Lulu's gaze flickered upward briefly.
"…It never was."
Wei said nothing.
His silver-white robe brushed lightly against his legs as he stood still, the fabric soft but marked with battle—torn threads, dust, faint dried blood at the shoulder.
His breathing was steady.
But his mind—
was not.
This wasn't part of the story.
The thought came sharp.
Clear.
Unsettling.
In the original flow of events—
the low-stage round should have ended with the beast.
Recognition.
Rest.
Transition.
Not this.
Not royal interference.
Not extended pressure.
Not… attention.
Wei's gaze lifted.
Just slightly.
And then—
he felt it.
Eyes.
He looked up fully.
A second too late to pretend otherwise.
The Princess was already looking at him.
Her posture was elegant, seated beside the Queen, her robes flowing like layered silk water—soft hues that concealed sharpness beneath refinement. Her expression was gentle.
Too gentle.
The kind that did not match her reputation.
And then she spoke.
"Father," her voice carried clearly, calm and soft, yet piercing through the entire arena without effort, "isn't that him?"
A pause.
Her gaze did not leave Wei.
"The white-haired one."
Another pause.
Then—
a faint smile curved her lips.
"…Handsome. Weak."
"…I like these kinds."
The words fell lightly.
As if she were choosing an ornament.
"I want him."
A breath.
"…Take him back as my concubine."
Silence.
It did not ripple.
It did not spread.
It froze.
On the Zhang platform—
Zhang Lie's expression cracked for the first time.
Not visibly to outsiders.
But his fingers tightened so hard against the railing that the stone beneath them groaned faintly.
Fei Fei's lips twitched.
Not in amusement.
In restraint.
Sang Sang's hands tightened within her sleeves, her gaze instantly shifting to Wei.
Zhang Lin did not move.
But the air around him cooled.
Across the arena—
whispers began.
"…Did she just—" "…A concubine?" "…In front of everyone?"
Wei's heart slammed against his chest.
Hard.
Fast.
Cold.
Of all people…
His mind moved instantly.
No hesitation.
No confusion.
Only calculation.
The Princess…
Not just dangerous.
But infamous.
An "evil egg."
Cruel in quiet ways.
Unpredictable.
Possessive.
Absolutely not.
The King turned his gaze.
Slowly.
Not toward his daughter.
Toward Wei.
"…Speak."
A pause.
"…What do you think of my daughter?"
The entire arena seemed to lean in.
Wei stepped forward.
His robe shifted softly as he bowed deeply, sleeves falling naturally with the motion. His posture was perfect.
Controlled.
Respectful.
"My lord," he began, voice calm, steady—without a single tremor betraying the storm inside him, "the Princess is as beautiful as a blooming flower beneath heaven."
A pause.
Then—
"…However…"
The silence tightened.
"…this subject must decline."
A ripple broke through the crowd.
"…He rejected her?" "…Is he insane?" "…That's the royal family—!"
The Princess's smile did not disappear.
But something beneath it shifted.
"Oh?" she asked softly.
Her head tilted slightly.
"…And why?"
Wei did not hesitate.
"This subject," he said, lowering his gaze slightly, voice still composed, "has recently lost his wife."
A pause.
"…To childbirth."
The words landed.
Heavy.
Unexpected.
"…I am now a single father."
Another pause.
"…And according to my clan's traditions, I must mourn for five years."
Silence.
Real silence this time.
Wei pressed forward.
Not allowing space for doubt.
"…It would be improper for me to break such a tradition."
His heart pounded.
But his expression—
did not change.
Please believe it.
The Princess's expression twisted slightly.
Not openly.
But enough that those familiar with her took an unconscious step back.
"…You married?" she asked.
"…At your age?"
Wei bowed his head slightly.
"This subject is sixteen."
Another ripple.
The Queen spoke this time.
Her voice was softer, curious.
"…Why marry so early? Even your elder brother has not yet wed."
Wei answered without pause.
"This subject's body has always been frail."
A breath.
"…Doctors once declared I would not live past fifteen."
The lie flowed smoothly now.
Refined.
Layered with just enough truth to feel real.
"I was married early… to continue the bloodline before my passing."
A pause.
"…I was later cured."
"…But my wife did not survive."
The arena fell silent again.
Wei lowered his gaze further.
Even biting his lip slightly.
Just enough.
Yes… believe it.
Above—
the King's gaze shifted.
Not toward Wei.
Toward the Zhang platform.
"…Is this true?"
Zhang Lin stepped forward first.
Bow.
Calm.
"…It is."
Zhang Lie followed.
Then the others.
All of them nodded.
Not hesitation.
Not doubt.
Complete agreement.
Because they understood.
This was not about truth.
It was about survival.
The King watched them for a moment longer.
Then—
he nodded.
"…Very well."
Wei exhaled internally.
Just slightly.
"We will not complicate matters for you."
The tension broke—
just a fraction.
But the King was not finished.
"I also congratulate the Zhang Clan…"
His gaze shifted slightly.
"…on forming a marriage alliance with the Bi Clan."
Across the arena—
Zhang Ning stepped forward immediately, bowing deeply alongside the Bi elders.
"…We thank Your Majesty."
The King inclined his head once.
"Then we shall not delay further."
A pause.
"…Continue the tournament."
The Princess said nothing.
But her gaze—
remained.
Fixed.
Lingering.
On Wei.
Below—
Wei straightened slowly.
His expression calm.
Unbothered.
But his mind—
sharp.
That wasn't over.
He glanced briefly toward the Zhang siblings.
Zhang Lin's eyes met his.
A warning.
Clear.
Zhang Lie's posture shifted slightly.
Protective.
Sang Sang's gaze softened—
but did not relax.
Wei understood.
This wasn't coincidence.
The royal family wasn't just interested in him.
They were testing.
Probing.
And using him—
as bait.
Wei's fingers tightened slightly at his side.
Too bad.
His lips curved faintly.
I'm not easy prey.
The silence had barely settled—
when it was broken again.
"But—"
The Princess did not raise her voice.
She didn't need to.
Her tone remained soft, almost playful, yet it cut through the arena more cleanly than any blade.
"If you lose," she continued, her gaze still fixed on Wei, "then tradition or not…"
A faint tilt of her head.
"…I will take you."
A pause.
"…Along with your son."
The words did not land gently.
They pressed.
"He can bear my name," she added, almost thoughtfully, her fingers brushing lightly over the silk of her sleeve as though discussing something trivial.
"…I don't mind."
A faint smile.
"…I like children."
The arena fell into complete silence.
Not the earlier tension.
Not anticipation.
This was something colder.
On the battlefield below, even the wind seemed to hesitate. The dust drifting through the air slowed, as though the world itself was waiting for a response that could not be avoided.
The fatty's expression darkened for the first time.
Not exaggerated.
Not loud.
But genuine.
"…That's not a request," he muttered under his breath.
"…That's a threat."
Mu Ta's grip tightened around her weapon.
"…She's serious," she said quietly.
Luli frowned faintly.
"…Too serious."
Lulu didn't speak.
But her gaze shifted—sharp, calculating—between Wei and the royal platform.
On the Zhang platform—
Zhang Lie's jaw locked.
The faint cracks beneath his hand deepened again as his grip unconsciously tightened against the railing.
"…This has gone too far," he said under his breath.
Fei Fei's expression had lost its usual edge of amusement.
"…She's cornering him," she murmured.
Sang Sang's fingers curled tightly within her sleeves.
"…Wei…"
Zhang Lin stood still.
But the air around him had changed.
Colder.
Sharper.
Across the arena—
whispers erupted.
Low.
Controlled.
But impossible to suppress.
"…Taking him even with refusal…?" "…That's forcing a claim…" "…And the child too…?"
"…This is no longer about interest…"
"…This is possession."
Above—
the Queen's gaze shifted slightly toward her daughter.
Not disapproval.
Not approval.
Just observation.
The King did not intervene.
That alone—
was an answer.
Then the Princess spoke again.
"But—"
Her voice softened further.
Almost amused now.
"If you win…"
A pause.
"…I can wait."
The arena held its breath.
"…Ten years."
A faint smile curved her lips.
Not warm.
Not kind.
But intrigued.
"Let's call it a bet."
Wei stood still.
For a moment—
his mind went quiet.
Not from fear.
Not from confusion.
From calculation.
There was no refusal here.
Not without consequence.
Not without turning this from attention—
into offense.
His fingers tightened slowly at his side.
His nails pressed faintly into his palm.
They're not letting me go.
Not the Princess.
Not the King.
This wasn't about marriage anymore.
This was pressure.
Testing limits.
Forcing response.
Wei inhaled slowly.
Then stepped forward.
His robe shifted softly around him, the silver-white fabric catching faint light despite the stains of battle. Torn threads brushed against his legs, reminding him of how close he had come to falling earlier.
He bowed deeply.
Lower than before.
"This subject…" he began, voice calm.
Steady.
Controlled.
"…shall take first place."
A pause.
"I promise."
The words were simple.
But they landed.
Not arrogance.
Not defiance.
Determination.
Above—
the Princess's smile widened slightly.
"Good."
She leaned back into her seat, her silk robes folding elegantly around her, layers settling like calm water over something far deeper.
"…But I am quite certain you will lose."
Her gaze remained on him.
Unmoving.
"…Still…"
A faint tilt of her head.
"I think I will enjoy watching you struggle."
The words were light.
Almost playful.
But beneath them—
something darker lingered.
Wei straightened slowly.
His expression returned to calm.
Neutral.
Unbothered.
But his mind—
had already shifted.
This was no longer about the tournament.
Not about beasts.
Not about rankings.
This was survival—
on a different level.
Behind him, the fatty exhaled sharply.
"…You just got yourself into something worse than that tiger," he muttered.
Wei didn't turn.
"…I know."
Mu Ta crossed her arms, frowning.
"…Ten years, huh…"
Luli shook her head slightly.
"…If we survive this round first."
Lulu glanced once more toward the royal platform.
"…We will."
Ji Na stepped beside Wei again.
Her voice was quiet.
"…Then don't lose."
Wei's grip tightened slightly around his sword.
The wind moved again.
Soft.
Carrying dust, tension, and something unseen.
Above—
the royal gaze remained.
Below—
the battlefield waited.
And between them—
Wei stood.
No longer just a participant.
But a piece on a board that had just revealed itself.
The tension that had barely settled began to rise again—slowly, steadily—like a tide that refused to retreat.
The announcer stepped forward once more, his crimson robe sweeping lightly across the polished platform. The gold embroidery along his sleeves shimmered under the lantern light, but this time, there was something tighter in his posture.
Even he—
felt the weight of what was about to be said.
"The rewards," he began, voice carrying across the arena with renewed authority, "will be increased."
A pause.
Not dramatic.
Measured.
"Those who place within the top twenty…"
His gaze swept across the battlefield below, lingering for a fraction longer on the group that had just slain the beast.
"…will each receive a special reward."
The effect was immediate.
The murmurs shifted.
Not fearful.
Not cautious.
Hungry.
"…Top twenty…" "…Special rewards?" "…That's not normal…"
"…What kind of reward needs this level of trial…?"
Even those who had been trembling moments ago straightened slightly, their robes rustling as they adjusted their stance. Silk brushed against silk, leather grips tightened, fingers flexed as ambition began to push against exhaustion.
Wei felt it.
The change.
The air itself had shifted.
Before—
they had been survivors.
Now—
they were being turned into competitors again.
And worse—
into predators.
The announcer continued.
"For the next phase…"
His tone dipped slightly.
Quieter.
But somehow heavier.
"You will be sent into a constructed world."
A faint ripple passed through the arena.
"A world where survival is… necessary."
The breeze that passed through the open arena carried the faint scent of dust and something metallic—like distant blood.
"The moment you wish to surrender…"
A slight pause.
"You will be removed."
Relief flickered—
briefly.
Then vanished.
"…But understand this."
The announcer's gaze sharpened.
"Struggle is essential to cultivation."
A beat.
"And what is struggle…"
A faint smile touched his lips.
"…without a little betrayal?"
The words landed like cold water.
"…and backstabbing."
Silence followed.
Not confusion.
Not disbelief.
Understanding.
Slow.
Uncomfortable.
Real.
Luli frowned deeply, her brows knitting together.
"…This isn't a tournament anymore," she muttered.
Mu Ta exhaled through her teeth.
"…It's a hunt."
The fatty let out a dry laugh.
"…And we're both the hunters and the prey."
Wei said nothing.
But his fingers—
tightened.
The announcer's voice continued.
"The trial you will face…"
"…is not gentle."
The lanterns flickered slightly as a stronger gust of wind passed through the arena, causing banners to sway more violently against their poles.
Silk snapped softly in the air.
"In this world…"
A pause.
"Demons roam freely."
The word alone shifted the atmosphere.
"…And the only way to survive…"
The announcer's gaze dropped directly onto the participants below.
"…is to strike first."
Wei's breath stilled.
"…If you hesitate…"
The wind died.
"…you may suffer a fate worse than death."
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Even the whispers had stopped.
Because this—
was no longer veiled.
It was clear.
This trial demanded cruelty.
"If you are able to eliminate sixty-seven targets…"
The announcer's voice returned to formal cadence.
"…you will pass."
The number echoed.
"…Sixty-seven?" "…That's nearly everyone…" "…Are we meant to kill each other?!"
The murmurs returned—
this time sharper.
Less controlled.
"What kind of tournament is this…?"
A disciple whispered, his voice barely steady.
"What kind of cultivation path demands this…?"
Above—
some elders remained silent.
Others exchanged glances.
Because they knew.
This wasn't unheard of.
But it was rarely done openly.
Below—
Wei's hand tightened further around his sword.
Strike first.
The words echoed in his mind.
His chest felt tight.
Not from fear.
From conflict.
He had just rejected a fate where he sacrificed himself.
Rejected a path of quiet acceptance.
And now—
he was being pushed toward something else entirely.
Attack.
Kill.
Survive.
"…I don't understand anymore," Luli said quietly.
Her voice wasn't loud.
But it carried.
"…What exactly are we cultivating?"
No one answered.
Because no one had an answer that felt right.
The wind returned again—
softer this time.
It brushed against Wei's robe, lifting the torn edge slightly, letting it fall back against his leg like a quiet reminder.
This was real.
Not the illusion.
Not the past.
This choice—
would be his.
Wei exhaled slowly.
"…Then don't hesitate," Ji Na said beside him.
Her voice was steady.
Grounded.
"If you do…"
A pause.
"…you'll die."
The fatty rubbed the back of his neck, sighing.
"…Guess we're not getting a break after all."
Mu Ta adjusted her grip.
"…Then we survive again."
Lulu glanced at the others.
"…Together."
Luli hesitated.
Then nodded.
Wei finally spoke.
"…No."
They all looked at him.
His gaze was calm.
But sharper now.
"…We don't strike first blindly."
A pause.
"…We survive."
His grip steadied.
"…Without becoming what they expect."
Above—
unseen—
a certain gaze lingered.
Watching.
Waiting.
Because this trial—
was not just about strength.
It was about—
what kind of cultivator each of them would become.
And whether Zhang Wei—
would break.
Or refuse again.