Spells Grinding: From Basic Sparks to Divine Arts

The venue for the Market Arena Tournament lay three miles north of the main settlement, nestled within a massive geological scar.

Legend held that this colossal, circular pit was formed by a fallen star. Centuries later, the Wuji Sect had terraformed the disaster site, repurposing the meteorite crater into a grand gladiatorial theater.

By the time Qin Lu arrived, the area was already a sea of heads. Even a conservative estimate would place the crowd at over ten thousand cultivators.

Above, Wuji Sect disciples patrol the skies. Clad in their signature azure robes and riding flying artifacts, they circled like birds of prey ensuring order. Down below, loose cultivators pushed carts through the throngs, hawking snacks and refreshments. The air buzzed with the cacophony of haggling and shouting, transforming the solemnity of cultivation into the chaos of a bustling bazaar.

“Now this is a spectacle,” Qin Lu murmured, clicking his tongue.

He hadn’t expected a local tournament to draw such a massive audience. Four main tunnels led down into the pit, each choked with long lines of spectators waiting for admission.

Qin Lu glanced at the pricing board affixed to the entrance wall and scoffed. “Tsk. The Wuji Sect knows how to shear sheep, don’t they?”

With his enhanced vision, the fees were clear even from a distance. General admission started at two pounds of gold. VIP seating—offering a better view and presumably shade—scaled all the way up to twenty Spirit Stones.

“Ten thousand people… just the gate fees alone will rake in thousands of Spirit Stones.” Qin Lu shook his head, doing the mental math. “Ruthless capitalists.”

He joined the tail end of a queue, resigning himself to the wait. However, as he scanned the crowd, his gaze landed on a separate, nearly empty lane marked “Competitor Entry.”

He immediately stepped out of line and headed for the express lane.

Unlike the spectator queues, which coiled like snakes, the participant line moved briskly. In less than five minutes, Qin Lu stood before the registration desk.

“Fellow Daoist, I’m here to participate in the tournament.”

“Excellent! Please hand me your number plate, and I’ll log you in immediately.” The Wuji Sect disciple behind the desk flashed a brilliant, professional smile.

Qin Lu raised an eyebrow. This was the first time he had seen a disciple from the hegemon sect act so pleasantly. Usually, their chins were angled high enough to catch rain. Money really does change the service quality, he thought.

He handed over the wooden token he had received two days prior. The disciple worked efficiently, logging the details into a ledger before returning the token with both hands.

“All set. You may enter.”

“Thanks.”

Qin Lu pocketed the token and strode through the exclusive tunnel. As he emerged from the narrow passage into the open crater, the sheer scale of the arena hit him.

The Wuji Sect had carved the crater’s sloping walls into tiered seating, creating a natural amphitheater that wrapped around the central floor. The uneven ground at the pit’s heart had been razed flat and paved with pristine white jade slabs, gleaming under the sunlight.

Ten raised platforms stood like islands in the center of the plaza. Hovering high above them were four massive, suspended screens of black light, facing the four cardinal directions to project the action to the nosebleed seats.

With the stands packed to capacity, the energy was electric.

“It’s basically a football stadium,” Qin Lu mused, admiring the blend of magical architecture and mass entertainment.

A passing attendant briefed him on the logistics. Over five hundred cultivators had signed up. They would battle across the ten rings in a knockout format. To ensure fairness, the brackets were strictly segregated by cultivation realm.

Five rings were dedicated to the early stage of Qi Refining. Three were for the mid-stage. The final two—the main events—were reserved for the late stage.

As a cultivator at the eighth layer of Qi Refining, Qin Lu was assigned to the heavyweight division. His token, Number 43, designated him to the final ring.

Briefing complete, he headed for the competitor waiting area.

Rows of chairs lined the edge of the arena floor. Many cultivators were already seated, eyes closed in meditation as they conserved their Qi. Qin Lu scanned the faces but found no one familiar. He picked a corner seat, leaned back, and closed his eyes to wait.

An hour passed.

Suddenly, a sonic boom tore through the sky, silencing the crowd. Ten thousand heads snapped upward.

A figure descended from the clouds. He was an elderly man in snow-white robes, possessing the rare “crane hair, child face” complexion that signified profound vitality. He floated down with the grace of a feather, a benevolent smile fixed on his lips.

The stadium erupted. The roar of the crowd was like a physical wave, crashing against the crater walls.

Qin Lu recognized him instantly.

The Ancestor of the Wuji Sect—Zhang Zhenyuan.

Qin Lu had seen the stage play The Legend of Wuji back in the entertainment district. This man was a bona fide Golden Core celebrity.

Zhang Zhenyuan halted his descent in mid-air, hovering above the center of the arena. He swept his gaze over the masses, his voice amplified by spiritual energy to reach every ear.

“Fellow Daoists! Years have passed, and today we once again welcome the decennial Market Arena Tournament. I need not waste words on the significance of this gathering—you all know why we are here. I hope every participant displays their utmost strength, engaging in friendly exchange and martial improvement…”

As the host and strongest entity present, the Ancestor was obligated to give the opening address. The crowd listened in reverent silence.

Qin Lu rested his chin on his palm, his eyes glazing over. It felt exactly like being back in high Sect, listening to the Sect Leader drone on under the hot sun during a sports festival.

While his mind wandered, a movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention.

A burly cultivator with an aura of unbridled arrogance stomped into the waiting area. He didn’t greet anyone, simply claiming a spot in the corner and radiating hostility.

That’s… “The Mad Dog,” Yang Zhen.

Qin Lu narrowed his eyes. “Well, that complicates things. He’s in my bracket.”

Yang Zhen was a crowd favorite, an elite sect disciple, and a genuine genius. Fighting him would be a hassle, especially since Qin Lu needed to win without revealing his true, overwhelming power.

Before Qin Lu could formulate a strategy, Zhang Zhenyuan wrapped up his speech.

“…I now declare the tournament officially open!”

At the Ancestor’s command, the ten stone platforms hummed to life.Defensive formations shimmered into existence around the perimeters, creating translucent domes designed to contain stray spells and detect fatal blows.

Qin Lu noted the barrier strength. It was robust enough to withstand full-force attacks from Qi Refining cultivators. This confirmed the safety net: the formation would intervene before anyone died.

It was a sport, not a death match. That suited him perfectly.

“Number One! To the stage!”

“Number Eight! To the stage!”

Referees stationed at each ring began barking out numbers. Figures leaped from the waiting area, vaulting onto the white jade platforms.

Since “43” was further down the list, Qin Lu sat back with a faint smile, treating the opening bouts as a study session.

The atmosphere reached a fever pitch. Cheers and jeers rained down from the stands as spells began to fly. While the lower-tier fights were scrappy, all eyes naturally drifted toward the two late-stage rings.

The combat there was on a different level. High-grade artifacts clashed with sparks of spiritual fire; complex talismans detonated in colorful bursts; movement techniques left afterimages on the jade floor.

Even Qin Lu found himself leaning forward, engaged.

Every time a particularly vicious blow landed, the crowd roared. The noise, the adrenaline, the sheer violence of it—it made Qin Lu’s heart hammer against his ribs.

A dormant, youthful heat began to rise in his blood.

He was strong now. Stronger than almost everyone here. Part of him, the part that wasn’t calculating risks or plotting survival, itched to jump into the fray. He wanted to stand under the gazes of ten thousand people and dominate.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Number Forty-Three! To the stage!”