The Wuji Sect was the undisputed hegemon of the region.

While many smaller sects operated independently, they existed solely at the pleasure of the Wuji Sect. When trouble arose, they ran to their overlord for protection, effectively serving as vassal states. For a grand event like the Market Arena Tournament, the Wuji Sect had naturally summoned all its tributaries to attend.

Standing on the arena platform, Qin Lu activated his [Heavenly Eye Technique]. The spiritual spectrum flared to life, revealing a terrifying concentration of power.

Within a three-hundred-foot radius, he detected over twenty Foundation Establishment cultivators.

These were the patriarchs and elders of the vassal sects, watching from the VIP stands. The sheer weight of their presence made Qin Lu suppress the smirk tugging at his lips.

Low profile, he reminded himself. Don’t let the power go to your head. One wrong move and you’re dust.

He composed his face into a mask of indifference and turned his gaze to his opponent. A quick scan confirmed the man’s cultivation: Qi Refining, Seventh Layer.

For the current Qin Lu, a Seventh Layer cultivator was little more than a warm-up.

The opponent was a quintessential loose cultivator—gaunt, dressed in tattered robes, with eyes dull from hardship. He looked more like a beggar than a warrior.

“Big Mouth Brother,” the man stammered, trembling slightly. “Please… please go easy on me.”

Qin Lu sighed, shaking his head. He really hated that nickname.

“Don’t worry,” Qin Lu said, cupping his hands politely. “I know the score.”

“Begin!” the referee barked.

Qin Lu drew the [Blue Rainbow Sword] instantly. He launched himself forward, but he throttled his engine. No [Soft Wind Technique]. No burst steps. He moved at barely sixty percent of his maximum speed.

Seeing the charge, the gaunt cultivator panicked. He slapped a talisman onto his chest. A shimmer of spiritual light encased him in a protective barrier.

Safety first, Qin Lu thought. Then he blinked.

Wait. The brushwork on that rune… that’s one of my [Body Protection Shields].

Despite the internal distraction, Qin Lu didn’t slow down. He closed the distance, his wrist flicking to send the sword dancing toward the man’s torso.

The opponent didn’t retreat. He roared, channeling his Qi into a chipped cyan broadsword, and swung it to meet the attack.

Clang!

Clang!

Sparks flew as steel met steel. To the untrained eye, it looked like a fierce, evenly matched duel. In reality, Qin Lu was sleepwalking through the motions. Even at sixty percent, his raw physical strength—bolstered by the [Everlasting Toad Art]—was overwhelming.

Within moments, the loose cultivator’s robes were shredded, strips of cloth fluttering like surrender flags.

Desperation set in. The gaunt man gritted his teeth, pouring every drop of his remaining spiritual energy into the broadsword. He leaped, bringing the heavy blade down in a cleaving strike meant to split Qin Lu in two.

Qin Lu didn’t panic. He merely tilted his head, letting the blade whistle past his ear.

In the same motion, he surged spiritual energy into the [Blue Rainbow Sword]. The blade accelerated, blurring into a streak of azure light.

Swish!

The tip of the sword thrust straight for the man’s throat.

It was too fast. The opponent saw it coming, his eyes widening in terror, but his body couldn’t react in time.

Ding!

A crisp, metallic chime rang out.

An inch from the man’s Adam’s apple, the sword stopped dead. A thick, invisible wall of force had solidified between the steel and the skin.

The arena’s automatic defense formation had triggered.

“Winner: Number Forty-Three, Qin Lu!” the Wuji Sect referee announced loudly.

Qin Lu sheathed his sword with a practiced flourish, his expression calm as if the outcome had never been in doubt. He turned and walked off the stage.

The stands buzzed with murmurs. Even the casual spectators had noticed the terrifying speed of that final thrust.

As Qin Lu headed toward the competitor waiting area, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Big Brother! Big Brother! You’re amazing!”

Qin Lu looked up to the spectator stands. There, jumping up and down and waving frantically, was Cao Mo. The little fatty was sitting next to Qi Xiaofeng, his face flushed with excitement.

Qin Lu raised an arm and waved back. The distance was too great for conversation, so he gave them a nod and continued to his seat.

The moment he sat down, he was swarmed.

“Brother Qin, that was formidable!”

“The rumors are true! They said you could fight ten men at once, and seeing is believing!”

“Fellow Daoist Qin, I heard you hunted thirty late-stage demon beasts solo at East Head Ridge. Is that true?”

A group of six or seven cultivators surrounded him, eager to curry favor. Qin Lu recognized the type—slum dwellers and loose cultivators who frequented East Head Ridge. They were people like Cao Yunxi, scraping by on the edges of society.

Qin Lu smiled and engaged in small talk, exchanging names and pleasantries. It never hurt to be popular among the working class.

While they chatted, they watched the other matches.

The tournament was massive. Over five hundred participants were divided by cultivation stage. The Early-stage bracket was the largest, with over three hundred fighters clogging five separate rings.

It was a chaotic scene. The age gap in the Early stage was heartbreaking—frail men in their eighties swinging weapons at vibrant five-year-old prodigies.

The Mid-stage bracket had about a hundred competitors fighting across three rings.

The Late-stage bracket—Qin Lu’s division—was the most elite, with fewer than eighty participants sharing two rings.

Qin Lu scanned the other Late-stage ring and spotted familiar faces. Lu Anchen, Nie Feng, and Cao Yunxi were all competing. Fortunately, they had been seeded into different groups.

Good, Qin Lu thought. I’d rather not knock out a friend this early.

Time crawled by. Two hours later, the first round of Qin Lu’s group concluded.

Nineteen cultivators had been eliminated and sent to the stands. The winners remained in the waiting area. The group of sycophants around Qin Lu had thinned significantly; only two of the original seven remained, the rest having been swept away by sect disciples.

The atmosphere in the pit grew heavier as the herd was culled.

After another hour, the referee’s voice boomed again.

“Number Forty-Three, to the stage!”

Qin Lu stood up for his second match. He looked toward the ring and raised an eyebrow.

His opponent was another acquaintance.

It was his old neighbor from the slums—Jiang Yao, better known as “Jiang the Old Ghost.”