The waiting area for the late-stage Qi Refining bracket was quiet, but Qin Lu’s mind was noisy. He sat upright in his chair, brows tightly furrowed, wrestling with a single, nagging question.

Am I being too arrogant?

Before today, the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He prided himself on prudence, on survival. But the fight with Jiang Yao—where he had played with his food and nearly choked—had been a wakeup call.

After much introspection, the conclusion was uncomfortable: he had been too showy lately. Too confident.

“Number forty-three! To the stage!” The voice of the Wuji Sect referee cut through his thoughts.

Qin Lu snapped out of his reverie. He stood, gripping the hilt of his [Blue Rainbow Sword], and strode toward the arena.

The break was over. Round three.

As he stepped onto the white jade platform, a wave of noise washed over him. After two brutal rounds of elimination, only twenty fighters remained in the heavyweight division. Everyone left was a known quantity, but Qin Lu—the loose cultivator who had breezy victories—was a crowd favorite.

Cheers erupted from the stands. Strangers screamed his name.

Qin Lu didn’t smile. He knew these people didn’t care about him; they cared about their wallets. He heard a few voices shouting themselves hoarse, sounding like strangled ducks.

How much money did you lunatics bet on me?

He turned his attention to his opponent.

The man standing opposite him was young, perhaps Qin Lu’s age, with dignified features and an air of effortless superiority. He wore fine robes that fluttered in the wind without a speck of dust.

Qin Lu recognized him from the earlier rounds. Han Ziyang, an inner disciple of the Golden Jade Sect. Cultivation: Qi Refining Ninth Layer. His swordsmanship was elegant, lethal, and widely praised.

This was a real threat.

Qin Lu abandoned his earlier nonchalance. He tightened his grip on the sword, his gaze locking onto Han Ziyang with predator focus.

Han Ziyang, however, just sneered. He looked down his nose at Qin Lu, his lip curling in disdain.

“Hmph. Another lowly loose cultivator.”

Qin Lu’s heart skipped a beat in annoyance, though his face remained a mask of stone.

At that moment, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He felt them—heavy, piercing gazes boring into him from the VIP boxes. The Foundation Establishment elders were watching.

The sensation was physical. It felt as if he were sitting on pins and needles, with thorns pressing into his back and a fishbone stuck in his throat.

The thrill of the spotlight vanished, replaced by a cold, crawling dread.

So uncomfortable.

“Begin!” the referee barked.

Qin Lu didn’t wait. He immediately crushed a talisman in his left hand. A [Golden Light Talisman] flared, enveloping him in a shimmering yellow barrier.

“Hmph! Cowardice!” Han Ziyang scoffed.

The sect disciple launched himself forward, his silver longsword blurring into a streak of light.

Qin Lu’s eyes narrowed. He flicked his wrist, sending a flower of sword Qi to meet the charge.

Clang!

Metal screamed against metal. The sound rang through the arena like a gong.

Upon contact, Qin Lu felt the difference immediately. The pressure from Han Ziyang’s blade was heavy, refined, and oppressive. This wasn’t the scrappy, desperate fighting style of a loose cultivator; this was systematic, high-level martial art.

Han Ziyang’s sword angles were tricky, almost serpentine.

Scrape!

Han Ziyang’s blade slid down the length of the [Blue Rainbow Sword], sparks flying, seeking Qin Lu’s fingers.

Qin Lu didn’t panic. Relying on his supreme muscle control, he twisted his wrist, shedding the force and redirecting the kinetic energy. He stepped in, thrusting his sword from a bizarre, low angle toward Han Ziyang’s ribs.

Clank!

The tip of his sword slammed into Han Ziyang’s protective Qi shield. The barrier trembled violently, its light dimming under the heavy spiritual impact.

“So fast!” Han Ziyang’s face darkened.

He had underestimated the “Big Mouth.” The loose cultivator’s speed was equal to—no, perhaps even greater than—his own.

Boom!

Han Ziyang stomped the ground, blasting himself backward to create distance.

But Qin Lu was already moving. He surged forward, his sword creating a fan of afterimages as he pressed the attack.

However, Han Ziyang was an elite for a reason. As Qin Lu closed in, the sect disciple spun, dodging the strike by a hair’s breadth. Using the momentum of his spin, he thrust his silver sword backward like a scorpion’s tail.

A lethal counterattack.

Crack!

The [Golden Light Talisman] shattered instantly. It bought Qin Lu less than a second.

The silver tip continued its trajectory, aiming straight for Qin Lu’s eye.

But half a second was enough.

[Spirit Shield Technique]!

Qin Lu roared internally. A translucent barrier of pure spiritual energy solidified in front of his face, faster than thought.

This was a Master-level spell.

Thud.

The silver sword struck the shield and stopped dead. The barrier didn’t even ripple.

“What?!” Han Ziyang’s eyes widened in panic. That casting speed was impossible.

Before he could process the anomaly, Qin Lu counterattacked. Han Ziyang was forced to retract his sword desperately to parry.

Clang!

Clang!

Clang!

The two figures became a blur of motion, trading blows that sent shockwaves rippling through the arena’s defensive dome.

The crowd was losing its mind.

“This Qin Big Mouth is a monster! He’s going toe-to-toe with a Ninth Layer elite!”

“Hehe! I told you! That’s the ruthlessness of a man who slaughtered dozens of beasts at East Head Ridge!”

“We’re going to be rich!”

While the gamblers celebrated, Han Ziyang was drowning.

His chest heaved. His arms burned. He could feel the momentum shifting. Qin Lu’s attacks were relentless, a storm of steel and wind that allowed no respite.

He was losing.

Boom!

A massive collision of spiritual energy blasted the two apart. Dust swirled around the center of the ring, clearing a circle in the debris.

“Gah!”

Han Ziyang spat a mouthful of blood, tumbling backward through the air.

“He’s down!”

“Get him, Big Mouth!”

Qin Lu didn’t need the crowd’s advice.

He stomped the ground, cracking the jade tiles. He launched himself like an arrow from a bow, flying low and fast.

Han Ziyang was still stumbling, dazed.

Qin Lu’s sword tip zeroed in on the exposed throat.

Ding!

A crisp chime rang out.

The sword stopped an inch from Han Ziyang’s neck, halted by an invisible wall. The arena’s safety formation had intervened.

“Winner: Qin Lu!” the referee announced.

Qin Lu sheathed his sword and stood straight. He ignored his pale, trembling opponent. Instead, he scanned the VIP section.

There was no triumph in his eyes, only a deep, gnawing worry.

The loose cultivators were cheering, yes. But the Foundation Establishment elders… they were watching. Some with curiosity. Some with calculation.

And that terrified him more than any sword.