“That towering puppet,” Zhiyin began, her brow furrowed as she scanned the residual spiritual signatures. “The core fluctuations match the Zhiyin II model I lost in the Demon Nest years ago. They have a master puppeteer—someone capable of gutting my designs and refitting them into those monstrosities.”

Xia Xuanyin surveyed the ruined arena, his expression grim. “Their strength exceeds every projection. The black-robed assailant who engaged us fought with a cultivation no lower than my own. He is likely at the third level of the Nascent Soul stage.”

“And the assassin who targeted the children?” The Emperor’s voice grew heavy. “Another Nascent Soul. Add in a peak Golden Core puppet, and this shadow organization already wields more power than the top-tier sects of the Southern Region combined.”

Realist Wang Ya turned his attention to Li Fuxi. She stood in silence, her aura deep and strangely tranquil. There was no trace of the brittle fragility she had exhibited just days ago.

“Your injuries…” he ventured, his voice trailing off in disbelief.

“They are no longer a concern,” Li Fuxi replied. Her voice was as calm as a still pond, devoid of the jagged pain that had defined her since the incident.

Wang Ya’s heart hammered against his ribs. No longer a concern? He had seen her foundation crumble; the “Jade Shattering” sacrifice of her Nine Turns Jade Condensation Sutra should have left her a permanent cripple. Yet here she was, her aura more refined and harmonious than it had been at her peak.

How did she do it? he wondered. Or rather… what did Zhang Xian do to her?

Li Fuxi ignored his shock, her eyes tracking the faint, ochre energy clinging to the edges of the crater. “That barrier,” she said, glancing at Wang Ya. “Does it not strike you as familiar?”

Wang Ya narrowed his eyes. “The Dark Yellow Mountain-Suppressing Monolith. It’s a lost art—only a grandmaster of the Earth Dao could manifest such weight. That lineage hasn’t been seen in the south for centuries. To see it used by a mere puppet…”

Before he could finish, Lin Yinyin sprinted toward them, her eyes red-rimmed and glistening. “Master! Big Brother was taken! They snatched him right out of the arena!”

“Peace, Yinyin,” Li Fuxi said, her hand resting gently on her disciple’s shoulder. “Zhang Xian was not captured. Not exactly.”

Lin Yinyin blinked, her panic faltering against her master’s eerie certainty. “But… but they’re monsters! Two Nascent Soul elders!”

“He carries a teleportation Ephemeral Artifact,” Li Fuxi analyzed. “When that shadow attacked Long Zhi, Zhang Xian had a window to flee. He chose to stay. Whatever is happening, he is there because he intends to be.”

Yinyin’s face scrunched into a mask of worry. “I just hope he isn’t being a stubborn idiot again…”

In a desolate, fog-choked valley leagues away, the air rippled like a disturbed pond. Three figures lurched into reality.

Long Zhi staggered, her hand clamped over her left shoulder. Blood bloomed across her snow-white robes like a grisly flower. In her other hand, her spirit sword—a weapon that had tasted the blood of a thousand foes—lay dim and cracked.

Wisps of white energy clung to the steel like starving maggots, eating away at the blade’s spiritual essence. A flicker of genuine heartache crossed her cold features; the weapon was ruined.

Beside her, Zhang Xian was the picture of a terrified youth. His knees knocked together, and his voice went up a frantic octave. “W-who are you? What do you want with us?”

The hooded figure turned slowly. “A rhetorical question,” the shadow replied, his voice a hollow rasp. “Do you not already call us ‘Demons’?”

“You went through all this trouble just to kidnap us?” Zhang Xian’s eyes darted frantically. “Why?”

“To kill you,” the shadow said flatly.

As the words left his lips, the massive Golden Core puppet stepped forward. It slammed its heavy palms into the dirt. Vrrroooom! An ochre dome of light erupted from the earth, sealing the valley in a tomb of geomantic energy.

“Wait! Don’t kill me!” Zhang Xian shrieked, his hands held up in surrender. “I’ll flip! I’ll join you! I’ve got treasures, talismans—I’m a walking gold mine! Think of the return on investment!”

The shadow paused, looking Zhang Xian up and down as if weighing his soul. “Unnecessary.”

“Wait, really?” Zhang Xian’s face fell. “Then… at least let me die with some closure. Who sent you? Why the tournament?”

“No.” The shadow drew a blade forged from pure darkness, trailing wisps of a soul-corrupting mist. The tip leveled at Zhang Xian’s throat. “You’re still fishing for intel? You are remarkably calm for someone waiting for reinforcements that will never come.”

Zhang Xian froze. This wasn’t how the script was supposed to go. Where was the arrogant monologue? Where was the villainous gloating?

“You know me?” Zhang Xian’s voice lost its tremor. “Is this personal?”

“It’s professional,” the shadow replied. “Our target is the finalists. That is all. Though… if you tell me where you get your endless supply of artifacts and those miraculous pills, I might grant you a quick death.”

“Fine! I’ll talk!” Zhang Xian blurted. “I found an Ancient Immortal’s grotto. It’s filled to the brim. If you kill me, my storage space self-destructs and all those treasures get tossed into a dimensional rift. You’ll be burning a fortune for nothing!”

The shadow fell silent. For a heartbeat, it seemed Zhang Xian’s “Whale” status might actually save him. Then, the assassin raised a hand and tapped the air.

“Heaven and Earth Prison: Seal.”

The world went silent. The air turned to lead, and the flow of spiritual essence ground to a halt. Every inch of space was locked behind an invisible shackle.

“I watched your matches, boy,” the shadow said coldly. “You’re full of tricks. But now the space is dead. Your teleportation trinkets are useless. You aren’t going anywhere.”

Zhang Xian’s pupils shrank. “Impossible!”

“Interesting,” the shadow mused. “Even now, your breathing is steady. I look forward to seeing what you’re actually hiding.”

“He’s right,” Long Zhi’s cold voice cut through the air. She stood tall, ignoring her wound. “Your heart rate is normal, and your spiritual power is circulating perfectly. You’re a terrible actor, Zhang Xian.”

Zhang Xian rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin replacing his mask of terror. “Ah… so it was just superficial acting? I’ll have to work on that. Thanks for the feedback.”

Long Zhi didn’t respond. Instead, she unleashed.

A majestic, terrifying pressure exploded from her body as she tapped into her Half-step Nascent Soul cultivation. The winds howled, and ghostly dragon phantoms began to coil around her rising sword intent.

Zhang Xian flicked his wrist, tossing a sword wreathed in violent lightning toward her. “Take this. Your old blade is junk. With your base, you should be able to refine it while we fight.”

Long Zhi caught the lightning-etched hilt without hesitation. She felt the raw power of the artifact and sent a mental transmission: The white mist erodes the spirit; the black mist corrupts the soul. Avoid them at all costs.

Zhang Xian nodded, his playful demeanor vanishing into a cold, calculating focus. “Go for the throat. I’ll keep you covered. If we see an opening, we destroy that puppet together.”

“Agreed.”

Long Zhi lunged, her new blade trailing a sky full of screaming thunder serpents.