Of the 1800 disciples who had climbed the Immortal Living Pool Mountain, only 1300 remained—wounded, exhausted, and wary, but alive and prepared for the final test.
The Grand Arena beneath the mountain was vast, circular, and haunting. Its stone walls bore claw marks and dried bloodstains, scars of previous trials that still lingered in the air like whispers of defeat. Iron cages lined the outer periphery, covered with thick curtains and sealing runes, each holding within them beasts waiting to be unleashed.
An elder wearing grey robes embroidered with silver vines appeared at the center of the arena. His presence silenced the murmurs among the gathered disciples. He walked slowly, his cane tapping against the stone, his eyes solemn.
"You are the final ones chosen by fate," he began, his voice echoing with a strange, commanding resonance. "But survival and worth are not guaranteed by fate alone. Your strength must be tested by battle. One-on-one."
