Xiǎo Chén stood at the foot of the arena, his fists clenched so tightly that blood had already seeped from between his fingers. He did not notice. His gaze had never once left the stage.
Again and again, Xuán Chén was forced back—knocked aside by the overwhelming surge of power coursing through Cáo Jiànyú's body. Each time Xuán Chén was struck, Xiǎo Chén's own qi surged violently in response, threatening to break free of his control. Yet every time, he forced it down with sheer will.
He understood all too clearly:
if their positions were reversed, Xuán Chén would stand in front of him without hesitation.
Just as his qi was about to slip out of control, a familiar voice—steady, restrained—echoed through his mind.
"Xiǎo Chén… I can still endure.
Don't move.
I have a way."
His breath caught for a moment, then slowly eased out.
His knuckles loosened.
His qi settled.
On the arena, Cáo Jiànyú had intended to end the fight quickly. Ever since the drug's power erupted, he had felt several gazes fixed upon him—among them, Xiǎo Chén's was the most suffocating. Now, that pressure finally receded.
He relaxed, assuming the boy had accepted reality.
With so many academy elites and judges present, no one would dare interfere in a life‑and‑death duel.
Cáo Jiànyú seized Xuán Chén by the collar and flung him aside.
Xuán Chén's body slid across the stone and came to rest precisely within Xiǎo Chén's line of sight.
Cáo Jiànyú approached at an unhurried pace, a greasy smile spreading across his face.
"Well now, my apologies—
my hand slipped."
He tilted his head, mockery dripping from every word.
"Xiǎo Chén, what do you think?
You see it now, don't you?
This is what happens to anyone who crosses me."
Shī Tóngbǎi could no longer restrain himself and stepped forward—
but Xiǎo Chén's hand shot out, gripping his wrist with iron strength.
"Senior brother, you—"
Xiǎo Chén did not answer.
He did not even look back.
He simply stared at the arena,
silent, unmoving—
his breath cold enough to chill the air around him.
Shī Tóngbǎi clenched his teeth. At last, he understood, and the anger in his eyes slowly receded, leaving only a cold, steady gaze fixed upon the arena.
Cáo Jiànyú paid him no mind. His attention remained on Xiǎo Chén, and a thin, sinister smile curled across his lips.
"Don't look at me like that. If you want to blame someone, blame Xuán Chén for overestimating himself and agreeing to a life‑and‑death duel with me."
He spread his hands in mock helplessness.
"With things as they are, if I don't kill him, wouldn't that be disrespecting the rules of the duel? Don't you agree?"
With a laugh, he turned and once again seized the fallen Xuán Chén, flinging him back toward the center of the arena.
On the judges' platform, several elders were already frowning.
"Deliberately toying with an opponent—what kind of conduct is that?" someone muttered in anger.
But the Sixth Elder merely let out a cold chuckle.
"Once you step onto the life‑and‑death stage, fate is your own. The strong live, the weak die. This Xuán Chén is simply inferior. His defeat is only natural. Don't you agree, Chief Steward Dù?"
Dù Jīn did not answer immediately.
His gaze drifted toward Xiǎo Chén beneath the arena, lingering for a brief moment—as if something had finally clicked in his mind.
"Sixth Elder," he said calmly, "I've seen these two children more than once. Every time, they've been impossible to read. If you truly believe the outcome is already decided… why not place a wager?"
The Sixth Elder burst into hearty laughter.
"Chief Steward Dù, if you're so generous as to offer a gift, how could I refuse? What sort of wager do you have in mind?"
Dù Jīn's lips curved into a mysterious smile.
"Nothing excessive. We're all here for the academy, after all—no need to damage our harmony. Let's wager half a year's worth of resource stipends. How does that sound?"
The Sixth Elder laughed even louder.
"Good! Half a year's stipends—this old man accepts."
At that moment, a hand came to rest lightly on Dù Jīn's shoulder.
Xuānyuán Dié had appeared beside him without anyone noticing. Her tone was casual, almost playful, as though they were discussing something trivial.
"Chief Steward Dù, remember to add an extra share of desserts to my portion for the next six months."
Dù Jīn blinked.
"Head Xuānyuán, this is—"
Xuānyuán Dié smiled faintly, her gaze never leaving the arena.
"Nothing much. I simply think… your wager shows excellent judgment."
The Sixth Elder's laughter faltered, just for a moment.
——
Back on the arena, Xuán Chén had sensed something unusual the very first time Cáo Jiànyú sent him flying.
At the moment that fist struck him, the barrier within his body—one that had remained stubbornly immovable—loosened by the faintest margin.
So faint it might have been an illusion.
The realization sent a tremor through his heart.
External force… can it truly shake a bottleneck?
The thought flashed through his mind, but he suppressed it at once, forcing himself to calculate with cold clarity.
And so came the scenes that followed—
being knocked down again and again,
only to rise once more.
With every impact, every collapse of his qi, that inner barrier shifted ever so slightly.
He did not know how much time had passed.
But the once‑unyielding wall was no longer as solid as before.
Just a little more.
Xuán Chén understood this clearly.
But he also knew that whether he could endure until that moment… no one could guarantee.
Cáo Jiànyú, meanwhile, felt a faint unease.
The drug's power still surged through him, but time was slipping away.
He no longer intended to delay.
Qi gathered rapidly at his fist, sharp and violent—
a single, decisive strike to end the battle.
Xuán Chén staggered to his feet.
He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, his gaze calm in a way that felt almost out of place.
"You're not attacking anymore?" he said with a faint smile.
"Then it's my turn."
Cáo Jiànyú sneered inwardly.
He had faced opponents far stronger than this boy without flinching.
How could he possibly lose to someone who could barely stand?
His qi surged once more, killing intent fully formed.
And in that moment, Xuán Chén finally understood—
he no longer had the luxury of waiting.
Two paths remained.
One was to reveal his hidden card and cross the barrier with certainty.
The other was to force his way through, seizing a fleeting instant now while paying the price later.
Cáo Jiànyú's aura had already reached its peak.
And Xuán Chén, in that same instant, made his choice.
Just as Cáo Jiànyú prepared to lunge forward and unleash his final strike—
A wave of frigid qi burst outward from Xuán Chén's body, spreading in all directions.
Wherever it passed, the temperature plummeted.
Even the oil burning across the arena flickered once—
and died.
At that moment, a memory long buried stirred awake without a sound.
——
"Boy.
If you can't kill him, don't bother coming back alive."
"We have no use for the weak."
The voice was cold, flat—
not a threat, but a statement of fact.
The figure before him was not Cáo Jiànyú.
It was a towering silhouette, so massive it seemed to blot out the light.
Xuán Chén lowered his gaze.
What he saw were hands far too small—
thin fingers, knuckles fragile, barely strong enough to form a fist.
To face that kind of existence with such a body—
had never been permitted.
The next instant, the scene shattered.
The towering figure collapsed.
Blood.
Warm, viscous blood splattered across those small hands, running down the wrists in thick streams.
The small figure stood motionless,
silent,
unmoving.
"Remember this feeling."
"Only those who survive have the right to remain."
——
On the southern stands, the outer‑courtyard disciples were the first to be struck by the sudden wave of cold.
The fortunate ones merely felt their chests tighten, as though something invisible had pressed down upon them, making it difficult to breathe. Instinctively, they wanted to turn and flee the area.
The less fortunate felt their blood and qi scatter in disarray. Darkness swept across their vision; some collapsed on the spot, others slumped weakly to the ground, unable even to stand.
They could not name the cold, nor identify the source of the aura.
They only knew one thing—
They should not remain here.
On the eastern stands, the reaction among the female disciples was even more pronounced.
Some instinctively folded their arms and bent forward, retreating half a step.
Others tried to circulate their qi to stabilize their blood flow.
But in the very next moment, terror dawned on them—
It didn't work.
At all.
Their protective qi had barely begun to form before it was silently crushed, as though the cold had deliberately avoided only one direction while suppressing everything else.
On the western stands, the White Lion's eyes snapped open.
For an instant, his aura tightened sharply.
It wasn't the cold that struck him—
but a primal warning.
Danger.
Yet intertwined with that warning was a faint, razor‑sharp edge hidden within the spreading qi—an edge that stirred something dormant within him.
For a heartbeat, he felt the urge to rise, to test that aura himself.
He forced the impulse down, spine straightening, breath drawing inward.
This was not the moment to move.
On the northern stands, Sītú Jìng's expression shifted for the first time.
What he sensed ran deeper than what others felt.
A portion of that cold intent was directed—
at him.
Instinctively, he attempted to analyze the source, to categorize it as he always did.
A technique?
An attribute?
A secret art?
But the next instant, his reasoning faltered.
Not because it was hidden—
but because it could not be classified.
For the first time, a faint thread of genuine unease rose within Sītú Jìng's heart.
On the judges' platform, the atmosphere grew equally subtle.
Gǔ Líng, Dù Jīn, and Xuānyuán Dié all sensed it at the same moment—
the instant Xuán Chén's aura stepped into the level of the Root Mark, something else surfaced as well.
Killing intent.
It lasted only a heartbeat, yet it was so dense it felt almost tangible.
And all three of them knew: killing intent was not something gained through cultivation.
Only those who had lived alongside death—
who had struggled again and again between blood and survival—
could condense something like that.
And killing intent of this magnitude…
could not possibly belong to someone of his age.
For the first time, Gǔ Líng's gaze truly settled on Xuán Chén.
A suspicion he had held faintly now solidified into near certainty—
Xuán Chén was likely not a child of the Central Plains.
As for why someone like him would appear here…
Rather than alarm, the thought stirred a faint curiosity within him.
Xuānyuán Dié's reaction, however, was entirely different.
Her eyes had sharpened, filled with undisguised vigilance.
As a swordswoman, her instincts screamed at her—
This boy is extremely dangerous.
Beside her, Dù Jīn was already drenched in cold sweat.
The moment that killing intent brushed past him, a memory surfaced unbidden—
the words Xuán Chén had spoken to him on the day of the assessment:
"You should be grateful today's test was the Fate Mark.
If it had been a combat trial…
you wouldn't still be standing."
At the time, he had dismissed it as youthful arrogance.
But recalling it now, he felt his throat tighten—
as though an invisible blade rested quietly against his neck.
——
Xiǎo Chén could feel it clearly—the killing intent spreading from Xuán Chén did not treat him as a target, yet it did not exclude him either.
It was as though some silent judgment had been made.
He was not merely a companion who had walked beside Xuán Chén all this time.
For a brief moment, Xiǎo Chén's chest tightened.
It wasn't fear.
Nor rejection.
It was a near‑instinctive recognition.
The place where Xuán Chén now stood…
was no longer a realm others could easily step into.
"Senior brother…?" Bǎishìtōng whispered.
Xiǎo Chén did not turn.
Only after a long breath did he exhale softly.
"…I'm fine."
His voice was quiet, yet unnervingly steady.
But in his eyes, a weight had settled—one even he had not noticed.
—
On the arena, Cáo Jiànyú—locked directly beneath that killing intent—was already drenched in cold sweat.
It felt like being watched by a beast lurking in the dark.
Even before it pounced, death had already arrived.
But the fear lasted only a heartbeat.
He forced it down, repeating to himself again and again—
his cultivation was already nearing mid‑stage Root Mark.
The boy before him had only just stepped across the threshold.
Impossible to lose.
The moment the thought solidified, Cáo Jiànyú struck.
This blow had been gathering strength for a long time.
His fist roared forward, and wherever it passed, the layers of cold shattered like brittle glass.