Ivy walks past the quiet pavilions and enters one of the wooden buildings, curious about its purpose. Inside, she finds a long corridor lit by soft lanterns. As she follows it, the path opens into a vast space carved directly into the mountain—a fighting arena.
The arena lies deep below, surrounded by layers of stone stands. At the topmost level, where she stands, there's a wide viewing platform with seats and open space for standing spectators. Ivy leans over the railing, eyes narrowing with interest. Below, two figures clash in the middle of the arena, their movements swift and deliberate.
She notices a stairway leading down to the lower levels for a closer view, but a disciple standing guard stops her when she approaches. "Only Music Mountain disciples are allowed below," he says politely.
Ivy nods without protest and returns to the highest viewing area. From there, she watches closely.
The two combatants trade blows with intense bursts of energy. One summons vibrations in the air with a wave of his hand—sound-based attacks ripple outward like shockwaves. The other responds by weaving wind with his fingers, cutting through the air to disperse the sound. Their feet barely touch the ground as they dart across the arena, every movement precise, every attack glowing with spiritual energy.
Ivy's eyes follow each exchange, absorbing the rhythm and flow of their battle. She studies their footwork, their breathing, the subtle build-up of power before each technique. Their style is vastly different from what she learned in her world—no chants, no spell circles—just direct manipulation of energy through the body and will.
She watches in silence, thoughtful. This is the way ascendants fight—raw, instinctive, yet refined by years of practice. No incantations, no reliance on external tools—only the body, will, and energy.
A new match begins below. This time, both fighters rise into the air, wings sprouting from their backs as they hover above the stone floor. One pair of wings is deep red, glowing faintly with heat. The other's shimmer with a soft blue chill. Ivy leans forward, her gaze sharpening.
Then it begins.
Feathers ignite—one side blazing like molten metal, the other sparkling with icy frost. With a flick of their wings, both fighters launch volleys of elemental feathers. Flaming projectiles streak through the air, colliding mid-flight with frozen shards that explode into mist and embers.
Each movement sends ripples through the arena. The air warps under the pressure of their powers—heat cracking stone, cold freezing the mist midair. They weave through the barrage, darting between blasts, retaliating without pause.
Ivy's eyes never leave them. She watches the transitions—how their bodies shift effortlessly from defence to offence, how their spiritual energy flows with their intention. Their violence is elegant, controlled behind every strike.
The next fight begins, two male disciples stepping into the arena with calm, focused eyes. At first, it resembles the earlier matches—measured movement, quick bursts of energy, and graceful exchanges. But as the duel intensifies, something changes. Behind both fighters, phantoms begin to form—great birds, identical in shape, but each adorned with feathers of a different colour. One shimmers gold and green, the other pulses with deep violet and black.
Ivy's breath catches. A pressure radiates from the two combatants, familiar and foreign at once. Not quite as strong as an official mage, yet the feeling in her chest is similar. She narrows her eyes. They've reached the peak of their path, she thinks. Like mage apprentices brushing the threshold of true magehood—their bodies beginning to shift, to evolve.
Murmurs rise around her. From the fragments of whispered conversation, Ivy learns the two fighters have reached the peak of the Body Refinement realm. The phantom birds, she hears, are a natural phenomenon—manifestations that occur when a cultivator's vital qi begins to resonate with nature's energy. A sign that they're nearing the next realm.
She wants to see how the match ends, but the first trial is almost over. Ivy steps away from the platform, winding through the wooden buildings until she reaches the main stairs. A small group has already gathered there—strangers she doesn't recognise. Their clothes differ from the Music Mountain gate disciples. Likely the ones who passed the first trial.
So it's not over yet, Ivy thinks, glancing up at the sun. Maybe fifteen minutes remain.
She waits in silence, arms crossed, as more time passes. Then, with a sudden burst of colour, the woman from before descends from above, now accompanied by a man and a woman, both bearing the quiet strength of senior disciples or elders. The colourful woman walks forward, stopping at the edge of the plateau.
She gazes down the stairs where some still climb, their breathing heavy, movements slow. Then, her voice rings out—not loud, but carrying with perfect clarity:
"The first trial is over. Those still on the stairs may return."
A chorus of cries and frustrated voices rises from below. Some plead. Others curse the mountain itself. But the woman simply raises a hand, and in an instant, a transparent barrier hums to life across the stairs' edge. It seals the plateau like glass. Mist begins to roll upward again, cloaking the steps and cutting off the view of those below.
Ivy watches without blinking. So begins the second part.
The group of twenty who awakened their mind energy, along with the new arrivals who passed the first trial, gather before the three figures standing at the edge of the plateau. The colourful woman steps forward once more, her voice calm and clear.
"If you pass the second trial," she says, "you will become part of our sect. But first, you must answer one question."
She raises her hand, and for a moment, a soft, invisible pressure settles over the group. Not threatening, but deep—like something brushing against the soul.
"Did you enter the Music Mountain Gate with the intention of harming the gate in the future? Answer only yes or no."
Then she and her two companions speak in unison, voices resonating like strings plucked in perfect harmony. "Please answer."
The pressure deepens slightly. Ivy's eyes glaze over. Her body responds before her mind can fully register the weight behind the command.
"No," she says, her voice quiet but firm.
One by one, the others answer as well—most say no. But a few, scattered among the crowd, speak the word yes, their voices flat, their expressions distant.
At once, the woman's eyes narrow. She raises her arm, and a mark of light appears above the heads of those who answered yes. The male disciple beside her steps forward and gestures with two fingers. The marked individuals are quietly led aside without resistance. Their eyes are blank, their fate already sealed. Ivy watches in silence as they disappear into the mist, taken down a separate path.
Then the woman's voice rises again, smooth and controlled. "Now, all of you will follow me to the third test site. You have already become disciples of our Music Mountain Gate, but this final test will determine your positions within the sect."
She turns and begins walking, her robes fluttering as she moves toward a narrow path leading from the plateau. The two disciples follow silently behind her. As the group trails after them, she continues speaking without looking back.
"Our sect divides disciples into four stages—External disciples, Outer disciples, Inner disciples, and True disciples. The path ahead depends on your comprehension ability."
After a short climb, they reach a smaller plateau pressed against the mountain wall. On the rock face ahead, thirteen patterns glow faintly in silvery lines. Each is unique, drawn with shapes that resemble birds mid-flight and ripples of sound.
The woman stops and turns toward the group. "What you see are the foundational patterns of one of our sect's inheritances—The Night Lark Technique. It leads to the Spirit Refinement Realm and beyond."
She points toward the rightmost pattern. "You must start from there. Your task is to comprehend these patterns, one by one. If you manage to master only the first, you will become an External disciple. If you comprehend two, you'll become an Outer disciple. Three patterns—Inner disciple. And four or more… after review by the elders and the sect master, you may be chosen as a True disciple."
Her gaze sharpens as she studies each of them in turn.
Then she claps once. Another woman steps out from the side, carrying a tray filled with small white bottles. Each bottle is capped and sealed with a faint medicinal scent.
These contain food pills. Each bottle holds enough to suppress hunger for one full month. You are to use these during your three months of cultivation. When you reach your limit for the day, you may return to the previous plateau, where rooms have been prepared for rest and other human needs."
The woman with the tray walks along the line, and each participant takes one bottle in silence.
Then the colourful-robed woman steps aside and raises her arm. "The third test begins now."
Ivy nods and joins the others as they walk to the rightmost pattern. The silver lines glimmer before her eyes like a flowing melody etched in stone. She stands still, then slowly sits cross-legged on the cold ground, her gaze fixed on the first symbol. Around her, the others do the same.
The mountain grows quiet. Only the wind whispers as the trial begins.
Ivy sits still, her eyes locked on the first glowing pattern carved into the mountain wall. She examines each line one by one—curved strokes, sharp turns, and interwoven arcs that resemble both bird wings and waves of sound. Her mind focuses sharply. She knows what she must do: recreate the pattern in her mind space. Once the image solidifies, the comprehension of its essence will begin.
She studies the pattern until her eyes begin to sting, then closes them to visualise it. In her inner space, a rough outline forms—but before it can settle, it fades away like mist. She opens her eyes with a quiet exhale. It's not due to weak mind energy. The fault lies in her understanding—the way she observed and interpreted the lines lacked precision. She had missed something subtle.
Opening her eyes, she leans closer, her gaze sharpening. This time, she doesn't rush. She tracks the beginning and end of each line, follows their curvature, and lets her intuition guide how they connect. The glowing symbol feels alive now, shifting slightly under the moonlight.
Once again, she closes her eyes and draws the pattern in her mind. It takes longer this time. And though it shimmers faintly and begins to hold, it still breaks apart before becoming whole.
But she doesn't stop.
She repeats this process, over and over, pushing herself to redraw the pattern in her mind. Time flows unnoticed. The fog creeps lower down the mountain. By the time the sky darkens fully, her body feels stiff, and her thoughts begin to slow. Fatigue dulls her focus.
Knowing her limit has arrived, she retrieves a food pill from the bottle, swallows it, and quietly walks out of the plateau. The mountain wind feels colder now.
She heads toward the resting rooms prepared on the lower plateau, ready to recover for another day.
---
Dream Domain-37th
Merin skips his afternoon nap. There's no need—part of his consciousness is already embedded in the first group discussion, gathering all the details for later. Right now, he rides with the Situ family convoy, which cuts through a stretch of wilderness where no towns or villages can be seen for miles. This land is scattered with robber dens, and caution is essential. That, and cultivation.
In his past life, he was ordinary. In this one, he was born as a tree—one that didn't get to enjoy the serenity or power that might suggest. Trouble found him early, and it hasn't let go. Now, with the cold poison still dormant in his body, Merin focuses on what he can control: cultivation. He's already deciphered the poison's nature and has a plan to purge it. For now, he concentrates on the growing strength flowing through him.
It's almost imperceptible. Each minute, the increase is so slight it might be dismissed by most. But his mind energy, perched at the peak of the Mortal Realm, detects the rise clearly. Small gains each minute become something more over hours—measurable, meaningful. He treasures every breath spent cultivating. Every moment counts.
Still, a frown creases his brow.
Their journey continues too smoothly. No ambushes. No rival clan trouble. Nothing. He remembers reading noble biographies—how protagonists, while on critical tasks, were inevitably harassed by rival families. The Situ family has such a rival: the Tan family.
If the Tan family doesn't act soon, their fate will be sealed. With only one Bone Refining Realm ancestor left—an old man nearing the end of his life—their time is running out. They must either land a heavy blow against the Situ family now or prepare to vanish from Redwood Town altogether.
Merin—no, Situ Xing—knows what's coming. If he breaks through to Bone Refining, and their elder remains healthy, and his brother Chen advances as planned, then the Situ family will boast three Bone Refining Realm warriors. Three is enough to suppress or outright destroy any resistance from the Tan family.
Unless…
Unless the Tan family has allied with the Sky Eagle Sect. That would explain their sudden boldness. With a sect's backing, they may believe the Situ family won't dare strike.
Merin narrows his eyes at the forest rolling past.
If the Tan family is betting everything on someone else's shield, they've already lost. Because now Merin is Situ Xing, and one of Situ Xing's lifelong desires was to dominate Redwood Town. Only the Tan family stands in the way of that dream.
If they believe the Situ family will hesitate because they have two Bone Refining Realm warriors, they're deluded. Merin isn't afraid. With his combat insight, he can fight across realms. He's never faced an enemy in real combat, but in his consciousness, he has trained relentlessly—over and over—honing every movement, every strike, until his reactions are sharper than steel.
He's already mastered an intermediate-level fighting technique that doubles his physical strength. And though he's only in the early stage of the Flesh Refining Realm, that technique elevates his power close to the lower levels of Bone Refining. In this world, the difference between Flesh Refining, Bone Refining, Vein Refining, and Organ Refining isn't a gulf—it's a steady climb. Each stage offers around a fifty per cent increase in strength from the one before it. Merin's technique bridges that gap.
If he's careful, if he uses every move with precision, even a warrior in the upper Bone Refining stages wouldn't dare face him without risk.
He knows the two Tan family warriors he'll face are in the Bone Refining Realm—though their exact stages are unclear. But they're both over thirty. Their bodies have already begun to decline. They can still summon the strength of their realm, but not for long durations. Time is no longer on their side.
Merin also knows that once he reaches Bone Refining himself, the situation will be entirely in his favour. But the future is a tide of variables. Waiting might cost more than it saves.
Now, the Tan family assumes the Situ family won't act. That assumption is fatal.
This—this—is the perfect time to strike.
Merin had already considered this when he accepted Situ Xing's identity. He planned to consult his father and summon his brother Chen with a letter. But the current mission—escorting the convoy and forming a deal with the Ethereal Sect—forced a short delay.
Still, a few weeks won't give the Tan family enough time to prepare. The variables are stable for now. When Merin returns, the plan will begin. The Tan family will not just lose power.
They'll vanish from Redwood Town forever.
Merin opens a pill bottle and takes out a single jade-colored muscle pill. He swallows it without hesitation. Warmth blooms in his chest as the medicinal energy surges through his body, targeting his muscles. His flesh tingles, tightens, then begins to stretch and contract with newfound power. He settles into practice, controlling each breath and pulse of strength, feeling the slow, steady growth continue.
Time flows unnoticed until the carriage lurches, then slows to a stop.
Merin opens his eyes and steps down from the carriage. His gaze shifts westward—light spills from within a stone wall, flickering through narrow slits. A small encampment of tents clusters outside the wall, grouped neatly by trade and allegiance. This is Yi Village. The fading orange sun brushes the sky behind it, casting long shadows across the earth.
Moments later, the manager approaches and bows slightly.
"Young Master," he says, "we must first meet the ones in charge of Yi Village before we can begin setting up our camp."
Merin nods without a word. Together, they begin walking the packed dirt path toward the entrance. As the last traces of sunlight vanish behind the village, they reach the massive, half-opened gate. Two guards stand there in dull armour, halberds in hand, their eyes sweeping over them with quiet suspicion.
The manager steps forward to speak while Merin lingers behind. His gaze sweeps over the guards, and with a single glance, he senses both men are in the flesh refining realm. He notes it silently—this is the difference between a martial clan and a merchant family like his own. Even the gatekeepers of Yi Village are flesh refining warriors.
Yi Village, though small, belongs to the lowest rank in the empire's nine-rank hierarchy. Merin recalls the requirements clearly. To qualify as a ninth-rank force, a group must possess at least one organ refining realm warrior. An eighth rank requires three such warriors or one who has forged a golden body. To ascend to the seventh rank, a force must have at least one golden-body organ refiner and five additional warriors in the organ refining realm.
His mind drifts, considering what it would take to elevate the Situ family to a ninth-rank force. It would take at least a decade—if everything followed his plans—for him to reach the organ refining realm. But that thought fades quickly as a teenager in simple but tidy clothing appears at the gate.
One of the guards turns. "You're to follow him," he says. "He'll take you to the third elder."
Merin glances at the boy, who bows slightly before turning on his heel, already walking. The manager and Merin follow without a word, their footsteps quiet as the last hues of day vanish behind Yi Village's high stone walls.
Inside the village, Merin walks with steady steps, his eyes drifting over the scene around him. The Yi Village is more than a village—it's a tightly-knit clan settlement, structured like a miniature town. Wooden buildings and stone houses line both sides of the path, and various shops bustle with activity—some sell herbs, others weapons, some clothing, and others items Merin doesn't immediately recognise.
He watches the villagers closely. Every one of them carries the subtle signs of martial practice—well-balanced steps, steady breathing, taut muscle lines. Among every ten people, at least one radiates the distinctive scent of a flesh refining warrior. Some carry no scent at all, which could mean they're either ordinary or simply stronger than his senses can measure.
Following the teenager down the winding path, they eventually reach the gates of a sturdy house near the heart of the village. The boy stops and turns.
"Please wait here. I'll go inform the third elder," he says before disappearing inside.
As they wait, the manager glances around and says, "Our family should also acquire a plot of land and build a village like this. It would benefit us in the long term."
Merin shakes his head. "You can't build a martial village without an organ refining warrior. That's the empire's rule. Even if you had the land, the empire wouldn't recognise it."
The manager replies with a hopeful smile, "With Master Chen's talent, he'll likely reach organ refining soon."
Merin's voice is calm, but firm. "Who can say? Reaching organ refining isn't just about talent—it's about pressure, luck, and resources. If we start building a village now, it'll only put unnecessary weight on Chen. And worse, it'll make us look arrogant—like we're trying to act like a ninth-rank force when we don't even have a vein refining warrior."
The manager nods slowly, thoughtful once more. They fall silent as the teenager returns, motioning them to follow. Merin and the manager trail behind him into a modest yet well-kept room, where a burly middle-aged man in a white robe sits calmly. Though the man's body emits no scent, Merin instantly dismisses the idea that he's ordinary. The absence of scent only confirms that this man's cultivation has passed the threshold his senses can detect.
The teenager bows and introduces him, "This is the Third Elder of the Yi family."
Merin and the manager immediately lowered their heads in respect. Merin knows that every elder in the Yi family is at least a Vein Refining warrior. Even with all his combat understanding and refined techniques, he isn't yet a match for a veteran at that level.
The manager speaks first, bowing slightly again. "I am Situ Li, steward of the Situ Family. This is our young master, Situ Xing."
The third elder's gaze lingers on Merin. "I thought Situ Chen was the only talent in your family, but it seems his elder brother carries weight of his own."
Merin offers a humble smile. "I'm far less talented than my brother or the members of the Yi family. I only advanced to the Flesh Refining Realm a day ago."
The elder chuckles lightly, and they exchange polite compliments for a few minutes, speaking of the journey, the growth of the younger generation, and the growing instability in the nearby regions.
Eventually, the elder leans back slightly and says, "I understand you wish to set up camp outside the walls. The rates are as follows: ten silver for the first circle, one silver for the second, and fifty copper teals for the third."
Situ Li nods and asks, "What's the difference between the circles?"
"The first circle is closest to our village walls—there are eight marked spaces for camps," the elder replies. "The second circle lies just behind it, and the third is the farthest out."
Merin narrows his eyes slightly. "So if anyone were to attack, the third circle would be the first to fall."
The elder nods. "Indeed. We do send guards to patrol the third circle, so it's not defenceless. But the risk is higher."
Merin doesn't hesitate. "Then we'll book a space in the first circle."
The elder gives a short nod of approval. "Wise choice. I'll have someone lead your people to one of the open spaces."
With the matter settled, the tone of the conversation softens. The elder nods as Situ Li counts out ten silver teals and places them into his hand. As Merin and the manager prepare to leave, the elder adds with a casual smile, "Situ Xing, you may stay a while. In a couple of hours, we're holding a celebration for the family head's daughter—her coming-of-age ceremony. Many young warriors will be attending to offer congratulations."
Merin replies politely, "Ah, then please congratulate the young miss on my behalf. But I wasn't aware of this and didn't bring any gifts. I wouldn't want to attend empty-handed."
Before he can take a step back, the manager subtly tugs Merin's sleeve and leans in to whisper, "Young Master, there's a five-hundred-year red tree heart in the convoy. We can offer that."
Merin's expression shifts slightly. "In that case," he says to the elder, "I'd be honoured to attend. When will the celebration begin?"
"I'll send someone to fetch you when the time comes," the elder replies. "Where will you be staying?"
"Outside, with my people," Merin answers.
The teenager silently gestures for them to follow. They leave the house and make their way back through the village. Once outside the walls, they return to the convoy, and the boy leads them to a cleared area near the wall. A wide, scorched fire pit sits in the centre, surrounded by stacked logs and enough flat ground for several tents. The teenager points out the boundaries of the camp, then walks off without a word.
Merin quickly takes charge, directing the placement of the carriages around the camp's edge, forming a protective boundary. Tents are raised efficiently, and the horses are tied down. He sends a man back into the village to buy hay and other supplies for the beasts.
When everything is in order, Merin climbs into his carriage. It's large enough for him to stretch out comfortably. The soft hum of camp activity fades outside as the last touches of preparation settle into place. He leans back, closing his eyes, ready to rest before the evening's gathering—but only for a moment.
The carriage curtain rustles, and the manager steps in, holding a wooden box. "Young Master, the red tree heart."
Merin nods and takes the box without a word. The manager bows slightly and leaves.
Curious, Merin opens the box. Inside lies a smooth, spherical piece of milky red wood. Its surface carries a faint, fragrant scent—earthy and ancient. He places his palm gently over it and, with practised care, channels a thread of mind energy from his fingertip into the wood, avoiding contact with the realm's spiritual energy.
To his surprise, he senses the heart filled with pure, non-poisonous spiritual energy, dense and rich. If absorbed, it would significantly boost his cultivation. But it's meant to be a gift. Still, the temptation lingers. If he carved out only a few chips from deep within, perhaps he could draw out some of the energy without damaging the surface appearance. Yet that would leave traces—subtle cracks or imbalance in structure.
He pauses, thinking. Then a memory surfaces: Song Qi. Merin had watched him practice day after day. Even now, in the dream domain, Song Qi continues to hone his craft—and Merin, bound to the dream domain, learns all that is practised within it. Every motion, every technique, etched into his mind.
A spiritual carpenter can work with materials without damaging their essence.
Merin exhales slowly. He has the knowledge. But before he can shape the red tree heart into a gift, he must fully comprehend the nature of its energy and its internal structure—both material and spiritual.
He settles in and focuses. Time passes as he sinks deeper into study. The grain of the wood, the flow of its energy, the memory of its centuries—all unravel under his careful observation. He watches how the spiritual energy coils inside, layered in threads like veins within the wood's marrow.
After half an hour, he opens his eyes. His vision clears, and the image comes to him without doubt.
A phoenix.
A symbol of rebirth, nobility, and fire—perfect for a coming-of-age gift.
And it will let him carve away just enough material for himself without ruining the gift.
A couple of hours later, Merin stands among a group of young warriors in a large, brightly lit hall. The space is open on both sides with sliding doors—one revealing a tranquil garden under the moonlight, the other leading to a dining area where a long table overflows with fragrant, colourful dishes. Laughter and quiet conversations mix in the air, but Merin remains silent, his posture calm as he observes the gathering.
Suddenly, he feels a sharp gaze fixed on him. He turns slightly and meets the eyes of a young man across the room. The young man's expression is intense, emotions swirling behind his pupils—resentment, maybe fury—but there's no recognition on Merin's side.
Merin frowns slightly, puzzled. Before he can ask, someone beside him mutters, "That's Wu Lie."
Merin turns his head and looks at the speaker, a calm-faced youth standing beside him.
"Wu Lie?" Merin echoes.
The young man nods. "Rank 547 on the Young Jiao list of Ji Province."
Merin raises an eyebrow, realisation flickering. "He's staring at me because... my brother defeated his?"
"Yes," the youth says. "Nine months ago. Wu Tian, from GoldenDeer City. Your brother beat him in public. Wu Tian dropped in rank, and your brother jumped from 341 to 324."
Merin remembers now—he'd heard the story from Chen in a letter. The details had been casual, but clearly, the Wu family hadn't forgotten.
"He'll probably challenge you," the young man adds. "That's how they are."
Merin shrugs. "Let him." He doesn't say more. There's no need to boast—if Wu Lie comes, he'll handle it.
Then Merin turns back to the youth and says, "Thanks. But how do you know who I am? And who are you?"
The young man smiles slightly. "Li Tao. Our elders showed us your family's portrait after your brother made waves. A bone refining realm warrior under eighteen—it caught attention."
Merin narrows his eyes slightly, not out of suspicion but to confirm a guess. "Which Li family?"
"There are many."
Li Tao glances at him knowingly. "Goldendeer City."
Merin nods once. The enemy of the Wu family. So that's why he's so forthcoming.
Before they can continue, the murmurs in the hall quiet as a middle-aged man steps down the staircase from the upper floors. His presence commands silence. Robed in deep blue with silver embroidery, his posture is straight, his steps slow but assured.
The head of the Yi family steps forward, standing on the upper platform above the stairs. He thanks everyone for coming and offering blessings to his daughter, Yi Fei. His voice is steady, warm, and full of pride. Then, with a nod, he steps aside.
Yi Fei appears above the staircase, dressed in luxurious red robes styled in the traditional ancient way. A soft veil covers her face, revealing only her shining black eyes. Her long, glossy hair flows down to her waist. As she walks down the stairs gracefully, the crowd breaks into applause. Her presence is dignified, poised, and untouched by nerves.
The clapping fades after a while. The family head begins calling the names of representatives from the visiting forces. One by one, they step forward to offer their gifts to Yi Fei. She thanks each of them with a graceful nod and passes the gifts to the maids behind her.
Eventually, the name Situ Xing is called. Merin steps forward calmly, bows slightly, and congratulates Yi Fei. He hands her the box containing the carved phoenix made from the 500-year-old red tree heart. She pauses a moment, then gives a gentle thanks and passes it back to the maids.
Merin returns to his place without a word. The ceremony continues for a while longer before coming to an end.
Soon after, all the young warriors, including Merin, are led toward the garden. They walk past it into a wide clearing where an open-air fighting ring stands at the centre. Around the ring, long tables are stacked with food, drinks, and snacks.
In this world, power is everything. Every celebration is also a chance to show one's strength. Young warriors fight not just to entertain, but to prove themselves—because reputation brings resources, and resources fuel growth.
Merin moves toward the tables and begins enjoying the food. Behind him, someone suddenly shouts a challenge, and two young warriors leap into the ring. A fight begins.
For Merin, this is the first time witnessing a battle of this realm with his own eyes. He's seen fights through Situ Xing's memories, but seeing it unfold in front of him feels different. There's no dazzling spiritual energy or elemental attacks—only fists, speed, and raw force. The spiritual energy of this realm is poisonous, so they cannot release techniques like in other realms.
To the untrained eye, it looks like ordinary people brawling. But Merin sees the truth—their speed, the weight behind each strike, and the shockwaves slicing the air when their punches land. These are warriors.
The fight ends. Another challenge follows. Then another. Merin watches calmly, savouring his food as three more fights pass.
Then Wu Lie steps into the ring. His voice echoes across the clearing, "I challenge Situ Xing."
Everyone turns toward Merin, who still stands beside the food table, a plate in hand, unbothered. He finishes his bite, places the plate down, and says, "I accept."
He begins walking toward the ring. As he moves, he hears the whispers.
"He shouldn't have accepted..."
"He's no Situ Chen."
"He's inferior to his younger brother."
But Merin doesn't react. Their opinions mean nothing. With the resources he plans to gather, he'll reach the next realms faster than anyone expects. Faster than Chen.
One day, it won't be Situ Chen they remember.
It will be Situ Xing—and today marks the beginning.
Standing in the ring, Merin looks dully at Wu Lie, who sneers at him with barely hidden contempt.
Wu Lie says, "Your brother injured mine so badly he had to lie in bed for three days. Now, I'll return the favour—double."
Merin shrugs, "Then please." He glances at the young man acting as referee. "Start the fight."
The referee nods. "Begin."
Wu Lie lunges forward, but Merin dodges the blow with ease. This is his first real fight. He doesn't rush. He wants to feel it—the rhythm of battle. The weight of movement. The timing between breath and strike.
Not far away, a group of young women watch the fight. Among them is Yi Fei.
One girl mutters, "Did Situ Xing only train movement techniques? He just keeps dodging."
Another giggles. "He looks handsome while doing it."
A third laughs. "Then do you want to marry him?"
"I'll see the result first. Handsome isn't enough."
Another adds, "He's already married."
"What?" the girl gasps.
The first girl nods. "His childhood sweetheart, a year ago."
Yi Fei, quiet until now, says, "Stop talking. Look. Situ Xing has started attacking."
Merin, having familiarised himself with Wu Lie's rhythm, finally retaliates. He deflects a punch with a smooth parry, then delivers a measured strike to Wu Lie's stomach—enough to hurt, but not overpower. He hides his true strength, keeping his blows just slightly weaker than Wu Lie's, as they should be for someone two small realms lower.
They exchange blows, but Merin's control and footwork dominate the fight. Finally, spotting an opening, Merin drives a solid punch into Wu Lie's chest and sends him flying out of the ring.
Merin steps back calmly and says to the referee, "I won."
The referee blinks, startled, then raises his voice. "Situ Xing wins!"
But Wu Lie, red-faced and bitter, scrambles to his feet. "That wasn't fair! I want a rematch!"
Merin turns to leave. "I don't have time."
Wu Lie, face twisted in anger, charges from behind. But Merin senses the ambush. He sidesteps smoothly. Wu Lie's momentum carries him forward, straight into the ground.
He crashes face-first into the dirt.
Merin doesn't look down at him. Instead, he glances toward Yi Fei. "Thank you for the invitation," he says.
Then, without waiting for a response, he turns and walks away. He passes through the garden, the quiet paths of Yi village, and returns to his camp outside the walls.
As Merin leaves the clearing, the gathered youths begin murmuring among themselves.
"Situ Xing made it look easy," someone says.
"His cultivation's clearly lower than Wu Lie's, but his technique... that movement, the timing—he's got real skill."
Another agrees. "Even if Wu Lie challenges him again, it'll just be worse next time. With that kind of control, he's not someone you beat with brute strength."
More voices join in, some excited, some thoughtful. "The next Young Jiao ranking is in two days. After tonight, Situ Xing will definitely enter the list. Probably around 500 or 520."
"He'll rise fast," another says. "Situ Xing isn't just riding on his brother's fame anymore."
Meanwhile, Wu Lie pushes himself up from the ground, face burning with shame. He doesn't look at anyone. Without a word, he storms out of the clearing.
He came tonight to reclaim his family's pride, but instead, he lost it again—to the same family.
In his heart, a vow forms like ice. This isn't over.