The Rising Dragon Arena was no longer the site of a mere competition; for those who had witnessed the slaughter in Group 7, it had become a silent tomb of terror. The sun hung high in the sky, its golden rays reflecting off the blood-stained stones of the platform, but for many, the air felt as cold as a mountain grave.

  Hua Sui, standing under the alias Han Ming, felt the heavy, scrutinizing gazes of the Elders from the high stands. Their eyes were like burning suns, attempting to pierce through his veil and see the truth of his cultivation. But to him, those gazes were nothing more than the idle curiosity of gods watching an insect. They had no idea that the insect they were observing carried a plague—a dark, inverse legacy capable of devouring their very heavens.

  "Winner: Han Ming," the registrar announced. His voice, usually a bored bark, now carried a distinct tremor. He looked down at his jade ledger, then at the withered, grey husk that had once been Zhao Kui, the pride of the Fire-Cloud Peak. He then looked back at the calm, pale youth in the arena. "Next group, prepare for entry. Han Ming, move to the winner's circle."

  Hua Sui stepped down from the platform, his steps silent and rhythmic, like a predator stalking through tall grass. As he moved through the crowd of disciples, they parted like a tide hitting a rock. The arrogance and mockery that had filled the air hours ago had vanished, replaced by a thick, suffocating dread. No one dared to whisper "waste" or "dreg" anymore. They saw only a ghost from the Blue Mist Peak, a boy who had turned a Rank 5 genius into ash with a single touch.

  Through the Puppet Soul Seed, Hua Sui could feel the turbulent emotions of Su Qing. She was sitting in the VIP section, less than five feet away from the terrifying Elder Mei. Hua Sui could sense her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was terrified—not of the Elders discovering her ruin, but of the cold, calculating monster she was now tethered to.

  "That Han Ming... his technique is strange," Elder Mei whispered, her voice low enough to be a secret. She didn't look at Su Qing, her eyes remained fixed on Hua Sui's retreating back. "It has the chill of the North Sea ice, but there is a corruption within it—a decay that reminds me of the forbidden curses from the southern border. Su Qing, you are the genius of our Ice-Dew Peak. What do you see in his frost?"

  Su Qing took a deep breath, her face a mask of icy indifference, exactly as Hua Sui had commanded. "He is but a hidden grain of sand, Elder. Perhaps a lucky encounter with a decayed legacy or a fragment of a lost manual found in the ruins of Blue Mist Peak. He is focused on destruction, not path-building. He is not worth your concern."

  Hua Sui's lips curled into a microscopic smile as he heard her words through their mental link. Excellent. The puppet was playing her part perfectly, using her status as the sect's darling to shield him from the full weight of the Elders' suspicion. For now, they would view him as a 'lucky deviant' rather than a 'forbidden threat.'

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  However, the peace was short-lived. As Hua Sui retreated toward the quieter, shadowed edges of the arena, a figure blocked his path. It was a core disciple from the Blood-Blade Peak, a man named Mo Yan. He was dressed in obsidian robes embroidered with crimson swords, and his reputation for cruelty was second only to his cultivation.

  "Stop right there, Han Ming," Mo Yan sneered. He stood a full head taller than Hua Sui, his hand resting on the hilt of a jagged, black sabre that pulsed with a faint, bloody light. "Zhao Kui was a loud-mouthed fool, but he belonged to our circle of 'Geniuses.' You didn't just defeat him; you destroyed his foundation and turned him into a cripple. Give me one reason why I shouldn't draw my blade and take your arm right here."

  Hua Sui stopped. He didn't look up, his eyes remained fixed on the shadow at his feet. "The arena has no eyes, Senior Brother Mo. If he was weak, he deserved to fall. If the sect wanted peace, they wouldn't have called this a tournament. If you want to avenge him, step onto the stage when the time comes."

  The air turned freezing in an instant. Mo Yan's face flushed with a dark, murderous rage. He was a Rank 6 cultivator, a man who had killed dozens in the sect's border wars. To be spoken to in such a manner by a "Rank 4" from a dead peak was an insult to his very bloodline.

  "You think your little trick will work on me?" Mo Yan hissed, leaning closer. The smell of copper and old blood drifted off him. "I've seen your 'Inverse Frost.' It feeds on spirit Qi. But my Blood-Slaying Qi doesn't just burn—它 (it) devours. I will enjoy watching you try to freeze my blood while I carve the meat from your bones."

  "I look forward to it," Hua Sui replied, his voice devoid of any human emotion. He walked past Mo Yan, his shoulder brushing against the core disciple's arm.

  In that split second of contact, Hua Sui didn't attack. He simply let a microscopic sliver of his Inverse Path pulse for a millisecond. Mo Yan flinched, a sharp, cold sting shooting through his arm, but when he looked down, there was no mark. He shook it off as a trick of the wind, unaware that a tiny shadow had already been planted in his sleeve.

  By the end of the day, the name Han Ming had spread through the outer sect like a wildfire. The "Ghost of Blue Mist" had become the dark horse of the tournament. But back in the Broken Soul Pavilion, Hua Sui was already preparing for the next harvest.

  He sat before his cauldron, his Rank 5 Late-Stage aura no longer suppressed. The energy he had plundered from Zhao Kui had been fully refined, feeding the Grey Seed until it glowed with a predatory, violet light. Every breath he took drew in the dark toxins of the pavilion, turning them into fuel for his twisted meridians.

  "The Foundation-Consolidating Pill is almost within reach," Hua Sui murmured to the shadows. The grey mist around his fingers began to take the shape of a jagged blade. "And the blood of these 'geniuses' will be the water that washes it down. Lu Tian, Mo Yan... you are all just ingredients for my ascension."

  The night deepened, and as the rest of the sect celebrated their victories with wine and laughter, the Inverse Immortal sat in the darkness, sharpening his spirit for the slaughter to come.