Zhi Xuan chose to wait outside the arena, standing tall like a black devil among a crowd of mortals. His gaze was fixed straight ahead at the arena entrance, waiting for his turn to stain his hands with blood.

  'Red stones,' Zhi Xuan hummed in his mind. 'Do you think there are bigger bets inside?'

  'Of course, monkey,' Ruo Xianxue replied, her voice calm and containing a slight laugh. 'This is Young Master Gu's spectacle. Ten thousand spiritual jade coins are the grand prize, but the pleasure of seeing despair is what makes rich cultivators pay highly for main seats. They bet on who will die, and how they will die, not who will win.'

  Zhi Xuan clenched his jaw. The crowd around him jostled, a wave of excitement fueled by bloodshed and betting. He stood apart, his black-and-red robe contrasting with the shabby clothes of the other mortal participants. Although his aura was dimmed, his newly tempered mortal body radiated a cold silence, like a sword asleep in its sheath.

  'These mortals will die quickly and waste time,' a tranquil sigh was heard from Zhi Xuan. 'What if I take their share? With that, I can trick rich cultivators into betting more. Then, when the bets pile up and I win, I can reduce the number of these mortal deaths and give them the remaining bet money.'

  'An interesting idea. Stealing bets from Gu's hands and saving a few mortal trash at the same time? That is highly inefficient, Zhi Xuan. You are a monkey on the riverbank, not a Bodhisattva,' Ruo Xianxue scoffed, yet her tone hinted at interest.

  'I just want to save time and blood, Ruo,' Zhi Xuan replied coldly. 'I do not want to spend my night killing ten defenseless mortals, just to get to the main fight. If I take their share, I can force a significant fight sooner.'

  Zhi Xuan touched the piece of animal hide scroll in his hand; his number was twenty-seven. There were hundreds of participants registered. If each round only consisted of two duels, it would take until dawn.

  He stepped forward, approaching the area where sect cultivators serving as bookmakers were busy accepting bets from the arriving spectators. Among the spectators, Zhi Xuan recognized several expensive silk robes—Divine Wheel cultivators who seemed to be looking for cruel evening entertainment.

  "Bets! Bets! Who will die in the second duel? Fang Shi, the Butcher, or Wang Mei, the Iron Girl?" shouted a skinny bookmaker with an oily face, his voice hoarse from yelling.

  Zhi Xuan walked directly in front of the betting table. He pulled out one glittering silver coin from his pocket—his last remaining—and placed it on the table.

  "I want to bet," Zhi Xuan said, his voice calm, but with a clarity that cut through the surrounding noise. The bookmaker stared at him, then at Zhi Xuan's black-and-red robe. "Only spectators are allowed here, boy! Get back to your waiting area! And the minimum bet is one hundred gold coins!"

  "I am a participant," Zhi Xuan countered, pushing the animal hide scroll to the center of the table. "And my bet is on myself. I bet I will win ten consecutive matches, no matter who my opponent is, and I will do it without killing a single person. If I win, this silver coin will multiply, and all the prizes that were supposed to be won by my opponents will become mine. I am taking all their bets."

  A silence descended upon the betting area. The crowd of rich cultivators around the betting table turned, staring at the strange youth. A freshly tempered mortal, betting with his entire life.

  "Crazy! This boy wants to take the winning share of ten desperate mortals!" one spectator exclaimed.

  The fat bookmaker laughed heartily. "Ten consecutive matches? Without killing? You do not know the rules of this duel, boy! This duel continues until one can no longer stand, and usually that means death!"

  "Then tell all the mortals joining this duel. Become my opponent, and I will not hesitate to kill." Zhi Xuan finished his sentence with a cold tone, every word spoken with clear intent. His right eye stared sharply, while his pale left eye, almost emitting an icy sheen under the arena's dim light, added a layer of terrifying menace.

  "And, for the rich merchants who want to watch my duel. One thousand gold coins for each duel." Zhi Xuan added as his last remark. He knew that by boldly offering this, he was trying to rebel and make the rich merchants more interested in watching his duel.

  Zhi Xuan's cold sneer provoked a rapid reaction. The fat cultivator guarding the betting table, known as Bookmaker Hu, stopped his laughter.

  "You are crazy, boy," Bookmaker Hu hissed, observing Zhi Xuan carefully. "You are betting on yourself, claiming all your opponents' prizes, and you are raising the spectacle bet to one thousand gold coins? Who do you think you are? Young Master Gu himself?"

  Around the betting table, the silence turned into excited murmurs, which quickly attracted attention from other corners. A bet like this, made by the participant himself, was unprecedented. It was a new form of brutal entertainment.

  A cultivator in a golden silk robe, sitting on a nearby bench and looking like a rich merchant, grinned widely. "Interesting! Crazy risk, but great potential. Young Master Gu will not let this challenge slip by."

  Zhi Xuan stood tall amidst the sudden calming noise, letting his cold aura—as if he were a devil shadow walking among mortals—create a deadly contrast.

  "Young Master Gu only provides a spectacle. I provide a Bloody Fight Worth Remembering," Zhi Xuan countered, his tone flat yet cutting sharply, as if he had just slapped Young Master Gu's face. "And I am not asking Bookmaker Hu to bear the risk. I am asking Bookmaker Hu to record this bet."

  Bookmaker Hu, sensing pressure that came not from spiritual power but from pure resolve. He knew very well that every interesting and deadly bet would yield huge profits for his master's coffers.

  "Alright, boy," Bookmaker Hu decided, a cunning smirk appearing on his face. "I will record it. Participant number twenty-seven. Betting one silver coin, demanding the right to take all prizes of the next ten opponents, and raising the spectacle bet to one thousand gold coins per duel."

  "Bet accepted!" Bookmaker Hu shouted, hitting the wooden hammer on the table. "Who dares to bet against this crazy claim?"

  Suddenly, the bets that were originally about Fang Shi and Wang Mei were forgotten. All eyes were now focused on Zhi Xuan.

  A cultivator in a sea-blue silk robe, exuding a strong Three-Foundation Transformation aura, stepped forward. He was Young Master Wei, one of the heirs of a large trading company in Shoutuo, known for his love of gambling and watching cruelty.

  "I like this monkey's guts!" Young Master Wei exclaimed, throwing three spiritual jade coins—the equivalent of three hundred gold coins—onto the table. "I bet three hundred gold coins that this boy will not reach the fifth match, and he will kill at least one person before that. Hu, add this bet to the mortal prize pot he is aiming for. If I win, the money will be returned to Young Master Gu!"

  "Recorded!" Bookmaker Hu shouted, his face beaming because of the spiritual jade coins.

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  The atmosphere intensified. The other rich cultivators, who were initially just looking for light entertainment, were now drawn in by the much larger drama.

  "I bet one hundred gold coins! He will kill at least three people out of panic when he starts to tire!"

  "I do not care about the killing. I just want to see his arrogance shattered! I bet fifty gold coins that he will lose in the second duel! His opponent is Fang Shi the Butcher, who is notoriously cruel!"

  Bookmaker Hu was busy recording, his hands moving quickly. Within minutes, side bets targeting Zhi Xuan's failure had reached over three thousand gold coins.

  As the crowd of rich cultivators was busy with their new bets, a wave of anger began to surge among the mortal participants who had been waiting for hours. Ten figures jostled, crawling out of the crowd of participants, their faces darkened by a combination of desperation and misguided rage.

  They were the participants with numbers around Zhi Xuan—mortals who now potentially stood to lose the grand prize, even if they managed to kill their own opponents.

  "You! Arrogant boy!"

  The hoarse voice came from a sturdy middle-aged man, with red eyes and a robe wet with sweat. He was Jiang Lei, a farmer who lost his land, who had the number twenty-nine. Behind him stood nine other mortals, including the young woman called Miss Ling and the muscular man who tried to register.

  "Who are you, coming here and taking our hope?" Jiang Lei roared, spitting on the ground. "We came to win ten thousand spiritual jade coins for our families! Who do you think you are, betting with our prize without permission?"

  Miss Ling stepped forward, her hands clenched. Her eyes radiated a dangerous fire. "You call this saving blood? You call this saving time? You are just a child who wants to play hero! The prize we win with blood, you will steal with just arrogant words!"

  A skinny man, with eyes exactly like the man Zhi Xuan saw outside, also shouted. "I am fighting for my brother's school fees to the sect! Even if I die, my prize will make my family happy! You have no right to take it!"

  The ten mortals surrounded Zhi Xuan. Their pure aura of desperation and anger was more piercing than a cultivator's spiritual pressure.

  Zhi Xuan stood amidst the ten angry mortals, as calm as a stone pillar in a storm. He did not move, showed no fear, and his dimmed aura only radiated a deeper silence, making their anger feel like futile screams in the desert.

  "You are not worthy; you will only waste the entertainment for the rich merchants," Zhi Xuan said, his tone cold and deliberate. "The young masters and rich merchants surely want to see an interesting spectacle, not a chicken strangled by its own claws."

  Zhi Xuan looked at the faces surrounding him one by one—faces filled with desperation, sacrifice, and blind rage. He saw the shadow of his father, the shadow of his younger self when he was still mortal, in their eyes. However, he had to act with a cold mind.

  "You are not worthy," Zhi Xuan said, his tone cold and deliberate, "you will only waste the entertainment for the rich merchants. The young masters and rich merchants surely want to see an interesting spectacle, not a chicken strangled by its own claws."

  Jiang Lei, the man wet with sweat and anger, roared. "You insult us! You will fight bare-handed against Fang Shi the Butcher! You will die first, boy!"

  "Quiet down, you mortal rats!" Bookmaker Hu shouted from behind the betting table, worried that the commotion would ruin the spectacle. "Participant number twenty-seven, leave them and return to your waiting area!"

  Zhi Xuan nodded at Bookmaker Hu, stepping forward to return to the waiting area, but his cold eye glanced briefly at the skinny youth, giving a meaningful look before walking away.

  That gaze was a silent promise. A promise that the prize the youth was aiming for would not be lost in vain, even if it had to pass through a bloody path.

  As Zhi Xuan turned his back on the ten angry mortals, their rage reached its peak. They felt trampled upon, their last hope snatched away by the arrogance of a young man.

  "Stop him!" Jiang Lei roared. "Do not let him leave! He insulted all of us!"

  Two mortals standing closest to Zhi Xuan immediately lunged. They carried no weapons but used fists and raw physical strength. One of them, a large muscular man with scars on his face, swung a massive fist toward Zhi Xuan's head. The other tried to ambush him from behind.

  Zhi Xuan did not need to turn around. The body tempering last night, refined by the Heavenly Samsara Wheel, had sharpened his every sense. He felt the swirl of air from the fist coming toward the side of his head.

  WHSSHH!

  His movement was lightning-fast. He ducked with minimal movement, avoiding the first fist by a hair's breadth. The large fist passed through the air where his head had been a fraction of a second ago. Without pause, his left foot pivoted on the dirty arena floor.

  With a single movement, he rotated his foot and kicked the chests of the two mortals. Causing them to be thrown backward and fall sprawling. Zhi Xuan stood upright again, allowing his black-and-red robe to sway momentarily, covering the fighting skill he had just displayed. His movement of evasion and counter-attack was so fast, so efficient, that even a Three-Foundation Transformation cultivator like Young Master Wei watching from afar narrowed his eyes in surprise.

  The two mortals who fell sprawling, the muscular man and his friend, groaned in pain. They were not seriously hurt—the strike was not meant to kill—but the impact felt like being hit by an invisible sledgehammer. They gasped for breath, their chests aching and shocked by the sudden force.

  Silence fell over the registration area.

  The other mortal participants retreated a step, shock replacing anger in their eyes. They had just realized that this youth they considered arrogant, despite being 'one-eyed blind' and looking young, possessed physical strength that surpassed the average.

  "Boy! What are you doing?!" Bookmaker Hu roared, immediately rising from his chair. "No fighting in the registration area! You will be disqualified!"

  "I was only defending myself, Bookmaker Hu," Zhi Xuan replied, his voice calm. "They attacked me without reason. I did not use any spiritual essence. This is a bare-handed duel. If they cannot stand after two bare-handed strikes, how can they survive in the arena?"

  The argument, although arrogant, was logical. The duel's rule was bare hands; if a participant could take down an opponent outside the arena with only a bare-handed strike, it proved his physical capability.

  Jiang Lei, the man who had led the protest, now retreated slowly. He looked at his sprawling friend and realized: this youth had restrained himself. If he wanted to kill, the two men would be dead.

  Miss Ling, the Iron Girl, was the only one who showed no fear. Her sharp eyes flashed with challenge. She smirked, a cynical smile full of acknowledgment.

  "Interesting," Miss Ling whispered, her voice containing reluctant respect. "You have a good punch, boy. But in the arena, you will not hold back. I will make sure of that."

  Zhi Xuan ignored Miss Ling, pivoted on his heel, and continued his walk toward the waiting area. He stepped through the entrance to the arena area, leaving the emotional and physical chaos behind him.

  The waiting area was cold and gloomy, a narrow stone corridor beneath the spectators' stands. The faint smell of long-dried blood wafted from the cracks in the stone floor. Dozens of participants sat in tense silence, each immersed in their own fear or hope.

  Zhi Xuan immediately sought a spot in the corner, away from the low-level cultivators also present in this area. He sat leaning against the damp stone wall. His movements were calm, but his entire body felt tense. He simply closed his eyes, letting his own voice disappear amidst the murmurs and groans of the other participants.

  'Two strikes to take down two men. Not bad for a freshly tempered mortal body, monkey,' Ruo Xianxue commented, her tone now filled with satisfaction. 'You managed to take over the stage even before the duel began. Young Master Gu must be watching you now.'

  'That is exactly what I want,' Zhi Xuan countered internally, keeping his breath steady. 'He will force a stronger opponent on me. This will save time and the blood of those desperate people.'

  BOOOM! BOOM! BOOOM!

  The sound of drums, the wild cheers of the spectators, and the clash of metal immediately filled the air, even penetrating the thick stone walls around him.

  A sect cultivator serving as an escort, wearing a plain gray robe, shouted from the middle of the corridor.

  "Participants Number One and Number Two! Enter the North Arena! Mortal Duel to the Death! First Fight Announced!"

  The corridor was silent for a moment, then two men stood up from a dark corner, their eyes filled with horror. They exchanged desperate glances, then limped towards the tunnel leading to the arena.

  Zhi Xuan closed his eyes. He did not need to see. He could hear everything.

  SHHHIIK! The sound of a sword being drawn, even though this was supposed to be a bare-handed duel, indicated a permissible violation or a smuggled hidden weapon. Ouch! A short cry of pain. Then, the sound of flesh colliding, groans, and wild laughter from the stands.

  The fight lasted only for five minutes. At the end, the drums were beaten three times, followed by deafening cheers.

  "Number Two Wins! Number One falls! The grand prize of ten thousand silver coins is handed over! Second Duel Begins Immediately!" the announcer's voice yelled.

  'A disgraceful fight,' Ruo Xianxue scoffed. 'They fought like two dogs snatching a bone.'

  'They fought for their lives, Ruo,' Zhi Xuan countered, without emotion.

  One by one, the duels continued. Zhi Xuan listened intently, sealing himself off from emotion, and focusing only on the rhythm. He observed how quickly the participants tired, what kind of movements they used, and the moments of silence before the fatal blow.