Lauren nodded. “Thanks for the explanation. I don’t have any friends in Moonlit Sect.”

  “Sending a letter to your family is fine,” the elder replied.

  Send a letter… to her family?

  After a pause, Lauren quietly wrote an anonymous note for her grandfather, just enough to let him know she was safe. He would recognize her handwriting. He always did.

  The middle-aged elder glanced at the address she’d left for the mission and froze. Mistvale? Who the hell would bother delivering something to a backwater like that?

  His mouth twitched. If nobody picks this up in three days, I’ll just raise the reward.

  Leaving the post behind, Lauren headed toward the library. But halfway there, she noticed disciples streaming past, all rushing in the same direction.

  She stopped one. “Hey, what’s happening?”

  “Moonlit Sect’s here to issue a challenge! Everyone’s heading over to watch.”

  “Moonlit Sect?”

  “Yes. Junior Sister, want to come? Let’s go together.”

  Lauren blinked. The boy she’d grabbed turned out to be unexpectedly warm-hearted—and shamelessly opportunistic. He carved a path through the dense crowd with practiced ease, dragging her into the front row. Along the way, he even explained what was going on.

  “See that one? The guy with the big cloud embroidered on his robes? That’s Timothy of Moonlit Sect. He’s not just one of their brightest talents, he’s one of the most gifted in the entire cultivation world. He’s got a rare dragon root.”

  The boy lowered his voice, reverent. “Junior Sister, do you know what dragon roots are? They say it’s the ancient dragon bloodline lingering in the mortal realm. Whatever element of spiritual power he cultivates, the others strengthen automatically. And his dragon blood makes him a monster physically—his opponents can barely scratch him. Look at that, he’s not even trying.”

  Of course Lauren knew.

  So this is him—Indiana’s fellow disciple. One of the brightest stars in the original novel.

  She’d never made it to the end of that story, so she wasn’t sure if Timothy was meant to be the male lead. But she remembered his endless appearances in Indiana’s tale—battles where he single-handedly crushed every so-called prodigy under Core Formation, winning fame everywhere he went.

  “Oh no, Sebastian’s in trouble,” her guide murmured.

  A heartbeat later, Lauren watched Timothy’s opponent get hurled across the stage like a rag doll. He didn’t even get back up.

  “Sebastian!”

  “Brother, are you alright?”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Cries of alarm rose from the crowd, but it was obvious—Sebastian was finished.

  Timothy clasped his hands with mock respect, bowing toward his fallen opponent. “Sebastian, thank you.”

  As the arena’s protective shield faded, attendants rushed to carry Sebastian off.

  Timothy straightened, his eyes scanning the audience. Then, with an infuriatingly pleasant smile, he said, “Anyone else care to challenge me? If not, I’ll be on my way to Divine Sword Sect.”

  A wave of anger rippled through the crowd. Strong or not, his arrogance was unbearable.

  “I’ll take you on!” A cultivator shot into the arena, face set in determination.

  Lauren didn’t recognize him.

  The boy beside Lauren leaned close, eyes shining. “That’s Dante from Cloud Peak. He’s already reached the Great Perfection of Foundation Establishment—just one step away from Core Formation. But he’s been suppressing his cultivation on purpose so he can qualify for the Hidden Mist Secret Realm in three years.”

  Lauren frowned. The name rang a bell, but only vaguely. She’d read too many books across two lifetimes; anything outside the main characters often blurred together.

  “Timothy’s only at the ninth level of Foundation Establishment,” she muttered.

  “Exactly,” her neighbor replied eagerly. “That’s the point. By keeping himself at ninth level and defeating every other elite of the same rank, he’s building a reputation far stronger than if he’d just hit Great Perfection.”

  He sighed heavily. “If Dante loses today, then in three years, when we all enter the Hidden Mist Secret Realm, every Foundation Establishment cultivator in Thunder Sect will be forced to call Timothy Big Brother.”

  Lauren knew the rule: cultivators of the same level could issue challenges, and whoever lost had to acknowledge the victor as Senior Brother or Sister. A hierarchy written in blood and bruises.

  Timothy wasn’t just fighting for glory. He was cementing authority over an entire generation before the Secret Realm even opened. In the original book, the Moonlit Sect party he led had plundered all the treasures, while the other sects were reduced to cannon fodder—half of them never making it back out.

  Lauren clenched her fists. Three years. I’ve got three years to catch up.

  On stage, Dante faltered. A heartbeat later, a spray of blood burst from his lips. The crowd gasped.

  “Shameless!” the boy next to her exclaimed. “Timothy knows his spiritual power and spellwork can’t match Dante’s, so he just keeps hammering him with brute force. Punch after punch, nothing but fists. Dante can’t get the distance to cast properly, and he can’t pierce Timothy’s iron skin. He’s doomed.”

  Another voice cut in, scoffing. “He’s not shameless—he’s smart. You said it yourself. Physical strength is his advantage. Why wouldn’t he use it?”

  Inside the shimmering barrier, there were no dazzling spells lighting up the arena—just the sickening crunch of flesh against flesh. Dante’s hands were shaking now, his knuckles split and bleeding.

  Lauren had seen enough to know how it ended. No one below Core Formation could beat Timothy head-on.

  “Junior Sister, why’d you look away?” the boy asked.

  “It’s bloody,” she said quietly. “I don’t need to see more. If Dante can’t get out of Timothy’s reach, he’s already lost.”

  The boy blinked, impressed. “You’ve got a sharp eye. What’s your name?”

  “Lauren,” she said with a smile. “And you?”

  “Nash, from Rain Peak.” He grinned, clearly pleased. “I like the way you see things. How about we become friends?”

  Starfell Summit was too isolated; she couldn’t afford to stay ignorant. Nash, by contrast, seemed like someone who always knew what was going on—and more importantly, someone who liked to talk.

  Lauren nodded. “Alright then, Nash. I’ll be counting on you.”

  “Don’t say count on me—it’s nothing like that.” He waved his hand modestly. “You’re new this year. If you’ve got questions, just ask.”

  He pulled out a sound transmission talisman, pressed his aura into it, and handed it over. “Here. Now you can reach me anytime.”

  Lauren accepted it with a smile and, out of courtesy, offered him one of hers. It wasn’t as good—something her grandfather had slipped into her storage bag. The Evercrest family’s handiwork.

  A sound transmission talisman was like a magical walkie-talkie. Quality determined range. Cheap ones barely carried across a sect’s grounds. The best could transmit tens of thousands of miles.

  Lauren’s was… serviceable. Barely.