“Thunder Sect’s senior disciple, huh? The so-called number one of your sect’s Foundation Establishment?” Timothy sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “What a joke. You issue the challenge yourself, then tuck your tail between your legs when it’s time to fight. Looks like Thunder Sect’s legacy is about to end with your generation.”

  He clicked his tongue, shaking his head theatrically.

  “Tsk, tsk… not a single one of you is worth a damn.”

  The crowd around them started piling on.

  “If you don’t dare accept, just admit defeat and call him Senior Brother. Everyone knows Senior Brother Timothy’s the strongest.”

  “That’s right! Senior Brother Timothy is the number one among all righteous sect disciples!”

  The praise made Timothy all but float off the ground. His smugness radiated like a second sun.

  The Thunder Sect disciples looked sour, but they weren’t the only ones. Members of the Calculation Sect and the Divine Sword Sect were watching from the sidelines, faces equally grim. Timothy had challenged them before—once he was done humiliating Dante, he’d likely turn on them next.

  “Brother, what do we do?” one whispered.

  “Shh. Wait and see,” the other muttered.

  Just as Dante followed Timothy toward the hill outside town, a figure suddenly stepped into their path.

  Lauren.

  Her voice was calm, almost casual, but it cut through the noise like a blade.

  “You do have an advantage,” she said evenly, “but you’re not invincible.”

  Timothy’s eyes narrowed. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

  “Little—” one of the Thunder Sect disciples started, but Lauren silenced him with a quick gesture. She wasn’t about to use her identity as Drake’s disciple to force Timothy back. That would only breed resentment.

  “Thunder Sect. Lauren.”

  Timothy snorted. “Lauren? Never heard of you. Move.”

  But she didn’t budge.

  “Dante won’t fight you,” she said firmly. “He’s leading the team tomorrow, and if you cripple him now, everyone here knows what that means. It wouldn’t just hurt Thunder Sect—it would hand the Hidden Mist Secret Realm to Moonlit Sect on a silver platter.”

  That landed.

  People in the crowd exchanged glances. Watching a fight for fun was one thing. But letting Moonlit Sect dominate the secret realm? Nobody wanted that.

  Timothy’s lip curled. “What’s this? Too scared to fight, so you trot out excuses?”

  “Scared? Hardly.” Lauren’s gaze didn’t waver. “If it’s a fight you want, I’ll fight you.”

  Timothy blinked, then burst into laughter. “You? Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “Me.”

  The Thunder Sect disciples’ faces drained of color.

  “No—,” Dante blurted, catching himself before he said too much. “I swore to Master I’d protect you. How could I stand by and let you fight before we’ve even stepped into the secret realm? What if—”

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  Lauren raised a hand, cutting him off.

  “Dragon spiritual roots,” she said quietly, her voice meant for Dante’s ears alone. “The bloodline of an ancient divine dragon. That’s his edge. At lower realms, his advantage is overwhelming. There’s no shame in losing now. But when you advance, when that edge evens out—you’ll crush him. Without question.”

  Dante froze, her words sinking in. His fists clenched, then slowly loosened. He wanted to bow in gratitude, but caught himself just in time.

  “Ms. Lauren,” he said, voice thick. “You’re right. I was letting pride cloud my judgment. But still—you mustn’t fight him. Not here. Not now. He’ll tear you apart.”

  Drake had told her from the very beginning: defeat him.

  And for Lauren, reborn with a purpose, killing this group of so-called protagonists was her goal.

  But there was another reason—one that mattered far more.

  Timothy’s little show wasn’t just arrogance. It was calculated. He’d deliberately provoked the senior brothers of the great sects, hoping to cripple them openly before they ever set foot in the Hidden Mist Secret Realm.

  Why? Because Timothy carried a mission.

  A hundred years ago, Moonlit Sect disciples had stumbled upon the boundary marker of the Hidden Mist Secret Realm. But they hadn’t been ready to claim it. For the last century, they’d been planning, waiting for this exact moment. Timothy’s role was to clear the competition, secure the boundary marker, and deliver the realm to Moonlit Sect alone—turning it into their private training ground.

  In the original timeline, he succeeded. Moonlit Sect soared to power while the rest of the righteous sects watched in envy.

  Not this time. Not if Lauren had anything to say about it.

  “Then let’s give it a try,” she said flatly. “If we can’t beat him, so be it. But I’ll never call him Senior Brother.”

  Across the continent, only one man stood above all others: the Immortal Venerable. Everyone else, no matter how proud, bowed their heads before him. Lauren alone was his disciple. Only she could humble Timothy.

  The tension in the air broke. Faces in the crowd relaxed, some even looked relieved.

  “Let’s go,” Lauren said, and without waiting another breath, she launched into the air, streaking toward the hill outside town.

  Timothy followed with a predator’s grin.

  At a flick of his wrist, one of his juniors pulled out a bundle of formation flags.

  “To keep from disturbing the town,” Timothy said smoothly, “shall we set up a small ring? Lauren, do you mind?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The flags landed in the four corners. A shimmering barrier rose into the sky, enclosing them in a tight arena.

  Nash cursed under his breath. “Timothy, you bastard. What kind of duel space is this?”

  Everyone could see the trap. Timothy excelled in brute force, but his spellwork lagged behind. The righteous sect disciples all cultivated spellcraft—and Timothy had deliberately shrunk the arena to strangle their advantage.

  This wasn’t provocation. This was a plan.

  Whispers rippled through the crowd.

  “Do they mean to cripple the other sects before the secret realm even opens?”

  “Does Moonlit Sect really want to take the realm for themselves?”

  The faces of the other sect elites darkened.

  Timothy only smirked, spreading his hands. “Apologies for the cramped quarters. I’m afraid my facilities are limited. If anyone has a grander dueling field, I’d be happy to borrow it.”

  Not a soul answered. Who would carry around something like that? Only someone who came planning to cheat.

  Nash and the Thunder Sect disciples cursed from outside the barrier.

  Lauren’s expression didn’t change. Her voice was cool, detached, like ice water. “No problem. I’m not picky about the venue.”

  Inside the shimmering ring, the two faced each other, Timothy looking her over like a merchant inspecting a piece of jade.

  So young. So beautiful. And that cultivation… she reminded him of a fellow disciple back home, the Jade Phoenix Marrow Body who’d been Moonlit Sect’s rising star.

  He frowned. Were all these gifted female cultivators starting to look the same?

  “You just said your name is—”

  Before he could finish, silver light split the air.

  Lauren’s sword was already in motion.

  Timothy’s eyes widened. An innate spirit treasure? At Foundation Establishment?

  He twisted aside, barely dodging the slash. Even so, the sword’s icy aura brushed him, chilling him to the marrow.

  Ice roots, he realized. No wonder she looked like a snow goddess.

  But when his boots touched down, his blood froze again. Ice bloomed across the ground, creeping up his legs in jagged vines.

  Lauren’s hands blurred through seals. With each gesture, the frost surged higher, the vines snaking up his calves, thickening, tightening.

  Timothy’s expression snapped into focus. He roared, shattering the ice with brute force, and shot into the sky.

  But when he looked down, the entire arena floor had blossomed into a field of glimmering ice flowers.

  Timothy sneered. “So that’s your trick. Flashy, but wasteful. You’ve already burned through half your spiritual energy just making an entrance. What happens when you’re empty? How will you fight me then?”