Zhao Feichen whispered, "The items being refined in that furnace are top-tier props—even for you, the success rate falls short of three in ten. I've decided to take this one. Should he be the official steward, I'll simply treat as if I didn't know him." "Just decide," Li San Yue smiled, lazily rose to her feet, and stood among the crowd, speaking clearly, "I will act as both witness and guarantor, and draft a contract. Any party who breaches it shall be dealt with personally." After both parties nodded, she reached into her inventory and pulled out an ancient, yellowed scroll of sheepskin, swiftly unfurling it and said, "Clause 1: No skills or props of level six or above—including level six—may be used." "Clause 2: No retreat allowed; the match shall follow the rules of the arena, with clear winners and losers." "Clause 3: No assistance may be sought from outside personnel unrelated to the match." With each sentence, a rule appeared on the scroll, the characters twisting and curling like tadpoles, their origin language indistinct. After briefly explaining the three clauses of the agreement, she turned to Zhang Yuanqing and the middle-aged swordsman, "Come forward and sign. Just press your seal, and it's done." The middle-aged swordsman stepped forward briskly, pressing his thumb against the document below, then turned to gaze coldly at Zhang Yuanqing. Zhang Yuanqing returned, walked over to Lian San Yue, and whispered, "Since you're his aunt, you should tell him who I really am!" He didn't press his seal, making one final effort. He himself was reluctant to reveal his identity—here, the situation was complex, with many evil factions present. If the news of his appearance here reached the sages, or even the sovereigns, within the evil organization, it would bring about significant complications and risks. Being in a foreign land, not on his own turf, caution was paramount. "Why should I tell him?" Lian San Yue exhaled a stream of white mist. This woman... Zhang Yuanqing studied her closely, and suddenly, his image of Li Chunfeng became clearer. Lian San Yue said, "If I'm away, all my words are for nothing. Believe me, even if you tell him your identity, Zhao Feichen will still snatch you away." How arrogant and self-assured—this spoiled child, accustomed to being treated this way, now cleverly leveraging the rules, and yet, she feels she's right? Zhang Yuanqing said nothing, simply pressed her seal on the parchment. On the worn, ancient parchment, the script resembling tadpoles lit up one by one. Two thumbprints emerged, releasing a steady stream of white vapor—some unseen force now witnessed the contract, and any party who breached it would face strict penalties. Lian San Yue folded the parchment and turned to her nephew, a few paces away. "Bring me the fire stones." Zhao Feichen reached out, brushed his stall, and produced ten dark-red stones, neatly arranged in a straight line. Lian San Yue brushed again, and the stones were gathered into her hands. "Go to the arena," she said, glancing around at the onlookers with a warm smile. "Those who wish to watch the match—don't forget to purchase tickets. They cost twenty thousand each." "Having said that, she walked gracefully out of the greenhouse, holding her cigar, heading toward the venue behind the Black Market. The three sturdy men in charge of crowd management called out loudly: 'Please come here to purchase your tickets.' Instantly, the crowd surged, guests who had been browsing the Black Market rushed toward the three men, while stall owners quickly gathered their valuable goods and joined the line to buy tickets. A Saint-Level battle was a rare event. Even at a price of 200,000 per ticket, they would gladly attend—let alone pay double. Typically, the fighters on the arena were Transcendent Travelers, and Saint-Level participants were nearly unheard of. With tickets priced at 200,000, there were surely over a hundred attendees here—amounting to nearly 20 million yuan. As competitors, shouldn't they receive a share of the revenue? Zhang Yuanqing listened quietly, silently marveling at how profitable the Black Market truly was. It made sense, then, that this one could produce so many props even within just three months. For three consecutive months, her movements have been especially exaggerated as she walks, yet her pace remains slow. When Zhang Yuqing finally caught up to her at the arena, already over a dozen Lingjing Xingzhe had purchased tickets and hurried in. Below the platform, seasoned spectators maintained a distance of more than ten meters, observing from afar. As the crowd grew denser, the noise grew lively and bustling. "Madam, why don't you take the lead and organize a game for us all?" "What's there to bet on? Zhao Feichun has already won. His bodyguard is a fifth-level swordsman—when it comes to close combat, swordsman rankings are among the top three. Plus, the Zhao family has ample resources to support him, and with the swordsmanship's weaknesses addressed, he's as solid as a mountain." "Are you serious? Didn't you hear just now? That young man is just as well-equipped as anyone—otherwise, how could he have poured so many items into that broken furnace?" "The young man's energy clearly falls short of the swordsman's. And if this is a real challenge, wouldn't you think Madam should have reminded her nephew? "If you bring it up, I'll have to speak up— I heard that even in the third month, relations between her and the head of the Zhao family have been extremely strained. Don't ask me why; if you do, I can't explain. But believe me, I'm a native of this area." Amid the bustling crowd, Zhao Feichen held two female companions, a cold smile playing at his lips. Indeed, his aunt has been at odds with the Zhao family, and especially with his grandfather, who has been at loggerheads with her. As his father put it, she was born with a rebellious spirit—difficult, stubborn, and independent—refusing to accept family directives or arrangements from childhood, living entirely on her own terms, unconstrained by any expectations. His grandfather, on the other hand, is a strong-willed patriarch who simply couldn't tolerate such a daughter. Thus, their relationship has grown increasingly tense. Zhao Feichen doesn't particularly feel close to his aunt, since she left the Zhao household when she was young and hadn't seen her in person for a full year. Yet, the Wanbao House is a valuable place—he frequently visits there to gather information, discover hidden gems, and exchange items. As his thoughts danced, he saw the young man leap onto the broad platform and immediately turned to the middle-aged swordsman beside him, saying, "That boy must be carrying several items of saint-tier quality. Before he goes on stage, I'd like to ask one more thing—what else do you still need? As long as I have it, take it." The middle-aged man stroked his long sword in his arms and shook his head slightly. "My current items are sufficient. You can't offer me anything of the highest caliber. Besides, a true swordsman only needs to be deeply devoted to the sword." Zhao Feichen nodded gently. "Go then." When the middle-aged swordsman stepped onto the platform, Zhao Feichen looked down and whispered a few words to one of his companions. The beautiful young woman nodded and pushed through the crowd, hurrying off. Zhao Feichen watched her go until she was out of sight, then turned his gaze back, his lips curling into a cold, composed smile. His grandfather had always said: always prepare for two scenarios. Though he had great confidence in his bodyguards, he also needed to consider the consequences of failure and the potential losses. This kid, even if he doesn't die at Wàn Bǎo Wū today, won't be able to leave Huá Dū. Just a brief remark did he make to his companion: "Go get my father!" He'd simply pass the matter on to the elders and let them make the decision. I'm facing an opponent with high output, high agility, and balanced defense and recovery—my memory serves me right—the swordsmanship passive skills, Steel Will and Break the Curse, perfectly counter怨灵's possession... It's not easy to handle. Ah, the Night-Wanderer is strong at the Transcendent Realm, but by the time he reaches the Star Official rank, despite being level 4, he seems to falter. While Starcraft and Starflight are effective, they fall short in direct confrontation. Suddenly, he has a sudden inspiration—what if Starcraft is used in a truly optimal way? That is, by arranging and combining props to formulate a clear strategy, then opening his Star-Eye to observe the opponent's facial expression. If the opponent's厄宫is marked by blood-light, the plan is sound. Otherwise, revise the plan. In theory, this approach is sound—perhaps this is indeed the true essence of Starcraft. As a peak-combat profession, the Night-Wanderer should not be so weak at the Saint Realm. With this thought, Zhang Yuanqing opens his Star-Eye and examines the middle-aged swordsmanship's facial expression. He must have defensive and restorative items. I'll first break through his defenses as a werewolf, then combine fire, poison, and curse items to counteract his restorative effects—quickly formulating a plan and rehearsing the steps in his mind. Yet the middle-aged swordsman's expression remained unchanged; the clouds gathered, but there was no sign of bloodshed. It seems his imagination has fallen short, though his strategy appears sound. He'll now fight while probing—no longer hesitating, he activates the Night-Wanderer technique to vanish from sight. "The Night-Wanderer!" gasps the crowd around the arena. Is this young man from the Taimei Sect? Zhao Feichen doesn't grow impatient—he's actually delighted. Compared to the Five-Element Alliance's vast scale and influence, the Taimei Sect is far less prominent, and its master holds himself in high regard, largely because the Night-Wanderer is often irreplaceable. But for the Five-Element Alliance, and especially for the Zhao family, as a commonly used phrase goes: "What good is the Night-Wanderer to me?" He's completely unfazed. The mid-level swordsman drew his long sword with a sharp *clang*. The blade was a deep crimson, not forged of steel, exuding a fierce aura of sharpness and aggression—powerful enough to shatter spiritual bodies and unsettle the mind. Drawing the sword, he swiftly retreated, sweeping it horizontally before him. A sweeping arc of crimson sword energy roared forth, clearing the entire arena. A fifth-level swordsman can generate sword energy capable of countering ranged attackers—this is the key distinction between fourth- and fifth-level swordsmen. A *ding* sound followed, and a figure tumbled out of the air, clutching a short blade in a defensive stance. It was Zhang Yuanqing. The short blade, collected over the past few days as extraordinary items, had been shattered by the force of the sword energy. The mid-level swordsman narrowed his eyes, ready to advance, when a sudden rushing sound came from behind. More enemies? Ah—ghost corpses! He instantly realized, his heart quickening, and slid sideways. Just then, the middle-aged swordsman noticed the night-wandering youth. He brushed a hand across his face, and a golden lacquer at the center of his brow flared, spreading rapidly across his entire face to form a stern, dignified mask. His spirit trembled, fear and panic rising, and he forgot to resist. Yet these negative emotions vanished moments later, his steel resolve standing firm against the awe-inspiring presence of the golden mask. The rushing sound of impact had already reached his head; he had no time to dodge, and instead grasped a clay figure he had molded from yellow soil. "Boom!" The blood rosebloom's attack struck like a blow against a thick sandbag, rippling out in golden waves. She was pushed back by the recoil force, while the middle-aged swordsman remained motionless. The swordsman then withdrew the clay figure, drawing his sword to strike the blood rosebloom's neck—only for her to have already rolled sideways and flipped aside, evading the decapitating blow. This was not due to the blood rosebloom's keen anticipation, but rather Zhang Yuanqing's earlier command for a timely retreat. Indeed, a defensive item befitting a soil-based monster profession—"the heavy price" I've come to know all too well. After testing one item, Zhang Yuanqing's thoughts flickered, and the Blood Rhododendron was already pressed into peril by the middle-aged swordsman. Steady as a mountain, yet fierce as a flame—the swordsman rarely granted his opponent a moment to breathe. "Pfft, pfft, pfft…" The crimson sword continuously cleaved deep wounds into the Blood Rhododendron. Though the enchanting spirit excels in close combat, it simply couldn't match the prowess of a fifth-level swordsman. Within a tight span of three or four seconds, the Blood Rhododendron was nearly decapitated several times. Even as a shade, it was already suffering severe damage—imagine what it would be like if it were flesh and blood. Clearly, a fourth-level spiritual traveler, once brought within striking distance of a fifth-level swordsman, could be decided upon within mere tens of seconds. Cheers erupted from the audience. Zhao Feichun smiled with satisfaction, his face beaming with pride. The woman beside him softly remarked, "So impressive," "Master will surely win," and so Zhang Yuanqing expelled a surge of Taiyin energy, and the powerful Yin qi swiftly spread out, surging and swirling. Within the rippling Yin energy, a figure dressed in a red bridal gown gradually emerged, drifting toward the middle-aged swordsman. The swordsman drew back, drawing a deep, resonant breath. As the ghost bride reached his back, her form stiffened, then was pierced through the body by the crimson long sword. "Ah!" she cried out, her body hissing black smoke. Facing a swordsman renowned for his decisive strikes and equipped with a passive ability to dispel calamities, the 4th-level spirit of resentment proved insufficient—Zhang Yuanqing had anticipated this, having summoned the ghost bride precisely to buy time. A soft, triangular red hat was then flung toward the blood rose. The blood rose reached out and caught it, placing it upon her head. Instantly, her form surged upward, her body expanding until it tore through her garments, and golden, sharp hair—like steel needles—grew from her pale skin. Triangular ears emerge atop the head, the lower half of the face elongates, black pupils transform into golden, feline-like eyes, hands and feet take on a canine form, and sharp, pointed claws extend. In an instant, the Blood Rose becomes a towering golden werewolf, reaching four meters high, with molten lava cascading from its interlocking fangs. Flame Mage Wolf! "What is this?" "Is it a spirit beast?" "Never heard of a spirit beast being a wolf before..." A wave of astonishment spreads across the audience. While most attendees are extraordinary, a few are even saints with refined perspectives, including some evil-class practitioners. Yet none have ever witnessed a werewolf. Zhao Feichen narrowed his eyes, gently pushing aside his companion, silently gazing at the werewolf on stage. Even from a distance of over ten meters, the creature's aura sent shivers and a profound sense of fear through him. Transformation? Not quite. This was an entirely unfamiliar form—what kind of artifact could this be? With a steady gaze, he observed the werewolf for three months, his interest deepening. As a master of artifact crafting, she held a deep interest in all special items. During the transformation of the Blood Rose into a werewolf, Zhang Yuanqing stood at the edge of the arena, her star-eyed gaze fixed upon the middle-aged swordsman's facial expression. Clouds gathering over his face, with a hint of bloodlight, indicated that the werewolf posed a serious threat—but seemingly one that could not kill him. Zhang Yuanqing now had a clear sense of the situation and immediately issued an order for attack. The flame-werewolf, eager to engage, had already strained his strong, slender hind legs, and with a crisp "crack," the arena's floor tiles split. In a flash of motion, the towering figure surged forward, charging fiercely at the middle-aged swordsman. The swordsman moved with steady grace, having already mapped out the werewolf's path through his keen observation. He stepped smoothly to the left, perfectly evading the charge, then advanced with his sword across his waist. The crimson blade sliced deeply across the flame-werewolf's thigh, leaving a gash, yet no bone was struck. The werewolf's defense was remarkably strong—despite the swordsman's skill in piercing armor, he could only cut through They passed each other by. The middle-aged swordsman glanced at the enemy standing at the edge of the arena, confirming it was no illusion, then swiftly turned and launched a streak of crimson sword energy. The blade energy swept across several meters, striking the magical wolf that had just turned around, carving a deep gash. The flame wolf roared in fury, inflated its belly, and suddenly opened its mouth, spewing out tongues of fire mixed with molten lava, instantly engulfing the middle-aged swordsman. Yet the next instant, the swordsman reappeared on the opposite side. How could such slow, deliberate attacks possibly reach the swordsman? Throughout the ensuing moments, the middle-aged swordsman moved with fluid agility, constantly shifting and dodging—though always reacting, often retreating rather than advancing, no longer displaying his earlier strength. Yet the flame wolf’s attacks consistently missed. The wolf’s famed agility offered no advantage against a swordsman skilled in close combat and equipped with keen observation. In fact, as the swordsman dodged, he frequently managed to strike or cut, steadily accumulating wounds upon the wolf’s body. Accumulate little by little, gradually mastering this monster. Zhao Feichun, seated in the audience, exhaled in relief, once again drawing his companion close, gently caressing the poised, alluring figure of the young woman while admiring the battle unfolding on stage. Zhang Yuqing observed intently from the side, absorbing every strength and weakness of both parties. With the wolf's offensive power, it would not be difficult to penetrate his defensive gear—yet he must first compel him to halt and deploy it. The wolf was swift and agile, but that would not suffice. To force him to use his defenses, I would have to intervene myself. First, I would sacrifice myself, causing him to bleed, then coordinate the magical wolf's attacks to compel him to activate his defenses. After that… Zhang Yuqing, drawing upon his own tools and abilities, swiftly formulated a strategy to defeat the opponent. Once his thoughts were clear, maintaining his star-eyed awareness, he observed the blood-lit glow enveloping the eyes of the middle-aged swordsman. Indeed, it worked! He felt a surge of satisfaction—both having secured a method to overcome the opponent and confirming the effectiveness of his application of stargazing techniques. At once, he cast a magical illusion, leaving a false form behind, while subtly practicing the art of nocturnal movement to vanish from sight. The middle-aged swordsman, constantly alert, immediately sensed the shift in focus, his steel resolve complemented by his insight technique, specifically countering illusions. He promptly launched an arcing blade of energy across the arena, sweeping the entire space in an attempt to compel the star official to appear. Yet, the blade surged beyond the platform, sweeping past the heads of the onlookers below, weakening and dissipating after extending over fifty meters—without striking a single thing. Nothing was severed. Almost instantly, Zhang Yuanqing, wearing a yellow mask and stepping on a pair of plain black running shoes, materialized behind him, driving his short blade into the middle-aged swordsman's back. How did he evade the blade's sweep? The speed was astonishing. The middle-aged swordsman's pupils constricted dramatically. While the insight technique could anticipate threats, it could not foresee the hidden opponent. Moreover, the speed the star official unleashed upon nearing him was even comparable to that of a peer-level enchanting spirit. The mid-career swordsman tried to parry, dodge, and counter—already too late—could only twist slightly to avoid his back. "Plunged!" The short blade successfully pierced his body. The sharp pain caused his hair to stand on end, but under the strength of his steel resolve, he quickly steadied himself, remained calm, and resolved to seize this rare opportunity to close the distance and strike the star official. To show him how foolish it was to launch a close-range assault on a swordsman. Yet at that moment, he noticed the magical wolf opened its mouth, and flames surged from deep within its throat. With no choice, he reached into his inventory to summon a clay figure, shielding his body. Zhang Yuanqing, meanwhile, transformed into a shimmering cascade of starlight, evading the flames. He need not dodge—his unyielding guardian mirror protected his core, rendering the wolf’s fire harmless. Yet he wished to preserve the bloodstains on his blade. The flame, mingled with molten lava, devoured the middle-aged swordsman. The intense heat licked at the protective aura, turning the earth-elemental energy shield a deep, vibrant red, yet the earth-elemental energy possessed exceptional resistance to fire, as fire naturally generates earth. The wolf's breath could only last for three seconds... Having witnessed this technique before, the middle-aged swordsman remained calm, patiently waiting for his chance. The three seconds passed swiftly. As he was about to withdraw his mud-cast counterattack, he suddenly saw the star official reach into his inventory and pull out a clumsy wooden puppet, brushing a streak of blood from the blade across the puppet's surface, then shouting, "Die!" A curse spell! The swordsman's vision darkened, blood gushing from every orifice, his soul seemingly torn into fragments. He sustained a severe wound, though fortunately the curse was not strong enough to claim his life as a fifth-level swordsman. Nevertheless, he could not now withdraw his mud-cast, standing still, struggling to lift his heavy arms and slowly drawing from his inventory a green vine-woven robe, which he carefully draped over himself. A jade-green glow enveloped him, rapidly healing his wounds. Seizing the opportunity, the flame magic wolf extended its powerful claws, repeatedly scraping against the bright, glowing shield. Under the high-frequency pressure, the still-warm earth-energy shield took on a molten, runny appearance—like hot, melted glass. Finally, with a sound that grated on the teeth, the shield shattered, and the middle-aged swordsman's clay-like form cracked and crumbled. "Pffft!" The wolf's sharp claws drove deep into the middle-aged swordsman's chest and abdomen, tearing open his skin and flesh. "Ah—!" The swordsman emitted a piercing, agonized cry, his entire body instantly turning crimson as his muscles convulsed. Fire toxins had entered his body—his already partially healed condition now worsened dramatically. Despite his steel-willed passive trait, which resisted the erosion of his mind by pain, he quickly drew out a black iron mask resembling a demon and pressed it firmly over his face, then blew hard. Instantly, a thick mist spread across the entire arena, obscuring the view. "Master of the Mist?" "Now it's gone—well, I can guess what he's doing. He's using the fog to delay, to treat his injuries." "So it seems the outcome of this battle is still uncertain. I thought that star official was going to win for sure." "Indeed. That young man watched the whole first half, then when he finally stepped in, he nearly ended the fight. He's quite something—does the Taiping Sect really have someone like this?" Amid the murmurs and chatter, Zhao Feichen exhaled in relief, his tightly wound nerves finally easing. It's well known that among the local professions, only a Rain Master of the Sovereign rank can counter a Fog Master. All others are helpless against thick fog. Just as he thought this, a sharp, piercing cry rang out—then a fierce gale swept across the platform. The delicate, gauze-like fog, once thick and viscous as a paste, was blown away. On the stage, the figures of the two combatants and the wolf reappeared. With no hesitation, Zhang Yuanqing, wearing the Wind-Bringer gloves, immediately launched two gust blades toward the middle-aged man whose skin was flushed red, bleeding from all orifices, and whose breath had weakened to the point of near collapse. At the same time, he ordered the magical wolf to unleash a burst of flame. "Clang! Clang!" The middle-aged swordsman fought on, cleaving through the gust blades. Yet at that moment, the flame wolf opened its mouth, spewing a surge of molten, blazing fire that engulfed the man. Three seconds later, the flames died out, leaving behind only a blackened corpse.