An hour later, Huang Wen arrived at the courtyard, his presence commanding immediate attention.
The moment I saw him, I noticed the change. His qi was steadier now—heavier, calmer, but sharper. His entire aura radiated newfound confidence. I didn't even need to scan his core to know.
He had broken through.
My jaw nearly dropped. Just this afternoon, he had still been at level five. Yet here he stood, exuding the unmistakable presence of a newly ascended level-six cultivator. How had he broken through so quickly?
Still, I couldn't help the smile that tugged at my lips, pride blooming in my chest. Well done, I whispered inwardly.
So this must be the reason for the lavish banquet. As a master, Ruan Yanjun would naturally want to celebrate his disciple's achievement.
Huang Wen, clearly invigorated by the breakthrough, strode confidently into the gathering, his posture upright and resolute.
"I've just attained the sixth level," he announced with a proud smile. "Who wants to challenge me? Let's have some entertainment—and test my newfound strength."
The crowd stirred with interest, several cultivators whispering among themselves. After a moment of hesitation, one brave level-five cultivator—disciple to one of the visiting sect leaders—stepped forward, eager to face him.
The duel began in a flash. Huang Wen unleashed his signature technique—the spinning wheel blade—its whirling edge cutting through the air with deadly precision. He pressed his opponent with relentless speed and raw force, leaving no opening to counter. Within moments, the level-five cultivator was forced to yield.
Huang Wen stood victorious, not even winded.
"Who else wishes to try?" he called out, his eyes sweeping across the assembly. His confidence was undeniable—commanding but not arrogant, unlike his master.
Yet no one stepped forward. Among the guests were several level-six cultivators like him, but none seemed willing to take the risk. Losing publicly to someone who had just broken through would be a humiliation—especially in front of so many watching sect leaders.
Without hesitation, I rose to my feet. "I will."
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. "Priest Luo, there's no need. This was just for fun."
"I insist," I said evenly, stepping forward.
Huang Wen looked genuinely uneasy now. "But… if I accidentally injure you—"
I cut him off with quiet firmness. "Don't hold back. I need this challenge. I'm nearing level seven. You'll be doing us both a favor."
His eyes widened, clearly stunned by my revelation. "Seriously?"
"Yes," I replied, channeling energy into my bamboo stick as I took my stance. "Let's begin."
At my urging, Huang Wen relented. He drew a steady breath, then readied his weapon. The duel began. The air between us sizzled with tension. His wheel blade flew through the space in sharp, fluid arcs, and my staff intercepted each strike with practiced speed and precision.
For several minutes, we exchanged blow after blow, the match growing in tempo as we each pushed harder. Each strike sent ripples through the air. The courtyard pulsed with excitement, and more spectators gathered around the edges.
Huang Wen's movements were clean, crisp, but careful—each strike respectful, as if meant to impress but not to wound. I could sense the hesitation in every motion.
"You're holding back," I said through gritted teeth, parrying another incoming slash.
He faltered briefly before admitting, "Master will have my head if I leave even a scratch on you."
I scoffed, stepping into his guard and locking his weapon with my staff. "Then I'll take responsibility. Fight me properly."
Something shifted in his expression. Encouraged by my words, his qi surged with renewed intensity. He came at me then with full force, and I responded in kind. The rhythm of our fight changed—becoming sharper, faster, more dangerous—but far more meaningful.
Then, in a misstep, I overextended my footing. His spinning wheel slipped through my guard and grazed my cheek, leaving behind a thin, bleeding cut.
Blood trickled down my skin.
Huang Wen froze instantly, eyes wide with horror. "Priest Luo—!"
In his panic, he completely forgot about his returning weapon. The spinning wheel blade arced back like a boomerang, barreling toward him from behind.
Without thinking, I thrust my palm forward and summoned a burst of light qi. The beam struck the rotating disk mid-air, knocking it off course before it could hit him. It clattered to the ground with a sharp thud.
The courtyard fell silent.
For a long moment, no one breathed.
"What are you doing?" I snapped, lowering my bamboo stick as Huang Wen froze in front of me.
His face had gone pale. He pointed frantically at my cheek. "I—I just wounded your face!"
I wiped the thin line of blood with the back of my hand. "It's nothing," I said, brushing it off. "It'll heal in a couple of days."
Huang Wen shook his head, panic rising in his voice. "But Master—Master adores your face," he blurted out, his words a breathless confession of dread. "He's going to kill me if he sees this."
Laughter burst from the gathered onlookers, the tension breaking like a popped bubble. Even some of the visiting sect leaders couldn't suppress their chuckles.
My face flushed with heat as I thinned my lips, struggling to maintain composure.
"Forget about that," I said sharply, half-exasperated, half-embarrassed. "Let's get serious."
But before either of us could resume, a calm yet commanding voice cut through the courtyard like a blade.
"That's enough."
We turned immediately.
Standing at the edge of the crowd, hands clasped behind his back, was Ruan Yanjun. His mere presence silenced the courtyard in an instant. A light breeze stirred the hem of his black robes as he stepped forward, his gaze cold, steady, and crushing.
Huang Wen dropped to his knees without hesitation, bowing his head low.
"There's no point in continuing if neither of you is willing to strike with intent," Ruan Yanjun said, his tone even, yet bearing the weight of quiet reprimand. "Sparring without full conviction is meaningless."
Neither of us argued. Because he was right. Even when I had urged Huang Wen to fight seriously, a part of me had still hesitated. Just as he had. In truth, our duel had turned into little more than a careful performance.
Ruan Yanjun's gaze shifted, locking onto me. When his eyes landed on the shallow cut across my cheek, I saw them narrow slightly—his frown deepening, as if the sight of that small injury offended him on a personal level.
Then, without a word, he stepped forward.
The air seemed to grow heavier around us as he approached. The crowd held its collective breath.
He stopped in front of me and, with slow precision, lifted his hand. His thumb brushed lightly across my cheek, wiping away the fresh blood. The gesture was unbearably gentle—too gentle for a man feared as the Devil of the South—and yet I stood frozen, my pulse thundering against my ribs.
I caught myself and stepped back quickly. "It's nothing serious, my lord," I said, voice low, struggling to reassert distance.
But he didn't reply. His gaze had dropped to his thumb, where the smear of my blood still lingered, and he stared at it—deep in a thought I couldn't begin to fathom.
The tension between us wound tighter, invisible but suffocating.
Wanting to break it, I reached into my sleeve and pulled out a clean handkerchief. "Here," I murmured, and carefully wiped his hand.
When I tried to take the cloth back, his fingers curled around it, holding tight. His gaze never wavered from mine. He said nothing, made no remark—but his grip on the cloth was a quiet claim, and I stood rooted as he pulled it from my hand, tucking it away like something precious.
Then, as if none of it had happened, Ruan Yanjun turned to the crowd.
"I hate to interrupt your entertainment," he said, his voice calm once more, steady and clear. "So allow me to offer you something in return. A rare opportunity. Each of you is welcome to test your skills against me." His tone curved faintly into amusement, almost daring them. "Think of it as a courtesy to my honored guests."
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the courtyard. The energy shifted at once—excitement buzzing through the gathered cultivators. Several master-level guests exchanged glances, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Even Li Yao and Xiao Delun sat up straighter, their faces lighting with the kind of glee one only sees at festivals.
I made my way back toward them, wary of their expressions.
They were grinning—wide and utterly mischievous.
"What?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
"Nothing," they said in perfect unison, their voices suspiciously innocent.
But their faces betrayed them completely.
They were far too amused by the events unfolding tonight.
Ruan Yanjun strode to the center of the courtyard, exuding effortless authority. The breeze caught the edge of his robe as he turned, sharp-eyed and utterly composed.
"Cultivators," he called out, his voice clear as a bell, demanding the attention of every soul present. "Decide among yourselves how you wish to fight me. One at a time, two at a time, or all of you at once. The choice is yours."
A ripple of excitement swept through the assembled masters. More than a dozen level-six cultivators huddled together, whispering nervously as they debated their best course. After a few tense moments, one of them stepped forward as spokesman.
"Sect Leader Ruan," the man said, trying to keep his voice steady, "to fully take advantage of this rare privilege… we have decided to face you one-on-one."
Ruan Yanjun nodded, as if amused by their bravado. "Very well," he replied, his tone almost indulgent. "And to make things interesting—if any of you manage to withstand more than ten moves against me, I shall personally offer you one month of training."
A collective murmur of astonishment swept through the courtyard. The cultivators bowed deeply, gratitude mingling with the glint of determination in their eyes.
The duels commenced.
One by one, the level-six masters stepped forward to challenge him. Despite their best efforts, none lasted more than a handful of moves. Their swords and spiritual techniques crashed against his strikes like leaves striking stone. His movements were so smooth, so precise—it was as though he saw every attack before it even formed.
The longest anyone endured was seven moves—and only because Ruan Yanjun allowed it, granting them a sliver of pride before cutting them down with a flick of his wrist. One cultivator was disarmed with a simple twist. Another thrown off balance with a single palm strike. Many fell without even realizing where they'd gone wrong.
Soon, the once-confident challengers lay sprawled across the courtyard, nursing sore limbs and bruised egos. Groans of exertion filled the air. The initial excitement had faded into reverent awe as everyone witnessed the vast gulf between themselves and the man called the Devil of the South.
At the center of it all, Ruan Yanjun stood untouched. His black robes were unwrinkled, his breathing steady, his composure unshaken. He looked every inch a sovereign surveying the battlefield—a battlefield of fallen challengers. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, betraying the barest flicker of amusement, as though none of it had stirred his pulse in the slightest.
I found myself captivated, unable to look away. This was Ruan Yanjun. This was the untouchable height no one could reach—the legend the continent whispered about in awe and fear. And once again, I was reminded of why the world both coveted and dreaded him.
"Huang Wen, distribute the Rejuvenating Pills," Ruan Yanjun ordered calmly.
Without delay, Huang Wen retrieved a small pouch from his sleeve and began tossing glittering pills to the fallen cultivators. They caught them mid-air, consuming them without hesitation. Within minutes, color returned to their faces, and the strain in their bodies eased as the potent medicine surged through their meridians.
"When you're ready," Ruan Yanjun continued, his voice ringing out again, "all of you—attack me at once. Huang Wen, join them." He paused briefly, and his gaze slid to me, steady as a flame. His lips curved into a faint, deliberate half-smile. "You too."
My stomach sank.
Before I could protest, Xiao Delun appeared at my side, gleefully massaging my shoulders. "Go, Fan! Show him what you've got."
I sighed heavily, gripping my bamboo staff tighter and stabbing its end into the ground with exasperation. "You have no idea what a sadistic demon he is."
Li Yao, clearly enjoying every moment, leaned in and chuckled. "I'm sure he'll be gentle with you."
Their laughter echoed around me like two mischievous children reveling in chaos. I shook my head, ignored them, and walked toward the other cultivators now assembling on the far end of the courtyard.