"The next round will test your sheer strength," the host announced, his voice echoing across the arena. "Each of you will fight against another participant. Defeat your opponent, and you'll qualify for the next round. Sounds simple enough, doesn't it?"
But the host's smile hinted at something else entirely. It wasn't that simple—everyone could sense a twist.
Soon, five disciples of the Springwater Sect walked in, each holding a wooden box. The host continued, "These boxes contain numbered tokens. Each of you will draw one. The number you get will be your match number. You'll fight the participant who holds the same number. However, there's a catch. There are exactly 70 tokens, but we have 139 participants. So, whoever draws token number 70 will be automatically promoted to the third round."
"Is that clear?"
All 139 participants nodded cautiously. Though they looked composed, the host's unsettling smile suggested something was about to happen—something none of them had expected.
Moments later, every participant drew a token. The one who got number 70 began jumping around in joy.
"Haha! Look at me! I don't even have to fight! How lucky I am!"
Others stared at him coldly, their gazes sharp as blades. They wanted to act, to challenge him, but the rules were clear. Token 70 was granted an automatic promotion.
What they didn't see, however, was the host's pleased expression as he watched the boy celebrate his early victory. Rising from his seat, the host clapped once and announced, "Now that everyone has chosen a token, let's proceed as usual."
He paused, scanning the crowd. "Who wants to step up and challenge their opponent first? Or shall we begin with number 1... or number 70?"
A collective gasp spread through the participants.
"What?! Number 70? Wasn't he promoted?"
"Isn't that against the rules?"
"Maybe it's just a formality?"
No one could tell for sure. They held their breath and watched.
The boy with token 70 couldn't contain his excitement. Without hesitation, he strutted up the stage, his steps arrogant, as if trampling on the pride of every other participant. His body was small, but his ego filled the entire platform. He looked down at the crowd like a champion already crowned.
Everyone noticed his smugness. A few clenched their fists. One burly man in the last row even stomped the ground in frustration, creating cracks beneath his feet. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
His intimidating physique—towering muscles and an iron gaze—was enough to make even the boldest hesitate. Several girls among the participants couldn't help but tremble, silently praying they wouldn't be matched against him.
The host joined the boy on stage and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Would you like to directly become an outer disciple of the Springwater Sect?" he asked with a smile.
The arena went silent.
"What?! Isn't it enough that he's skipping the round? Now he gets to be directly accepted into the sect?"
"This is ridiculous!"
"What kind of bullshit is this?!"
The murmurs were low, but the discontent was loud in their eyes. Outside the arena, spectators were watching through a spiritual projection. Though they couldn't hear the words, they noticed the tension and sensed something strange had happened.
Back on stage, the boy's eyes lit up like a lantern. He beamed.
"Yes, yes! Senior Brother, I'd love to join the sect! I can even do chores for you!" he said enthusiastically, his flattery overflowing.
Down below, the rest of the participants were seething in silence.
"Is this what the Springwater Sect has become? Shameless bribery in broad daylight?" some whispered.
But none dared speak aloud. Lady Qinru was still present, seated in the highest seat of the arena. Her presence alone silenced rebellion.
The host didn't seem bothered by the reactions. In fact, he smirked.
It's better this way, he thought. Better to weed out the cowards and flatterers now, rather than let them crumble during real adversity.
He raised his voice. "If anyone wishes to withdraw from the competition, now's your chance!"
No one stepped forward. The host chuckled.
"Hee hehee...At least they still have some self-respect."
Meanwhile, the participant beside him was staring up at him like a dog waiting for a treat.
"So," the host asked, "do you truly wish to become an outer disciple?"
"Yes! Yes, Senior Brother! I can't wait to serve the sect! Please let me in!"
The host smiled slyly.
This bastard is truly shameless, he thought. But he's going to regret this.
"Very well. But once accepted, you agree to all hidden terms and conditions of the outer disciple status. Still want to proceed?"
"Yes, yes!" the boy shouted impatiently.
Why does he keep asking? Just give me the robe already. Once I'm in, we'll see who's serving who hahahaha....
"Then hand over your token."
The boy eagerly passed it over. "Here it is, Senior Brother!"
"How obedient," the host laughed.
Then he walked to the center of the platform and raised the token high.
"Participant 70 has volunteered for advancement. However, before moving on, he will participate in a special Advanced Second Round. If he wins, he will officially become an outer disciple."
Whispers erupted. Everyone's gaze fell upon the host.
"Advanced round? What's that?"
"I thought he already passed?"
The host smiled and called out, "Token 7, please step forward. If you defeat this participant, the outer disciple title will be yours instead."
Soon from the back row, a shadow stepped forward—the same burly man who had earlier cracked the ground.
A hush fell over the crowd.
This was going to be brutal.