Nash accepted the talisman with a grin, not grumbling about its quality. For a brand-new disciple, just having a sound transmission talisman to hand over was impressive.

  The two of them kept chatting, barely paying attention to the duel—until the arena erupted.

  A roar of cheers rolled through the stands. The crowd was on its feet, shouting Dante’s name.

  Lauren’s head snapped up. Dante had finally broken free of Timothy’s relentless close-quarters assault. Blood streamed from Timothy’s body, the iron skin of his frame now torn and pierced in a dozen places.

  Nash slapped his thigh, nearly bouncing in place. “Damn, I was so busy talking to you I almost missed it! That had to be Dante’s Flying Feather Needles.” He grabbed the sleeve of a spectator nearby. “Wasn’t it a sky full of golden needles just now?”

  The man nodded eagerly. “Yes! Thousands, everywhere. Timothy couldn’t dodge. He was riddled like a sieve. He’s finished for sure.”

  Nash turned back to Lauren, eyes glowing. “That’s Dante’s trump card. Only someone like him, with ninety-five percent purity in his gold spiritual roots, could unleash something that strikes with Golden Core-level power while still at Foundation Establishment. We’ve won this battle!”

  The crowd chanted as one:

  “Timothy, admit defeat!”

  “Get off the stage!”

  “Get off!”

  The arena thundered with their voices.

  On stage, Timothy was sprawled on the ground, gasping raggedly, blood pooling beneath him. Across from him, Dante was on one knee, leaning heavily on his sword, his chest heaving. Even with his strength, unleashing a Golden Core cultivator’s ultimate move had left him utterly drained.

  The audience was ecstatic. But Lauren’s stomach twisted. In the book, Timothy had never lost.

  Sure enough, a hoarse, defiant laugh ripped through the arena.

  “Admit defeat? I, Timothy, will never admit defeat!”

  Gasps swept the stands. The man who had seemed broken only moments before staggered back onto his feet. His body was a mess of blood and punctures—yet before their very eyes, the wounds began knitting shut. Flesh reformed. Blood flow slowed, then stopped entirely.

  Dante’s face went ashen. Impossible. Even a Golden Core expert would have fallen beneath his Flying Feather Needles. Yet Timothy—only at the ninth level of Foundation Establishment—was standing.

  No… not standing. Healing.

  Dragon roots. The bloodline of ancient dragons lingering in the mortal world. His body was regenerating like a monster’s.

  Dante stumbled back a step without meaning to.

  Timothy’s mouth curled into a bloody grin. “You? The Thunder Sect’s top genius below Golden Core? You’re nothing.”

  With a roar that shook the barrier, Timothy lunged. Dante, already drained dry, was blasted off his feet, his body flung across the arena like a broken doll.

  The light shield flickered. The stands went dead silent.

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  The cheering, the chants, the hope—it all dissolved into nothing.

  Timothy had won. Again.

  The mournful cries of Thunder Sect disciples clashed bitterly with the triumphant shouts from Timothy’s side.

  Normally, when disciples crossed swords, the elders of the righteous sects would encourage it. Win or lose, it was all training. But this time was different. Timothy of the Moonlit Sect hadn’t just won—he’d humiliated his opponents, leaving several badly injured in the process.

  Gerald arrived just as Dante, bloodied and barely clinging to life, was being carried off the stage. Rage burned in the master’s chest.

  “Master…” Dante coughed, blood trailing from his lips. “I’ve brought shame upon our sect.”

  “Enough. Save your strength.” Gerald shoved a pill between his disciple’s teeth. “Swallow. Vernon, get him out of here and tend to his wounds.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Before Gerald could breathe, Timothy approached, leaning on two of his fellow disciples for support, his body still covered in half-healed wounds. Despite his sorry state, his smile was insufferably smug.

  “Mr.Gerald,” Timothy said, bowing slightly. “Forgive me. I lost control of my strength and accidentally injured Dante.”

  Gerald’s palm itched to slap the arrogance right off his face. Instead, he forced the words out through clenched teeth.

  “Countless so-called geniuses have perished along the cultivation path. I sincerely hope yours ends smoothly.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gerald.” Timothy’s eyes gleamed. “Since no one else in Thunder Sect is willing to fight, we’ll be taking our leave.”

  Gerald’s fury boiled over the moment their backs were turned. He spat on the ground, shaking with anger.

  “Arrogant brat. Strip away those dragon roots, he’s nothing special. I’d like to see how far that kind of arrogance carries him.”

  One of his juniors tried to soothe him. “Master, why bother with a junior? Weren’t we just as competitive when we were young?”

  “Competitive, yes. But not like that.”

  Gerald turned to leave—then froze. His eyes narrowed on a face in the crowd.

  “Wait. Look over there… isn’t that girl—?”

  Logan, head of Rain Peak, followed his gaze. His eyes widened. “By the heavens, you’re right. That’s the one Senior-Uncle Drake took in three months ago.”

  Gerald’s brows shot up. “She’s already reached Foundation Establishment?”

  “Yes. When she arrived, she was only at the tenth level of Qi Training. To break through so quickly… truly, she’s worthy of being Senior-Uncle Drake’s disciple.”

  But Gerald’s mood only darkened. The wound from Lauren’s incident at the Heart-Questioning Gate hadn’t healed. To him, raw talent meant nothing if paired with questionable character. If she turned out anything like Timothy, he would personally slap the arrogance out of her.

  “Master,” Logan said carefully, “don’t let old grudges blind you. If you can’t trust her, can’t you at least trust Senior-Uncle Drake? Remember Junior Brother Tarot? He was born with dark spiritual roots, and he turned out fine.”

  Gerald’s expression hardened. “Tarot passed the Heart-Questioning Gate in the blink of an eye. They’re not the same.”

  “You can’t compare like that,” Logan shot back. “Tarot entered the sect when he was six. Lauren was thirteen—already practically marriageable age in the mortal world. If you’re going to nitpick like this, why not change the rules? From now on, only accept disciples under ten, is that it?”

  Gerald hesitated, then muttered, “No… if we did that, we might overlook a true talent.”

  Logan gave him a flat look. “…” You’ve managed to say all the good and all the bad in one breath. Typical.

  Lauren made her way to the library, determined to dig into some ancient texts—specifically, records concerning the sword in her possession.

  The blade, a gift from devourer, gleamed with a pale, icy-blue sheen, perfectly matched to her ice spiritual roots. But its brilliance was marred by a small chip along the edge, the flaw nagging at her every time she drew it.

  Refining it into her natal weapon under those conditions felt reckless. If the sword could be restored to its original state, that would be ideal.

  With the identity jade pendant Drake had given her, she moved through the library’s barriers without effort. Where other disciples were stopped by the protective restrictions guarding each floor, Lauren simply walked past them and climbed higher, all the way to the top level.

  There, buried among thick tomes and dust-heavy scrolls, she finally found the records she sought.

  The Thunder Sect’s library lived up to its reputation as one of the greatest in the cultivation world. Weapons, artifacts, elixirs, spirit herbs, demonic beasts, ancient calamities—the collection spanned everything from practical knowledge to half-forgotten legends.

  She unrolled a brittle scroll and her breath caught.

  This sword is called Ice Soul, forged from ten-thousand-year black ice dredged from the depths of the southern seas…

  Her eyes skimmed lower. The last recorded wielder of Ice Soul was a name she didn’t expect: Freya Sharpe.