Xuanyan had been running for a long time.

He changed direction repeatedly, weaving through the mountain terrain with deliberate irregularity, cutting sharp angles through forested ridges before abruptly shifting onto exposed stone paths.

Whenever his senses brushed against even the faintest hint of pursuit, he doubled back without hesitation, not to gain distance, but to fracture tracking patterns and disrupt rhythm.

Narrow paths gave way to steep slopes, broken stone replacing soil beneath his feet, each transition chosen with intent rather than desperation.

Sweat clung to his skin beneath his robes, damp and uncomfortable, while his breathing remained controlled despite the strain. Each inhale was carefully measured, timed to steady his pulse.

His spiritual energy circulated unevenly now, stretched thin by constant movement and repeated adjustments. It was not exhaustion yet—but it hovered close enough to be dangerous.

Is it Bai Yulan?

it truly him isn’t he ? .

Xuanyan’s breathing did not change, but something inside him cooled and hardened, like steel left too long in winter air. If Bai Yulan’s hand lay behind this, then the pursuit had never been coincidence.

The timing was too precise, arriving almost immediately after yesterday, as though events had been waiting for permission to unfold

The pressure closing around him was coordinated, deliberate. Each adjustment in pursuit carried intent rather than chance, a pattern meant to narrow space rather than test strength.

There was no anger in the realization, no flare of surprise—only the quiet confirmation that some debts were collected without warning and without patience

He exhaled slowly .

It wasn’t that he couldn’t fight.

It was that he couldn’t fight like this.

With his spiritual reserves already strained, unleashing heaven-grade techniques against multiple pursuers would drain him dry in moments. One mistake, one mistimed exchange, and he would be left rooted in place while others closed in. Strength meant nothing if it arrived too late.

Xuanyan adjusted his path, not to flee, but to choose ground. His pace slowed—not from exhaustion, but from intent.

The mountains were silent around him, but the silence felt wrong—too watchful, too aware, as though the terrain itself had begun to observe rather than merely exist. The sensation crept along his spine, cold and persistent.

I can’t keep running.If they had already decided to hunt him, then the answer was simple , He would stop running,

And when they closed in, it would be on his terms.

The realization settled with unpleasant clarity, cutting through the haze of exertion. If he continued fleeing, the net would only tighten. The hunters would adapt. More would arrive. Every step forward would narrow his options further until escape ceased to exist as a possibility.I can’t go towards outer sect tournament either.

His breathing steadied as the decision took shape.

His eyes sharpened, focus condensing into something cold and deliberate.

Then I’ll hunt them instead.

"Halt," Han Jue commanded.

The Iron Butcher Union stopped instantly, boots grinding against stone as the formation froze mid-motion. Discipline snapped into place without delay, the group locking down the area with practiced efficiency.

"Again?" Cao Jin snarled, frustration and fury etched openly across his face.

"He vanished again," Han Jue replied darkly, his gaze sweeping the terrain as his senses stretched outward, searching for even the faintest irregularity.

Without wasting another second, Han Jue lowered himself to the ground and pressed his palm flat against the stone. Spiritual symbols flared faintly beneath his hand as he activated a heaven-grade sensing technique—one designed not merely to track movement, but to identify residual intent and disruptions in the natural flow of qi.

As his perception spread outward in widening layers, Aoyagi Ren remained silent.

How?

The question surfaced calmly in his mind, untouched by irritation. A treasure was the most obvious answer—some hidden artifact capable of masking presence or distorting perception. If that were the case, Bai Yulan would have mentioned it.

Aoyagi Ren dismissed the thought slowly.

It didn’t matter.

Whether it was talent, technique, or something stranger, the outcome was the same. Xuanyan was proving far more troublesome than anticipated, slipping through containment efforts with unnerving consistency.

"I will find whatever you’re hiding," Aoyagi Ren murmured quietly, his voice carrying no heat and no urgency, only certainty. "And when I do, you will have no place left to run."

Outer sect arena

The formation beneath the outer arena flickered unevenly before settling, its brief hesitation barely noticed by the crowd but reflected clearly in the tension hanging above the stone.

Two disciples stood opposite one another.

Neither looked calm.

The broader youth gripped his heavy saber too tightly, adjusting his hold again and again as sweat slipped down his temples. His shoulders rose and fell faster than they should have, breath dragging unevenly through his chest. Each time he steadied himself, the effort slipped a moment later, nerves creeping back in.

Across from him, the slimmer disciple shifted his footing repeatedly. The stone scraped beneath his boots as though it refused to settle under his weight. His eyes kept straying toward the stands, lingering just long enough to betray uncertainty before snapping back to his opponent, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

The overseeing elder cast them a brief glance.

There was no interest in his expression—only obligation.

Still, he raised his hand.

"Begin."

Both moved at the same time.

The saber disciple surged forward first, committing too hard, too fast. His foot struck the stone with a sharp crack, momentum dragging him ahead of his balance as the saber swept out in a wide, uncontrolled arc. The swing carried power, but little precision, the blade cutting air far wider than intended.

The slimmer disciple yelped and stumbled back, heart slamming against his ribs as the strike missed by inches. His counter came late—a rushed thrust thrown more out of fear than intent, arm shaking as doubt crept into the motion.

The clash jarred both of them, the shock rattling up their arms and forcing them apart more by recoil than choice.

They separated awkwardly.

A low murmur rolled through the crowd as anticipation gave way to confusion.

"Are they nervous?" someone whispered.

"Of course they are," another scoffed. "It’s the tournament pressure."

Even as the words were spoken, attention drifted. Some gazes slid away, already drawn toward the central arena where stronger fighters gathered.

On the platform, the saber disciple snarled under his breath and charged again, trying to force control back into the exchange. His swings came faster now, heavier, driven by frustration rather than clarity. Each strike burned more energy than it should have, his breathing growing harsher with every miss.

The slimmer disciple retreated step by step, heels scraping dangerously close to the arena’s edge. Panic crept higher as his footing faltered. His foot slid on loose gravel, and for a terrifying instant, his balance vanished.

Gasps rippled through nearby disciples.

Desperation took over ,He slashed wildly, abandoning form as his blade bit into his opponent’s forearm.

Blood sprayed across the stone, warm and uncontrolled.

The saber disciple staggered back with a sharp cry, shock flashing across his face. The wound wasn’t deep—but the pain was real, sudden, undeniable. Worse than that, it reminded him he wasn’t untouchable.

For half a heartbeat, both froze ,Then everything collapsed into chaos.

They crashed together in a clumsy collision of bodies and steel. Blades scraped uselessly as elbows slammed into ribs and knees struck thighs. Nothing flowed. Nothing aligned. Every movement created another mistake.

The saber pommel slammed into the slimmer disciple’s shoulder. His arm went dead instantly, fingers spasming uselessly as pain flooded in too fast to process. Panic swallowed thought. He lunged forward on instinct alone, smashing his forehead into his opponent’s face.

Both reeled away, vision swimming as blood smeared across skin and stone.

They separated again, barely upright now, chests heaving, faces streaked red, robes torn and soaked.

The saber disciple lifted his weapon with shaking arms. His sight blurred at the edges, exhaustion creeping in far faster than expected. There was no technique left in his stance. No plan.

Only resolve.

He swung one last time—not cleanly, not cleverly, but with everything he had left.

The slimmer disciple saw the opening a moment too late.

He tried to turn, but his numb fingers failed him. The saber tore into his side, the impact hurling him across the platform. His body skidded across the stone before slamming to a stop.

Silence settled slowly, broken only by the victor’s ragged breathing.

The saber disciple stood swaying, weapon tip scraping weakly against the ground. His victory looked nothing like triumph. It looked painful. Earned. Barely survived.

He dropped to one knee before the healers could reach the platform.

--

The Main arena responded

The formation beneath it pulsed once, a deep tremor rolling through the stone as layered arrays aligned and sealed with flawless precision.. The difference was immediate—clean, controlled, absolute.

Conversations in the stands broke off unevenly. A few words were left unfinished, hands froze mid-gesture, and heads turned one after another—not in unison, but gradually, as if the shift took time to register.

An elder near the center platform straightened slightly, fingers tightening against the armrest. Another paused mid-sentence, eyes lifting without conscious intent.

The arena did not quiet all at once, but the sound thinned enough to be noticed.

Bai Shaoyue stepped forward into the main arena.