The moment Lin Yi's boot sole touched the bluestone surface of the Tempering Bone Platform, a chill seeped up through the thin leather. The stone bore dried, dark-brown bloodstains, like cheap ink splashed and hastily smeared away. He raised his eyes. Across from him stood Wang Zheng. Wang Zheng was a full head taller, with broad shoulders and a thick back. The aura of the sixth layer of Qi Refinement radiated from him without restraint, like an iron-armored beast wearing human skin. He grinned, revealing teeth stained yellow by cheap tobacco. Below the platform stretched a dense black mass. Outer sect disciples, menial servants, and a few administrators with silver-edged cuffs. Their gazes were needles, pricking densely across his back. Lin Yi could distinguish several of them—mocking, curious, and one, cold as water drawn from a deep well, coming from the observation seats on the high platform. He did not look up to confirm. There was no warning, no opening stance. The man snapped forward like a fully drawn hard bow whose string had suddenly broken, his fist wrapped in a earthy-yellow spiritual light, tearing through the air straight for Lin Yi's face. The wind of the punch scraped across his cheek, the skin instantly tightening, stinging. He withdrew his right foot half a step and raised his left arm to block. The movement was precise, the angle cunning—the only posture, calculated from the opponent's momentum, arm length, and spiritual power burst point, that might dissipate thirty percent of the force. Lin Yi's arm felt like a wooden stake struck by an iron hammer. Agony exploded along the ulna, and his entire arm went numb in an instant. A sinister hidden force drilled through the skin and crept along the meridians like cold earthworms. He staggered back three steps, each one producing a clear scraping sound against the bluestone, his heels nearly brushing the barrier light curtain at the platform's edge. Wang Zheng did not pursue. He shook his wrist, his grin deepening, and sauntered forward two steps at a leisurely pace. The distance between them closed to less than three meters. "Junior Brother Lin." Wang Zheng lowered his voice, the sound squeezed from deep in his throat, phlegmy. "Senior Brother Xiao asked me to 'take good care' of you." He paused, his gaze sweeping over Lin Yi's slightly trembling left arm. "Rest assured." He licked his lips. "I'll leave you one breath... to be a true cripple." Lin Yi said nothing. The tip of his tongue pressed against his palate, suppressing the bloody taste surging in his throat. His right hand hung at his side, the fingers slightly curled, and deep in his palm, thatghostly blue contract rune lay like a snake in hibernation, dormant and motionless. Cannot use it. He told himself. Too many eyes. Wang Zheng moved again. This time it was not a straight punch. His figure swayed, his footwork crossing in a bizarre manner, like a drunkard, yet so fast that afterimages trailed behind him. His left leg kicked up without warning, the boot tip aimed at Lin Yi's flank—precisely the area where the old injury had not yet healed and had been further eroded by the cold pool's rule fragments. Lin Yi twisted his waist, narrowly avoiding the vital point by a hair's breadth. The boot tip scraped past his ribs, tearing fabric. But Wang Zheng's right fist was already waiting there, as if it had predicted every path of retreat, and it slammed solidly into his chest at the Tanzhong acupoint. Lin Yi spat out a mouthful of bloody foam. His vision went black, and his body flew backward like a kite with a severed string. His back crashed heavily against the barrier light curtain at the platform's edge. Pale golden ripples spread out like waves, emitting a low hum. He slid down the curtain and collapsed onto the bluestone ground. His chest felt as if a red-hot branding iron had been stuffed inside it; every breath pulled at his lungs in pain. He barely raised his eyes and saw Wang Zheng walking over unhurriedly. Mud and dried grass clung to the soles of his boots, and each step on the bluestone made a soft *tap, tap*, like some kind of countdown. Wang Zheng stopped before him and looked down. Shadow fell over him. "Hit and run?" Wang Zheng laughed, lifting his foot and placing his boot on Lin Yi's chest, slowly adding pressure. "With your measly cat tricks, you dare call that hit and run?" The pressure increased bit by bit. His ribs made creaking sounds of being unable to bear the Lin Yi's vision began to blur. Agony, suffocation, and that sinister hidden force rampaging through his meridians, gnawing away at his already feeble spiritual power. The edges of his sight darkened like ink bleeding into paper, narrowing bit by bit. On the high platform, that icy gaze remained. A needle at his back. This thought exploded like a final spark in the darkness on the verge of extinction. He still had vengeance unfulfilled, truths yet unearthed, and that damned contract... He couldn't die here like a stray dog, crushed beneath this arena. Wang Zheng's wrist exerted slight pressure. The sword tip pierced through fabric, touched skin, and a sharp sting followed. Then, without warning, a scorching heat erupted from the palm of Lin Yi's right hand. Not the heat of flame. The heat of ice. As if someone had plunged a red-hot iron into a spring tens of degrees below freezing—extreme heat and extreme cold detonated simultaneously, burning along the lines of his palm straight into the marrow of his bones. A cold, hollow, soul-devouring hunger surged from the depths of the rune. Not his emotion. The rune's. A voice, or rather an *intention*, rang directly in the deepest recess of his mind. No tone, no emotion, only cold statement: *Blood.* The sword tip pressed down another fraction. Skin broke, warm beads of blood seeping out, soaking the blade. Wang Zheng bared his teeth, their yellow glint catching the sunlight. All fear, all unwillingness, three years of humiliation, the torment in the cold pool, and that branding-iron pain in his chest—at this moment, ignited by that cold hunger, they burned into a black, violent flame of rage. The cold gleam of the sword tip pressed against his dantian, like an icy needle piercing through all delusion. Wang Zheng's face swayed in his blurred vision, carrying cruel mockery. The muddy reek from the sole of his boot mixed with the iron rust taste welling up in Lin Yi's mouth,flooding into his nostrils. Ribs groaned beneath the pressure, each breath like swallowing shards of glass. "Tell me," Wang Zheng's voice pressed against his ear, hot with breath, "should I cripple your cultivation first, or sever your hand and foot tendons?" His throat clogged with blood, unable to make a sound. His body like a dismantled puppet, every joint screaming. Those blurred faces below, the whispers, the cold stares—all retreated far away. The world shrank to a single point: the sword tip. Then— Not from the sword. From deep within his right palm, from thatghostly blue rune carved by Mo Chen and suppressed by him day and night, a mass of cold flame exploded. Sharper than broken ribs, more complete than suffocation. The pain did not come from flesh, but from his very soul being torn open. Countless icy needles flowed backward through his meridians, piercing, freezing, then detonating. His vision was instantly dyed a viscous black-red, as if seeing the world through a layer of dried blood. A voice, not through his ears, but seeping from his marrow. Cold. Hollow. Carrying some inhuman hunger. *More.* Lin Yi's teeth shattered. He tasted thicker blood, mixed with a strange, metallic sweetness. His right hand convulsed beyond his control, five fingers snapping open— Viscous as asphalt, cold as stagnant water, black energy gushed from his palm. It was not light but the inverse of light, the color of an abyss that devoured all. Like living tentacles, it instantly coiled around Wang Zheng's sword. The refined steel longsword had no time to even cry out before corroding and disintegrating in the black mist, transforming into a cloud of gray-white powder that rustled down. Wang Zheng's savage grin froze. His pupils contracted violently, reflecting Lin Yi's face at this moment—blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, yet his eyes terrifyingly hollow, his right arm wrapped in surging black mist, like a vengeful ghost crawling out of hell. The black tentacles suddenly twisted, coiling around his wrist. The crisp sound of shattering bones rang piercingly clear. Wang Zheng's scream had barely left his throat before a greater force hurled him violently away. His body slammed into the protective formation light screen at the arena's edge. The screen emitted a strained hum, flickering violently, cracks spiderwebbing outward. Wang Zheng slid to the ground like a sack of rags, head lolling to one side, silent. The black mist receded. Retreating to his palm, burrowing into his skin, vanishing without a trace That face, always bearing a gentle, weary tenderness—the face that had emerged from the darkness countless times during those nights when he teetered on the edge of collapse, during those three long years of being spurned by his clan—had grown blurred now. He tried desperately to remember. Remembered his mother holding his hand at her deathbed, those already cold hands pressed against his cheek. What had she said? She must have said something terribly important. He remembered the sensation of her touch, remembered the tear tracks still drying at the corners of her eyes, remembered the faint medicinal scent in the room and the patter of rain beyond the window. The words, the rise and fall of her voice, the worry and reluctance hidden within them, and a certain resoluteness he had not understood at the time—all of it shattered. Only a few broken fragments remained, drifting through the empty ruins of his mind. Then came a stretch of icy blankness. Not the haze of forgetting, but a neat, clean-edged gap left by violent excavation. The edges still throbbed with a faint pain, a spiritual burning sharper than the sting in his palm, more terrifying. The officiating disciple leaped onto the arena and hurried to Wang Zheng's side, checking his breath, then his pulse. He looked up, his gaze complicated as it fell on Lin Yi—shock, incomprehension, and a trace of barely concealed apprehension. "The victor," the officiant's voice was hoarse, cutting through the silent training ground with unnatural clarity, "Lin Yi." The crowd below exploded with noise. Voices surged like a tide. "Senior Brother Wang Zheng was at the sixth layer of Qi Refinement! And he just..." Lin Yi heard none of it. Slowly, he raised his right hand, palm upward. The dark blue rune had already faded from his skin, leaving only a faint, burn-like red mark, like a fresh scar. He pressed his left thumb against it hard. This was the price. Power beyond his control, traded for a memory he could never recover. He did not know what the black mist was, did not know where it came from. He knew only that it was hungry. This time it had devoured his memory of his mother's final words. What would it take next? His steps were unsteady, darkness swimming before his eyes. The weakness brought by blood loss and overdrawn strength finally caught up to him. Just then, a figure rushed onto the stage, thick arms catching his swaying body. The man's face was pale, his forehead drenched in sweat, yet the hand supporting Lin Yi trembled slightly. His lips moved several times before he forced out his voice: "Lin, Junior Brother Lin... what you just..." He did not finish, his eyes full of lingering fear and unspoken questions. Lin Yi shook his head, his throat terribly hoarse: "...Help me down." Shi Meng asked no more. He braced him firmly, and they shuffled step by step toward the stairs at the edge of the arena. The crowd below parted automatically, though those gazes still clung to him like honey-coated needles. Just as Lin Yi was about to step down the final stair, he looked up instinctively. His gaze passed over the sea of bobbing heads, passed the fluttering banners of the training ground, and settled on the distant elevated viewing platform. Xuanyin Zhenren sat in the principal seat, his dao robe immaculate, his expression solemn. But now, those eyes that were always half-lidded, as though nothing much concerned him, were clearly open. His gaze was sharp as lightning, shooting straight at Lin Yi. Nothing but a cold, all-seeing scrutiny. Like a scalpel, peeling back layer after layer of flesh to see what lay hidden in the depths of bone. The zhenren's lips moved slightly. He turned his head and murmured something to an attendant standing at his side. The attendant bowed to receive the command, though his eyes likewise turned toward Lin Yi, keen with the edge of one who executes orders. Xuanyin Zhenren's gaze never moved away. That look was colder than Wang Zheng's sword, clearer than the burning in his palm. It meant that this wretched victory, bought with memory, was far from the end. Shi Meng supported him, pushing through the crowd toward the exit of the training ground. Behind them, that gaze from the high platform followed like a shadow, nailed dead center into his spine. With every step, that blank space in his mind throbbed faintly. And the more terrible question was—this hungry, thirsting power hidden in his palm, what would it take from him next? The sole of Lin Yi's boot had barely touched the bluestone surface of the Ligu Platform when a chill seeped up through the thin leather. The ground was clean, washed by morning dew, Outer sect disciples, menial workers, and a few deacon-looking figures stood at the edges. Their gazes varied. Curious. Indifferent. Gloating. Lin Yi could feel several particularly cold stares, sticky against the nape of his neck. Xiao Han's people? Or something else? He only knew that he had to win today. But not too conspicuously. "Ding-Wei Group, Lin Yi, versus Bing-Yin Group, Wang Zheng." The deacon's voice was dry and flat, devoid of emotion. "The rules are clear. A loss is declared when one party concedes, remains down for ten breaths, or falls outside the arena's light barrier. Stop at the appropriate measure." Wang Zheng cupped his fists, the motion broad and wind-carrying. "Junior Brother Lin, your guidance is welcome." Lin Yi also cupped his fists, his movements standard but slow. "Senior Brother Wang, please." His voice was not loud, his speaking pace deliberately flattened. His fingertips tapped lightly against his palm, once, then again. This was his rhythm. Suppressing his heartbeat, suppressing that cold vigilance that had begun surging the moment he stepped onto the platform. Not a probe, but a killing pounce. The spiritual energy of the sixth layer of Qi Refinement exploded out, wrapped around his fist, carrying a shrill whistling wind. Straight for the face. Too fast—Lin Yi only had time to turn sideways and raise his arm to block. His arm felt like it had been struck by an iron hammer. Agony detonated, bones groaning under unbearable strain. Lin Yi staggered back three steps, his boot soles scraping against the bluestone with an ear-piercing friction. His right arm went numb instantly, spiritual energy drilling in through the point of contact, cold and treacherous, beginning to erode his meridians. "Not slow in reaction." Wang Zheng withdrew his fist, shaking out his wrist, his grin deepening. "I thought you couldn't even take one hit." Lin Yi said nothing. He adjusted his breathing, forcibly suppressing that invading spiritual energy and channeling it into the ground beneath his feet. This was a small trick Mo Chen had taught him in the cold pool—unload what you cannot bear, borrow the earth to disperse it. But it was draining. Once or twice was fine; more than that, and his meridians would not hold. This time it was a leg. A low sweep, straight for Lin Yi's lower body. The angle was vicious, sealing off space to dodge left or right. Lin Yi could only jump back, but Wang Zheng's leg seemed to have eyes, changing direction mid-trajectory, striking upward! Fabric tore. His skin burned with raw pain. Lin Yi grunted, stumbling as he landed, nearly losing his footing. Waves of spasms radiated from his lower abdomen; that insidious hidden force had already seeped in. "Tsk, a shame." Wang Zheng withdrew his leg, shaking his head. "Almost had you down." The platform was not large, its diameter no more than ten zhang. Lin Yi had already been forced to the edge. Behind him was the pale blue formation light barrier, rippling slightly like a transparent wall. Touch it, and he would be out of bounds. He was not as fast as Wang Zheng, not as strong, his spiritual energy even less so. But he had eyes. Before Wang Zheng exerted force each time, his shoulder would tilt infinitesimally, his right heel lifting half an inch first. This was habit. Also a flaw. Lin Yi spotted the instant of Wang Zheng's next punch, turning sideways—not completely evading, but taking half the blow with his left shoulder while his right hand formed a blade, thrusting toward Wang Zheng's ribs three inches below. Wang Zheng's expression shifted slightly, withdrawing his fist to defend. Lin Yi's fingers scraped past his ribs, drawing a line of blood. Not deep, but it drew red. "You—" Wang Zheng looked down at the wound at his ribs, his grin finally gone. His eyes turned cold, like knives quenched in poison. "Seeking death." Spiritual energy fully unleashed, fists and feet rained down like a tempest. Every strike carried whistling wind and that cold hidden force. Lin Yi could only dodge, block, and unload force. But it was too fast, too dense. His calculations could not keep up with the limits his body was enduring. The sound of bone cracking was distinct. Lin Yi was sent flying sideways, crashing into the light barrier at the platform's edge. The barrier rippled violently, bouncing him back to slam heavily onto the bluestone surface. Blood surged up; he forced it back down, but a thread still spilled from the corner of Die in front of everyone, chest crushed like a dog, then dismissed as "an accident during friendly exchange"? It wasn't warmth—it was searing heat. As if someone had pressed a branding iron, glowing red-hot, deep into his flesh. But then, a bone-chilling cold exploded from the center of that burning, surging upward against the flow of his meridians. A frigid voice sounded directly in the depths of his mind. Not words—something more primal, more immediate. A pure intention.