Chapter Fourteen: The Grand Competition—Sect Versus Sect

“Competition? If you wish to go, go; if not, you needn’t,” Xuanqiong replied casually.

“Master, I want to participate. If I don’t compete, how will I know how much I’ve improved?”

“Be careful in all things,” Xuanqiong said, sounding unconcerned.

“Master, aren’t you coming with me?” Murong Luohua asked, questioning his master’s lack of responsibility.

“I… have matters to attend to, so I won’t accompany you,” Xuanqiong answered without hesitation and vanished. As he stepped out of the room, he appeared again inside, reaching for something unseen.

The grand competition was scheduled for three days later. Now, the area around the arena was thronged with disciples, all in uniform except for a few special ones: sky-blue robes embroidered with cloud patterns.

The head of Lingyu Peak was absent, but the other four peak masters sat in places of honor, overseeing the competition. The sect leader announced its commencement.

This competition was for newcomers, who were forbidden to use magical items and instead fought with wooden swords. The purpose was to test their own strength.

There were thirty-two newcomers, matched in pairs. The winners would then challenge their senior brothers and sisters.

By drawing lots, Murong Luohua was matched against Leng Shuyan, a disciple of Chiyuan Peak. The final match approached swiftly.

Murong Luohua stood at one end of the arena, Leng Shuyan at the other.

“Please guide me,” she said.

At her words, both moved like the wind to the center of the platform, engaging in close combat. This was a test of martial skill, not cultivation.

Leng Shuyan attacked; Murong Luohua defended. Yet the best defense is offense; after the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, Murong Luohua began to counterattack.

Leng Shuyan retreated step by step. Within mere breaths, Murong Luohua’s sword was at her throat.

“As expected of the young master of the Murong family. I concede,” Leng Shuyan gazed at him, spirited and confident.

“You’ve already lost. Is further concession necessary?” Murong Luohua showed no mercy, sheathed his wooden sword, and jumped off the platform.

Leng Shuyan watched him, finding him ever more intriguing. No one had ever refused her before, not once; such a cold and proud girl now found herself in someone’s regard.

“Murong Luohua?” A disciple in the front row of Fuxi Peak stared at Murong Luohua’s back. He had worshipped an unknown immortal as master and dared to win the person he liked.

“Shuyan, are you alright? Not hurt, I hope?” Seeing Leng Shuyan step down, this person hurried to her side with concern.

“Xu Qihui, stop pestering me.” Leng Shuyan had no interest in him, wouldn’t even spare a glance, and walked right past.

“Damn it,” Xu Qihui muttered angrily at her retreating figure. Tomorrow, he would kill Murong Luohua. Only by eliminating the talented would anyone notice him.

Time in the world of cultivation flowed similarly to the divine realm, but a bit faster—especially during training, when it seemed to gallop by.

In the blink of an eye, the sun rose again. Xu Qihui stood early on the platform, naming Murong Luohua as his challenger.

When a senior brother challenged a newcomer, the latter usually wouldn’t refuse. But Murong Luohua was no ordinary person; he flatly declined.

“I refuse,” Murong Luohua said directly. Xu Qihui was a Purple Grade in the Spirit Realm, nearly a full level above him, and his malicious intent was obvious—this was no simple challenge.

“So that’s Murong Luohua. Last night, I saw him sneaking into Xu Qihui’s room, didn’t you?” someone suddenly piped up, spreading rumors among those nearby.

“Yes, yes, I saw it too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Murong Luohua said carelessly, turning to leave.

“Feeling guilty, thief?” Xu Qihui blocked his way. “No wonder my jade pendant is missing—an artifact for defense.”

“Do you have any proof? Without evidence, don’t go around accusing people,” Murong Luohua retorted.

“Those two are my witnesses. And you—what proof have you that you didn’t do it?” Xu Qihui said solemnly.

“None.”

“Then stop struggling,” Xu Qihui smiled, his gaze venomous, as if wishing to kill him at once. “Senior can give you a suggestion: if you can defeat me, that artifact is yours.”

“It wasn’t me, so there’s no need to accept this challenge.”

Murong Luohua didn’t want to fight, but Xu Qihui pressed the attack, launching a lethal blow. The difference in levels, coupled with Murong Luohua’s reluctance, meant he couldn’t defend at all.

The sect leader arrived to see this scene. The other four peak masters tried to intervene but were too slow—the sword was nearly at Murong Luohua’s chest.

In that split second, Xuanqiong appeared before Murong Luohua, blocking the unnoticed strike with ease, her two fingers plucking the artifact from Xu Qihui’s grasp, unaffected by its master’s summons.

With a slight force of her fingers, the sword shattered completely, not even dust remaining. Her icy gaze stabbed toward Xu Qihui.

“Everyone, leave immediately,” Qingruo, the sect leader, ordered his disciples to flee. If this immortal lost her temper, none would survive.

“Leave? Who dares!” Xuanqiong sneered, then conjured a barrier that enclosed everyone.

“Immortal Xuanqiong, this is my fault for poor guidance. Please do not harm anyone here,” Qingruo Immortal pleaded, fearing for the sect’s survival.

“Very well,” Xuanqiong replied, gripping Xu Qihui’s neck in one hand and forming a seal with the other, which she carved onto his body before flinging him off the platform, landing him atop his two accomplices.

Instantly, Xu Qihui and the two witnesses trembled violently, exuding cold as if in an icy hell. Their suffering would not cease; such existence was worse than death.

“You all consider me an unknown immortal? Today, let me show you,” Xuanqiong waved her sleeve, and the arena filled with chilling pressure that forced everyone to their knees; those of lower cultivation spat blood.

“Please, friend, restrain yourself,” Qingruo Immortal implored.

“I never intended to hurt anyone here, but someone threatened my disciple, forcing my hand. If not for the identity you granted me, I wouldn’t be so easily appeased.” Xuanqiong withdrew her pressure; everyone at once breathed a sigh of relief.

“Master, you’re injured,” Murong Luohua noticed the blood staining her chest.

“A trivial wound, Luohua, you needn’t worry,” Xuanqiong replied, her tone no longer so cold, a trace of warmth within.

“Oh.”

“If anyone ever thinks of harming my disciple, they’d best think twice.”

Everyone looked at the suffering trio, fear rising in their hearts.

After they left, Xuanqiong placed an ice crystal behind. It displayed a scene: Xu Qihui and his two accomplices conspiring to frame Murong Luohua.

Qingruo Immortal finally understood and expelled the three from Yunshu. Such people were unworthy of cultivation here.

Many disciples were injured, and so the sect competition ended in this manner; everyone returned to recover.

Within Lingyu Peak, Murong Luohua watched Xuanqiong’s nonchalant demeanor, worried about her injury. He’d never imagined his master would shield him with her own body.

“Master, your wound needs tending.”

“No need. It’ll heal in the time it takes for a conversation,” Xuanqiong said, snapping her fingers; her clothes became spotless, and a sword appeared in her other hand. “This is for you. If anyone dares provoke you, strike without hesitation. If trouble arises, I’ll bear it.”

“Is this a gift from you, Master?” Murong Luohua received it with both hands.

“Yes.”

“A sword of red and white, uneven in color—never seen its like. May I ask its name?”

“Phantasm.”

“Phantasm? Why such a name?”

“If you become a god, it turns white. If you become a demon, it turns red,” Xuanqiong explained simply.

“Demon—I’ve only seen that word in books.”

“It should recognize you easily. Settle your affairs; tomorrow I’ll take you to train.”

“Thank you for the sword, Master,” Murong Luohua smiled for once.

“No need.”

It was always meant for him; she merely retrieved it and returned it to its rightful owner.

Murong Luohua watched her lonely silhouette as she left the room, her voice cold and detached—why did he feel unhappy?

He packed everything needed into his spirit ring, just in case, and went to the dining hall to bring some food. He’d noticed over the past three years that his master sometimes visited there; perhaps she liked eating.

He saw a young woman searching for food, though it was not mealtime. Sensing someone’s arrival, she quickly looked toward the doorway, sizing him up.

“You’re the disciple taken by Immortal Xuanqiong—you should have transcended hunger, so why gather so much food?”

“You know me?”

“After that incident, who doesn’t? And on the day you became her disciple, we met briefly. My name is Beiming Ling.”

“Murong Luohua,” he replied politely, though she already knew his name.

“Why bring so much food?”

“My master is taking me to train. I’ve noticed she sometimes visits the dining hall, so I prepared some.”

“Immortal Xuanqiong, so aloof, yet she eats?”

“Just because her cultivation is high doesn’t mean she can’t eat.”

“I’ve transcended hunger too, but I love food. Not eating would be a waste of the world’s delicacies.”

“Perhaps my master feels the same.”

“You said you’re going to train?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell my master—I want to go too,” Beiming Ling said, running off and leaving behind, “I’ll leave Immortal Xuanqiong to you.”

“Ah, I don’t know how to ask…”

Nonetheless, he went back and told Immortal Xuanqiong.

“Master, Beiming Ling, disciple of Immortal Qingruo, wishes to join us in training.”