The days passed in silence.
Iron Wind City never grew loud, even as more people arrived. Young faces filled the alleys—some cautious, some burning with quiet ambition. They were around the same age, most between fourteen and seventeen, and all of them had that look in their eyes.
They had come for the same reason.
Su Lingxi spent those days mostly alone in the small inn room. She left only to observe the city in passing, carefully concealed beneath her wide bamboo hat. Each time, the streets grew more crowded, the gazes sharper, the tension thicker.
By the fourth day, she returned to her room just after dusk. The streets were wet with thin rain, and the air smelled of stone and ash.
She lay down, careful not to stretch too quickly. Her body wasn't as fragile as it once was, but it still rebelled against movement. The pain wasn't sharp or crippling —he adapted to it. A slow, dragging ache between her flesh and soul, like two layers grinding imperfectly together. He had long since learned to ignore it, to function through it. But endurance didn't mean invulnerability.
His body still needed rest.
And so, after organizing the fragments of information he had gathered over the last few days, Ren let his eyes close.
Sleep came, not as relief—but necessity.
_______
By dawn, his eyes blinked open.
The air was different.
Just as he reached for his hat, a voice rang out—loud and clear, yet without echo. Not from outside the window. Not from within the building. It was everywhere, as if spoken directly into his bones.
"All who seek to enter the Bloodblade Sect, gather at the city center at high noon. Latecomers will not be tolerated"
There was no signature. No direction. Just the words—and then silence.
Ren stood still for a moment. His heart didn't race, but a chill crept into his spine.
______
By noon, the air in Iron Wind City had changed.
The usual muted activity had vanished. No merchant cries. No idle chatter. Even the beggars and drunks had disappeared, as though pushed aside by something invisible. When Su Lingxi arrived at the central square, wasn't alone.
Others were already gathering. Dozens of them. Young men and women, most dressed in nondescript robes, some trying—and failing—to conceal the sharp light in their eyes. Ambition. Desperation. Bloodlust. It bled off of them in silence.
No one spoke.
No one looked at one another for long.
And no one smiled.
Then, the air stirred.
A figure descended slowly from the sky—a man in blood-colored robes, hovering just above the stone plaza. His presence was quiet, but it pressed against the lungs. A middle-aged cultivator, sword at his waist, eyes calm but cold. He didn't radiate power. But everyone knew what he was.
He looked down on them not with pride, but with indifference.
"You're all wondering how we select disciples," he said, voice smooth and effortless. "Let me make it simple."
"This entire square is a formation. Once it begins, you'll be inside it—sealed off from the outside world. No one will hear you. No one will see you. No one will interfere."
Ren's brow twitched. Formation…?
It was the first time he'd heard the term used like that.
"We don't test spiritual roots," the man continued. "We don't ask where you're from. We don't care what you were born with. All we want to see—"
"—is who survives."
He raised one hand.
"You'll be divided into five groups. Four groups of fifty. One group of thirty. In each group, only five can live. Use whatever methods you want. Kill, deceive, hide, betray—it doesn't matter. When your group is down to five, the formation will release you. If you die… then you die."
Then, a slight smile curved his lips—thin, amused, pitiless.
"Begin."
_____
Before Ren could react, the world around him rippled.
His feet no longer touched city stone. The buildings, the crowd, the sky—all of it dissolved into haze. And then reformed.
Now, he stood in a vast open field.
Colorless.
Artificial.
Silent.
It didn't feel like a dream. Everything was real. Too real.
He wasn't alone. Forty-nine others were scattered across the field—some standing still, others already glancing around. No greetings. No alliances. Just eyes calculating distance and advantage.
Ren didn't move.
There were no weapons. No warning. No second chances.
He scanned the group and quickly did the math—around 230 people in total. That matched what he'd seen in the city.
Five groups.
Four of fifty. One of thirty.
Only 20 out of 230 will walk out alive. That's just over one in nine.
That last group was doomed. Either they'd get only three survivors… or they were put there as a test bed to die.
But that wasn't his concern.
His concern was this group—his group. Forty-nine strangers. All stronger. All healthier. All willing to kill.
"Only five can survive."
No one made alliances. No one dared. It would be suicide. Even if someone tried to work together, it would only last until the final six.
And then?
Betrayal.
Ren's thoughts were quiet, fast, razor-sharp.
The first youth lunged.
Another followed.
Screams hadn't started—but they would.
No alliances. No hesitation. Just blood.
Ren didn't move.
He couldn't fight. Couldn't run. His body was still too weak—burning beneath the surface with that familiar, grinding pain where flesh and soul didn't align.
And now, he was exposed. Surrounded. Outmatched.
A figure turned toward him—blade in hand, eyes already deciding.
"They'll come for the weakest first."
"That's me."
His mind raced.
He had no cultivation. No technique. No escape.
In that instant, something shifted in his gaze.
He made his decision.
"If I can't win with strength, I'll win some other way."
"Then so be it."
And as the first blade was raised toward his throat—
Ren stepped forward.
And opened his mouth to speak.