The arena still trembled from the aftermath of the previous clash.
Dust hovered in the air like a fading memory. The formation array that surrounded the battlefield glowed faintly, its translucent barrier humming with restrained energy. Beyond it, thousands of eyes watched with anticipation and quiet hunger. In this world, power was spectacle. Blood was proof. Victory was currency.
On the platform, Lucien Veil staggered backward.
Opposite him stood Tyrant Kale, his broad shoulders rising and falling with steady confidence. Kale's aura burned fiercely—violent, aggressive, oppressive. He wore arrogance like armor.
Lucien's breathing grew uneven. Though bruised and exhausted, his eyes still burned with determination. He lacked resources. He lacked support. But he did not lack talent.
And talent was dangerous.
"End this," Kale muttered, cracking his knuckles.
Without warning, he stepped forward.
Sterven Fist.
The technique erupted like a cannon blast.
It was too fast.
Too sudden.
Too brutal.
The audience gasped as the punch struck Lucien square in the chest. The impact echoed like thunder against stone. Bones cracked. Blood sprayed across the arena floor.
Lucien's body flew backward and collapsed heavily.
Silence followed.
Everyone understood what had happened. Sterven Fist was a high-tier technique—far beyond what should have been permitted in this stage of the competition.
It was cheating.
But no one spoke.
Kale belonged to a high-ranking branch of the Voss family. Lucien came from one of the lowest.
Justice in this world followed bloodline.
And bloodline followed power.
Lucien lay motionless, blood pooling beneath him.
From the spectator stands, Keil Voss watched.
He did not blink.
He did not frown.
He smiled—barely.
Not enough to show teeth.
Just enough to reveal calculation.
"Very well, Lucien," he murmured under his breath. "You are the perfect puppet for my design."
The match was declared.
Kale raised his arm triumphantly.
Lucien was carried away like discarded refuse.
But Keil did not look at Kale.
He stood up calmly and left the arena.
---
The Basement of the Fallen
Beneath the stadium lay a long corridor of stone chambers. Torches flickered weakly along damp walls. The air smelled of iron and medicine.
This was where the defeated were taken.
Not for glory.
Not for honor.
For recovery—or humiliation.
Keil descended the staircase without hesitation. Guards noticed him but did not interfere. Something about him had changed. Even those who did not understand cultivation could sense it.
Authority.
Cold authority.
At the far end of the chamber, Lucien Veil sat slumped in a chair, unconscious.
But what Keil saw next was not the present.
It was memory.
A vision flickered before Lucien's mind—a hallucination born from despair.
He stood before his family.
Faces twisted with contempt.
"You worthless bastard."
"You can't even win one proper fight."
"You disgrace the Veil name."
Lucien's fists trembled.
He had reached Rank 2 through pure effort. No elixirs. No ancient scrolls. No secret guidance.
Yet it was not enough.
Because in this world, being second was failure.
His father's voice pierced him like a blade.
"Why were you born if you cannot surpass them?"
Lucien's breath grew heavier.
Why?
Why do I endure this?
His thoughts spiraled.
I am stronger than them.
All of them.
They dare insult me?
They are ants.
Ants!
Why do I bow to ants?
His vision reddened.
"I will not endure this anymore!" he roared within the illusion. "Die! Die! Die!"
He lunged forward in rage—
Flick.
A single finger struck his forehead.
The illusion shattered.
Lucien's eyes snapped open.
He stared upward.
Standing before him was Keil Voss.
Smiling.
Kindly.
But his eyes—
Cold.
"So," Keil said softly, "you've awakened."
Lucien's breathing was unstable. Sweat clung to his skin.
"A dream…" he muttered. "I saw a dream."
Keil tilted his head slightly.
"Was it unbearable?"
Lucien's jaw tightened.
"I, Lucien Veil… will kill them. I will slaughter them with my own hands."
His voice no longer trembled.
It was steel.
Keil studied him carefully.
Good.
The hatred is ripe.
"I understand," Keil replied calmly. "Those fools are irritating."
Lucien looked at him sharply.
Keil continued.
"People often speak of loneliness as if it were permanent. But no one is truly alone. Even in silence, we are shaped by the presence—or absence—of others. Our wounds, our anger, our ambitions… all born from collision with another will."
Lucien listened.
"For you," Keil said quietly, "your pain was shaped by them."
Lucien's eyes darkened.
"In this world, strength rules. Yet you obey the weak simply because they share your blood. Why?"
Silence.
Lucien clenched his fists.
Keil extended his hand.
"How about working under me?"
Lucien looked up.
"I will grant you the power to kill them. Every last one."
The smile on Keil's face remained gentle.
But his aura—
It pressed down like a silent abyss.
Lucien's heart pounded.
This boy…
No.
This being.
He felt something ancient behind those eyes.
A predator disguised as youth.
Lucien lowered his head slowly.
"Master Keil," he said, voice steady, "I swear loyalty. I will follow you until my life ends."
Keil's smile widened faintly.
He placed a hand on Lucien's head.
"Your family lost a diamond because they chased gold," he said. "Under me, you will have every resource. You will belong to me. And no one will dare insult you again."
He handed Lucien a silver badge engraved with the Voss crest.
"Enter the palace whenever you wish."
Lucien accepted it with trembling reverence.
Thus, the first piece of the board moved.
And the first victim was chosen.
---
Return to the Arena
The festival continued above.
Cheers echoed through the stadium.
Keil returned calmly and took his seat.
Beside him sat Elara Nightvale.
She did not look at him directly.
But she felt it.
His aura had grown again.
"You disappeared," she said softly. "Where were you?"
"I had work," Keil replied flatly.
She studied him from the corner of her eye.
He recruited Lucien.
Why?
Lucien lost.
Yet he values him.
Her intuition warned her.
He is unpredictable.
That is dangerous.
Three matches passed.
Then the announcer's voice thundered:
"Next match—Keil Voss!"
The crowd stirred.
Whispers spread.
He stepped forward without expression.
With a single leap, he cleared the formation barrier and landed lightly in the arena.
Opposite him, another figure emerged.
White hair.
Black robes.
Cold eyes.
Cassian Voss.
A direct descendant of the main family.
Soul Transcend Realm—Mid Stage.
The audience buzzed with anticipation.
Two prodigies.
Same blood.
Same lineage.
Different paths.
They faced each other.
Chapter 6: The First Victim
The arena still trembled from the aftermath of the previous clash.
Dust hovered in the air like a fading memory. The formation array that surrounded the battlefield glowed faintly, its translucent barrier humming with restrained energy. Beyond it, thousands of eyes watched with anticipation and quiet hunger. In this world, power was spectacle. Blood was proof. Victory was currency.
On the platform, Lucien Veil staggered backward.
Opposite him stood Tyrant Kale, his broad shoulders rising and falling with steady confidence. Kale's aura burned fiercely—violent, aggressive, oppressive. He wore arrogance like armor.
Lucien's breathing grew uneven. Though bruised and exhausted, his eyes still burned with determination. He lacked resources. He lacked support. But he did not lack talent.
And talent was dangerous.
"End this," Kale muttered, cracking his knuckles.
Without warning, he stepped forward.
Sterven Fist.
The technique erupted like a cannon blast.
It was too fast.
Too sudden.
Too brutal.
The audience gasped as the punch struck Lucien square in the chest. The impact echoed like thunder against stone. Bones cracked. Blood sprayed across the arena floor.
Lucien's body flew backward and collapsed heavily.
Silence followed.
Everyone understood what had happened. Sterven Fist was a high-tier technique—far beyond what should have been permitted in this stage of the competition.
It was cheating.
But no one spoke.
Kale belonged to a high-ranking branch of the Voss family. Lucien came from one of the lowest.
Justice in this world followed bloodline.
And bloodline followed power.
Lucien lay motionless, blood pooling beneath him.
From the spectator stands, Keil Voss watched.
He did not blink.
He did not frown.
He smiled—barely.
Not enough to show teeth.
Just enough to reveal calculation.
"Very well, Lucien," he murmured under his breath. "You are the perfect puppet for my design."
The match was declared.
Kale raised his arm triumphantly.
Lucien was carried away like discarded refuse.
But Keil did not look at Kale.
He stood up calmly and left the arena.
---
The Basement of the Fallen
Beneath the stadium lay a long corridor of stone chambers. Torches flickered weakly along damp walls. The air smelled of iron and medicine.
This was where the defeated were taken.
Not for glory.
Not for honor.
For recovery—or humiliation.
Keil descended the staircase without hesitation. Guards noticed him but did not interfere. Something about him had changed. Even those who did not understand cultivation could sense it.
Authority.
Cold authority.
At the far end of the chamber, Lucien Veil sat slumped in a chair, unconscious.
But what Keil saw next was not the present.
It was memory.
A vision flickered before Lucien's mind—a hallucination born from despair.
He stood before his family.
Faces twisted with contempt.
"You worthless bastard."
"You can't even win one proper fight."
"You disgrace the Veil name."
Lucien's fists trembled.
He had reached Rank 2 through pure effort. No elixirs. No ancient scrolls. No secret guidance.
Yet it was not enough.
Because in this world, being second was failure.
His father's voice pierced him like a blade.
"Why were you born if you cannot surpass them?"
Lucien's breath grew heavier.
Why?
Why do I endure this?
His thoughts spiraled.
I am stronger than them.
All of them.
They dare insult me?
They are ants.
Ants!
Why do I bow to ants?
His vision reddened.
"I will not endure this anymore!" he roared within the illusion. "Die! Die! Die!"
He lunged forward in rage—
Flick.
A single finger struck his forehead.
The illusion shattered.
Lucien's eyes snapped open.
He stared upward.
Standing before him was Keil Voss.
Smiling.
Kindly.
But his eyes—
Cold.
"So," Keil said softly, "you've awakened."
Lucien's breathing was unstable. Sweat clung to his skin.
"A dream…" he muttered. "I saw a dream."
Keil tilted his head slightly.
"Was it unbearable?"
Lucien's jaw tightened.
"I, Lucien Veil… will kill them. I will slaughter them with my own hands."
His voice no longer trembled.
It was steel.
Keil studied him carefully.
Good.
The hatred is ripe.
"I understand," Keil replied calmly. "Those fools are irritating."
Lucien looked at him sharply.
Keil continued.
"People often speak of loneliness as if it were permanent. But no one is truly alone. Even in silence, we are shaped by the presence—or absence—of others. Our wounds, our anger, our ambitions… all born from collision with another will."
Lucien listened.
"For you," Keil said quietly, "your pain was shaped by them."
Lucien's eyes darkened.
"In this world, strength rules. Yet you obey the weak simply because they share your blood. Why?"
Silence.
Lucien clenched his fists.
Keil extended his hand.
"How about working under me?"
Lucien looked up.
"I will grant you the power to kill them. Every last one."
The smile on Keil's face remained gentle.
But his aura—
It pressed down like a silent abyss.
Lucien's heart pounded.
This boy…
No.
This being.
He felt something ancient behind those eyes.
A predator disguised as youth.
Lucien lowered his head slowly.
"Master Keil," he said, voice steady, "I swear loyalty. I will follow you until my life ends."
Keil's smile widened faintly.
He placed a hand on Lucien's head.
"Your family lost a diamond because they chased gold," he said. "Under me, you will have every resource. You will belong to me. And no one will dare insult you again."
He handed Lucien a silver badge engraved with the Voss crest.
"Enter the palace whenever you wish."
Lucien accepted it with trembling reverence.
Thus, the first piece of the board moved.
And the first victim was chosen.
---
Return to the Arena
The festival continued above.
Cheers echoed through the stadium.
Keil returned calmly and took his seat.
Beside him sat Elara Nightvale.
She did not look at him directly.
But she felt it.
His aura had grown again.
"You disappeared," she said softly. "Where were you?"
"I had work," Keil replied flatly.
She studied him from the corner of her eye.
He recruited Lucien.
Why?
Lucien lost.
Yet he values him.
Her intuition warned her.
He is unpredictable.
That is dangerous.
Three matches passed.
Then the announcer's voice thundered:
"Next match—Keil Voss!"
The crowd stirred.
Whispers spread.
He stepped forward without expression.
With a single leap, he cleared the formation barrier and landed lightly in the arena.
Opposite him, another figure emerged.
White hair.
Black robes.
Cold eyes.
Cassian Voss.
A direct descendant of the main family.
Soul Transcend Realm—Mid Stage.
The audience buzzed with anticipation.
Two prodigies.
Same blood.
Same lineage.
Different paths.
They faced each other.
Neither spoke.
Their gazes collided.
The arena was silent after Keil stepped forward.
Across from him, Cassian Voss did not move immediately.
Unlike the others, Cassian did not underestimate him.
He had been watching since morning.
He had seen Lucien fall.
He had seen the faint aura ripple when Keil returned.
And now—
He felt it clearly.
Peak Stage, Soul Transcend.
But something about it was strange.
Too stable.
Too deep.
Too… old.
Cassian spoke first.
"You advanced too quickly."
Keil did not answer.
The formation barrier sealed completely, humming with layered inscriptions to prevent outside interference. This was no longer spectacle.
This was prestige.
The signal sounded.
Cassian vanished.
Not dashed.
Vanished.
The air split as three afterimages attacked from different angles, each carrying blade-intent sharp enough to cut through stone.
The crowd gasped.
High-level Phantom Step.
Main branch exclusive.
Keil moved—barely.
Two attacks missed.
The third grazed his shoulder.
A thin line of blood appeared.
The audience erupted.
Cassian did not hesitate.
He pressed forward mercilessly, his aura exploding outward in waves of compressed spiritual force. Every step cracked the arena tiles.
"You are not the only one who trained," Cassian said coldly.
He raised his hand.
A crescent-shaped arc of spiritual energy tore through the arena floor and rushed toward Keil.
This was not brute force.
This was refined control.
Keil stepped back—but the arc curved mid-flight.
Tracking.
It sliced across his ribs.
Blood stained his robes.
The crowd roared louder.
For the first time—
Keil was pushed back.
From the balcony above, Castrophin Voss leaned slightly forward.
"Good," the Emperor murmured.
Back in the arena, Keil's eyes narrowed faintly.
Interesting.
Cassian was stronger than memory suggested.
In his previous life, Cassian had plateaued early.
But this—
This Cassian had improved.
Perhaps the timeline shift had rippled outward.
Cassian formed hand seals rapidly.
The air around him condensed.
Sword Intent manifested physically, hovering like translucent blades in orbit around him.
"Main Branch Art," Cassian declared, voice steady.
"Heaven Piercing Domain."
The formation barrier vibrated violently.
Within a twenty-meter radius, invisible pressure descended.
Gravity multiplied.
Air thickened.
Keil's movements slowed.
So this is your trump card.
Cassian stepped forward deliberately now, no rush, no wasted energy. The floating blades rotated faster.
"You rely too much on stillness," Cassian said quietly. "You think composure equals superiority."
He thrust his hand forward.
All the spectral blades launched simultaneously.
Keil raised his arm—
Too late.
One blade pierced through his defense and embedded into his thigh.
Another cut across his forearm.
A third slammed into his shoulder and detonated in a burst of condensed spiritual energy.
The impact threw him backward.
He skidded across the arena floor.
Dust exploded.
Silence fell.
Elara Nightvale gripped the edge of her seat.
This is not going as he planned.
Cassian walked forward through the settling dust.
He was breathing heavier now—but controlled.
"This is the difference between branches," he said. "Resources. Heritage. Foundation."
Keil slowly stood.
Blood dripped from his fingers.
His breathing remained steady.
But his eyes—
Had changed.
Not anger.
Not frustration.
Approval.
"You're worthy," Keil said quietly.
Cassian frowned.
"What?"
Keil straightened fully.
Then—
He released it.
Not explosively.
Not violently.
But like a deep ocean rising.
His aura expanded outward—not as pressure, but as depth.
The spectral remnants of Cassian's domain began to distort.
Cassian's pupils contracted.
What is this density?
Keil stepped forward.
Gravity inside the domain shifted.
Cassian's control wavered.
Impossible—
He reinforced it immediately, channeling more spiritual force.
Veins surfaced along his neck.
"Do not underestimate the main family!" Cassian said while smiling.
He charged.
Their fists collided.
The shockwave cracked the formation barrier itself.
Cassian's physical strength was overwhelming.
For a moment—
Keil was forced back again.
Cassian pressed advantage, launching a barrage of palm strikes mixed with blade-intent bursts at point-blank range.
Each strike precise.
Each strike lethal.
Keil blocked two.
Dodged three.
The sixth strike landed squarely against his chest.
The impact sent him airborne.
The audience erupted again.
Cassian did not celebrate.
He leapt upward to finish it.
Mid-air clash.
Cassian's knee drove into Keil's abdomen.
Blood sprayed.
Keil crashed down hard.
The arena floor cratered beneath him.
Silence.
Cassian descended slowly, landing a short distance away.
His breathing was no longer perfectly steady.
"You are strong," Cassian admitted. "Stronger than expected."
Dust cleared.
Keil remained on one knee.
Blood on his lips.
He wiped it away calmly.
Then he laughed softly.
Low.
Controlled.
"Very good, Cassian."
He stood.
And this time—
He stopped restraining himself.
The aura that erupted was no longer simply deep.
It was oppressive.
Ancient.
Predatory.
The temperature in the arena seemed to drop.
Cassian felt it immediately.
This is different.
Keil stepped forward once.
The remaining fragments of Heaven Piercing Domain shattered.
Cassian's eyes widened.
Raw force?
No.
Compression.
Keil had been condensing his aura the entire time.
Not releasing it.
Containing it.
He vanished.
Cassian reacted instantly, pivoting and forming a defensive seal—
But Keil's palm struck before the seal completed.
Not flashy.
Not dramatic.
Just precise.
The impact disrupted Cassian's meridian flow.
Spiritual circulation staggered.
Cassian countered with a sweeping blade arc—
Keil stepped inside the attack range.
Elbow strike.
Cassian's ribs cracked audibly.
He staggered back—but did not fall.
He roared and unleashed everything at once.
Aura, blade-intent, domain fragments—all compressed into one final thrust.
The arena floor split down the middle.
Keil met it head-on.
Palm against blade.
For three full seconds—
Neither moved.
Energy screamed between them.
The formation barrier flickered violently.
Then—
Cassian's technique fractured.
The backlash hit him first.
He was thrown backward, crashing near the arena edge.
He tried to stand.
His knees trembled.
Blood dripped steadily.
Keil approached slowly.
Not hurried.
Not exhausted.
Measured.
Cassian forced himself upright.
Even now.
Even defeated.
He would not kneel.
Keil stopped three steps away.
Their eyes met.
"You have the foundation of a ruler," Keil said quietly.
Cassian spat blood.
"Do not mock me."
"I'm not."
A pause.
"In another timeline," Keil continued internally, though he did not speak it aloud, "you died too early."
Cassian lunged one final time.
Keil sidestepped.
Chop to the neck.
Precise.
Cassian collapsed.
Conscious—but unable to continue.
The referee, voice trembling slightly, declared:
"Winner… Keil Voss."
The crowd exploded.
But this time—
It was not unanimous.
Some looked at Cassian with new respect.
He had pushed Keil further than anyone expected.
From the balcony, Emperor Castrophin's eyes gleamed faintly.
Now this is interesting.
Below, Keil extended a hand.
Cassian looked at it.
After a long moment—
He accepted it.
Keil pulled him up.
Quietly.
No humiliation.
No taunting.
Only a single sentence:
"Grow stronger."
Then he turned and walked away.
Behind him, Cassian stood upright despite his injuries.
For the first time—
He felt something other than rivalry.
A challenge.
The board had shifted.
Lucien was the first piece claimed.
Cassian—
Was not yet an enemy.
But not yet an ally either.
And Keil Voss, the Ancient Reversion Falling Demon—
Had just revealed that even prodigies of the main branch could force him to bleed.