In response to this formal summons, two male cultivators emerged from different sections of the waiting crowd and leaped onto the raised arena platform. Neither movement was sloppy or hesitant—they both crossed the distance from ground level to platform with confident efficiency, their landings stable and balanced, suggesting they'd drilled these basic techniques until they became second nature and could be executed reliably even under the pressure of public observation and competitive stress. The watching crowd murmured with moderate interest as the two competitors took their positions on opposite sides of the arena, beginning the process of sizing each other up while spectators and bookmakers alike tried to assess which fighter held advantages and which represented the safer bet for those gambling on outcomes.
Even before either cultivator had consciously activated their spirit energy or deliberately projected their power to intimidate their opponent—just from the ambient aura that naturally radiated from their bodies as an unconscious byproduct of their cultivation level and the spiritual pressure they couldn't completely suppress even in resting states—experienced observers in the crowd could immediately determine their approximate strength through well-practiced assessment techniques.
Careful observers could detect seven concentric cracks or stress lines pulsing rhythmically like phantom year-rings across the surface of each competitor's personal spiritual aura, those semi-visible shells of concentrated qi energy that surrounded cultivators like invisible armor and which, to those with proper spiritual sense development, displayed patterns that revealed cultivation progress with remarkable precision. These circular fracture patterns appeared and disappeared in sync with their breathing and heartbeat, each pulse making the rings slightly more visible for a fraction of a second before they faded back into near-invisibility.
Both competitors were clearly, unambiguously at the seventh layer of Qi Refinement based on these telltale seven rings of spiritual pressure—a respectable cultivation level that placed them solidly in the middle ranges of outer sect strength, neither particularly impressive nor embarrassingly weak by the standards of disciples who'd been with the sect for at least a few years.
Seventh layer represented the point where cultivators began developing more sophisticated techniques and could start seriously competing for sect resources and recognition, having moved beyond the absolute beginner stages.
The taller of the two cultivators, who'd taken position on the arena's western side had an unusually pale complexion—his skin wasn't just light or fair in the way some people naturally were, but rather possessed an almost bloodless, corpse-like quality that made him look genuinely ill or perhaps undead. The pallor was so pronounced that it seemed unhealthy even by cultivation world standards where people's appearances often reflected their chosen techniques and energy types, suggesting he either practiced some death-aspected cultivation method that drained color from his flesh or had some underlying condition that normal spiritual energy couldn't fully compensate for. His features were gaunt and somewhat sunken, with dark circles under eyes that seemed to have receded slightly into their sockets, creating shadows that made his gaze appear hollow and disturbing when combined with that bloodless skin tone.
Most notably, he carried a large burlap sack slung across his back with casual ease despite its obvious weight and bulk, the rough fabric stained with what looked like old dried bloodstains and newer wet patches that suggested recent additions to whatever contents were creating the irregular bulges and odd shapes visible through the material. The sack shifted and settled occasionally with movements that seemed slightly too organic, as if whatever was stored within retained some lingering animation or movements, and the overall was deeply unsettling in ways that made spectators unconsciously lean away from that side of the arena.
The shorter competitor, who'd claimed the eastern position and was currently rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles in preparation for combat with obvious anticipation of violence to come, presented a completely different physical profile. Where his opponent was tall and unnaturally thin, this fighter was compact and dense with muscle, his limbs appearing disproportionately thick and heavily developed relative to his below-average height in ways that gave him a distinctly stocky, almost dwarf-like build. His arms were particularly impressive—easily twice the circumference that height alone would suggest, corded with visible muscle that rippled beneath skin bearing numerous scars from what were presumably past battles or particularly brutal training regimens. His legs were similarly overdeveloped, thick as tree trunks and suggesting the kind of explosive power that could generate devastating kicks or lightning-fast movement despite his lack of height advantage.
The overall impression was of concentrated physical strength packed into an efficient frame, someone who'd deliberately cultivated raw power and probably specialized in close-quarters combat where reach disadvantages could be compensated for by superior strength and durability. His facial expression radiated fierce aggression and barely contained violence that made it clear he wasn't just participating in this tournament out of obligation or for prizes—this was someone who genuinely enjoyed combat for its own sake, who relished the opportunity to test himself against opponents and inflict damage in socially sanctioned contexts, the kind of fighter who probably volunteered for the most dangerous missions just for the thrill of life-or-death confrontations.
The blue-robed deacon official stationed on the elevated platform, standing precisely at the midpoint between the two competitors where he could observe both fighters equally well and intervene immediately if circumstances required his authority. He watched with experienced eyes as they performed their final preparation rituals—adjusting stances, centering their breathing, activating preliminary spirit energy circulation patterns that would allow rapid technique deployment once combat began—before deciding they'd had sufficient time to prepare and it was appropriate to begin the formal pre-match procedures. His tone was deliberately flat, making absolutely clear through vocal inflection alone that these were established regulations handed down from higher authorities rather than suggestions or guidelines open to personal interpretation or creative modification based on circumstances.
"Let us go over the rules that will govern this preliminary match," he announced, his voice projecting clearly across the arena and to the nearest sections of spectator seating through subtle spirit energy enhancement that ensured everyone relevant could hear without him needing to shout.
"The Grand Outer Sect Tournament, as established by we holy sect leadership and maintained through billion years of tradition, imposes no restrictions whatsoever on techniques, methods, or tactical approaches employed during sanctioned matches. Competitors are free—indeed, encouraged—to use any abilities at their disposal regardless of how destructive or potentially dangerous those abilities might be to their opponents, to the arena infrastructure, or to nearby observers. We have formations and officials in place specifically to handle containment and safety issues, so your concern should be exclusively focused on defeating your opponent through whatever means you judge most effective. There are no forbidden techniques, no banned substances, no prohibited weapons or artifacts—if you possess it and can use it, it's legal for tournament competition."
He paused briefly before continuing with the second major rule that balanced the first's permissiveness. "Similarly, and I want to be absolutely clear about this because misunderstandings have caused problems in previous tournaments, the sect will not hold competitors responsible for their opponents' deaths should such unfortunate outcomes occur during legitimate matches conducted under official supervision."
"If you kill someone while fighting on this platform, following proper procedures and within the established match framework, you face no punishment or sanction whatsoever from sect authorities. Combat deaths are considered acceptable losses inherent on the cultivation path to the Great Dao."
The deacon's expression hardened slightly as he transitioned to explaining the absolute requirement. "However—and this is the one non-negotiable restriction that applies universally regardless of any other circumstances—if a competitor verbally surrenders and explicitly admits defeat while the match is still in progress, clearly communicating through words that they acknowledge their loss and wish to cease combat immediately, their opponent must stop all attacks instantly and allow them to leave the platform safely without further interference or harm. The moment someone says 'I surrender' or 'I admit defeat' or any similar clear verbal concession, combat ends immediately and absolutely. A victor who continues attacking after an opponent has properly surrendered, who attempts to kill or severely injure or humiliate someone who has already conceded the match according to established protocols, will face serious disciplinary action up to and including expulsion from the Outer Sect to death penalty, depending on the severity of their violation and their history of similar infractions. We take this rule extremely seriously because allowing surrender is what separates legitimate martial competition from simple murder—it ensures that every Outer Sect disciple can test themselves and improve through combat experience without necessarily risking death every single time they step onto an arena."
He scanned both fighters with sharp eyes that had evaluated thousands of disciples over his years of service, checking their body language and expressions to confirm they were actually listening and processing rather than just waiting impatiently for him to finish talking so they could start fighting.
"So protect yourselves at all times throughout this match—that means maintaining situational awareness, defending adequately, and recognizing when you're genuinely overmatched quickly enough to surrender before suffering injuries that might permanently damage your cultivation foundation or cost you your life."
"Every participant in this tournament is a valued Outer Sect disciple of our holy sect who represents an investment of cultivation resources and martial training, and while we accept that some deaths are inevitable in high-level competition, we prefer outcomes where promising cultivators survive to continue their development even if they don't advance through every tournament round. Listen carefully to my instructions at all times during the match, because if I issue commands—whether telling you to separate, to clarify whether someone has surrendered, or to cease combat for any reason—those commands carry the full authority of the sect and must be obeyed immediately without question or hesitation."
"I want a clean fight here, by which I mean I want both of you to focus on demonstrating your legitimate martial capabilities rather than attempting to circumvent rules through technicalities or trying to create ambiguous situations where you can claim you didn't hear a surrender or didn't understand an instruction."
The official paused again, this time clearly waiting for explicit acknowledgment from both competitors that they understood and accepted these conditions. "Do you both understand these rules clearly and completely? Are there any questions about procedures, acceptable conduct, or consequences for rule violations that need clarification before we begin?" His gaze moved from one fighter to the other, giving each an opportunity to speak if they needed clarification on any point.
When neither immediately spoke up with questions, he gestured casually toward the center of the platform in the traditional pre-fight ritual that had been imported into cultivation tournaments from martial arts traditions. "Touch fists now if you want to show respect to your opponent before combat begins."
But before either fighter could respond to that suggestion or move toward the platform's center, the taller competitor with the disturbing pallor spoke up. "Aye sir! We already went over all the rules in the back staging area when we registered for our match brackets. Everyone knows how tournament matches work by now—it's not complicated."
The official's expression didn't change, maintaining that same bureaucratic neutrality, but he nodded acknowledgment of the complaint while making clear it didn't alter his procedures. "Regulations require that I review rules before every match regardless of whether competitors have heard them previously," he responded in that same flat tone. "It ensures no one can later claim they didn't understand what was or wasn't permitted."
Neither fighter seemed particularly interested in the traditional show of respect, instead maintaining their positions on opposite sides of the platform with body language that communicated they were ready to begin and viewed any further delay as pointless ceremony. The official apparently decided that was acceptable given that the gesture was optional, and he made a sharp gesture directing both competitors back to their starting positions. "Return to your corners and prepare for the start signal."
The deacon looked carefully between the two fighters, his experienced gaze assessing their readiness and confirming that both appeared mentally prepared and physically capable of competing safely—or as safely as unrestricted combat between Qi Refinement Stage cultivators could ever be.
Both nodded their understanding of procedures and their readiness to begin, their spirit energy already starting to circulate more actively as they prepared to unleash techniques the moment combat was officially authorized.
Around the arena, additional spectators could be seen rushing frantically toward Kay Gool's betting station at the platform's edge, shouting wagers and waving spirit stones as they tried to place last-minute bets now that they could actually see the specific matchup and had opportunities to assess the competitors' apparent capabilities, body language, and confidence levels for themselves rather than betting blind based only on names and cultivation levels. The betting activity created a surge of noise and motion that briefly threatened to distract from the imminent match, but the official ignored it as irrelevant to his responsibilities.
Satisfied that everyone was ready—fighters prepared, spectators positioned, no additional procedural matters requiring attention before combat could commence—the official stepped back decisively toward the edge of the platform, clearing the central space and ensuring he wouldn't accidentally interfere with the fighters' movements or techniques once they began trading attacks. His movement was practiced and efficient, positioning himself where he could observe everything clearly while remaining safely outside the immediate combat zone unless intervention became necessary.
The official raised his hand high above his head in the traditional starting gesture that every tournament participant recognized, holding it there for a long moment to ensure both fighters saw the signal and were tracking his movements. His eyes lifted, then, across the sea of faces and the forest of arenas, to the highest wooden tower at the complex's heart. There, a middle-aged official rose. A ripple followed his movement as all the Foundation Stage elders atop the central platform stood as one. In unison, they offered a solemn, acknowledging nod—a silent blessing bestowed upon all the competitors of the sixteen simultaneous battles.
Then, an older official stepped forward. When he spoke, his voice did not merely cross the distance; it commanded it, resonating in every stone and every ear.
"The holy Abyss Pit Sect… Grand Outer Sect Tournament… shall begins..."
"NOW!" the sect official roared, his own voice a blade cutting through the reverberation, and his upraised hand slashed down.
BANG!
The crash of the gong was a physical wave, a thunderous heartbeat that shook the very planks beneath Lordi's feet.
"Fight!"
The words had barely finished echoing across the arena when the shorter, stocky cultivator on Arena A exploded into action with impressive speed. Bronze-colored patterns suddenly erupted across the surface of his skin, intricate runic designs that covered his entire body in a network of mystical markings. Simultaneously, two horn-like protrusions began growing from his forehead, curving upward into wicked points.
The transformation was dramatic fast—based on the characteristic bronze coloring and horn manifestation, he'd activated the Green Ghost Combat Body. The physical changes came accompanied by a tremendous surge of physical power and a bestial roar that echoed across the arena. Without hesitation or tactical consideration, he launched himself directly at his taller opponent in a straightforward charge, apparently intending to overwhelm through pure physical dominance.
The tall, pale cultivator's response was notably calmer and more measured. His face remained completely expressionless, showing neither fear nor excitement as his charging opponent closed the distance. With smooth, practiced motions, he reached back and grabbed the burlap sack he'd been carrying. In one swift motion he tore the sack open and yanked out its contents: a weird human like corpse with three heads from different men, six bleeding arms was pierced by bone chains, its body colored in disturbing shades of crimson and black that indicated demonic refinement and probably incorporation of toxic materials. The moment this puppet emerged into open air it became independently animated, immediately positioning itself between its master and the incoming threat. The corpse puppet released its own answering roar—a sound distinctly inhuman and unsettling—then raised all six arms and launched its own counterattack, massive fists swinging toward the charging cultivator to intercept his assault.
BANG!
The collision between body-enhanced stocky cultivator and refined corpse puppet generated tremendous noise and visible shockwaves that rippled across the arena platform. The two combatants proved remarkably evenly matched, neither able to gain decisive advantage.
CRASH!
They traded blows in rapid succession, each attack blocked or countered, creating an extended exchange that had the crowd leaning forward with excitement.
BOOM!
"Kill the bastard!"
"Punch the face!"
"Finish him off!"
Voices began shouting from the spectator areas, the crowd's bloodlust quickly rising as they watched the violent spectacle.
"Strike faster!"
"Hit harder!"
"Don't give him time to recover!"
"Attack the fucking actual cultivator, would you! Just ignore the corpse puppet!"
"Yes! Circle around it, get to the real target and—dang...!!! How did he manage to evade that strike?!"
"Go for his head!"
"Kick his legs!"
"Break his neck!"
"Aim for vital points!"
"Man! Move faster! Just a bit faster and you'll got him! Yeah! Almost had him!"
"Kill the motherfucker! Kill the bitch!! Kill him!"
Lordi observed this brutal display with calm detachment, his expression neutral as he analytically assessed both fighters' techniques and capabilities.
After several minutes of intense back-and-forth combat, the shorter cultivator made a tactical error—overcommitting to an attack and leaving himself exposed.
The corpse puppet, despite having sustained damage that left one arm among six barely hanging by threads of necrotic tissue, seized this opportunity with mechanical precision. It delivered a devastating strike that caught the cultivator solidly and sent him flying backward off the platform entirely, his body tumbling through the air before crashing heavily onto the ground outside the designated combat area.
Victory achieved.
"Competitor Number Two is the winner," the blue-robed deacon announced in the same flat tone he'd used throughout.
Without a pause, he continued, his eyes already scanning the roster. "Category Arena A, next bout. Competitors Three and Four: ascend now."
Lordi's eyes sharpened as he assessed them, and he saw the mismatch at once.
Competitor Number Three stood wrapped in raoring spirit energy, marked by seven cracking rings in breathing aura—a clear sign of the Seventh Layer of Qi Refinement Stage. Beside him, Competitor Number Four seemed to press upon the very air, his breathing aura a heavier, more imposing force. Eight translucent rings pulsed around him, declaring the formidable gap between the seventh and the eighth layer.
A gulf this wide makes the outcome foregone, Lordi thought, a wry understanding settling in his bones. The eighth layer's might dwarfs the seventh. He knew it personally—without the unseen aid of the AllFullOS system, bridging that divide through will and elixirs alone would have demanded a year of sweat, blood, and sleepless nights.
The deacon's voice cut through the arena's murmur: "Fight!"
What followed was not combat.
Even before the final echo faded, Competitor Number Three's hands shot upward, palms open and empty. "I forfeit!" he declared, his voice ringing clear across the packed stands. No hesitation, no futile posturing.
Unexpected yet reasonable. Why suffer a brutal beating when destiny had already written the result?
This, Lordi observed, became the unspoken rhythm of the preliminary matches.
When cultivators of near-equal strength met, the arena became a storm of clashing spirit energies and clever martial techniques—a thrilling spectacle that set the crowd roaring.
But when the divide in cultivation was clear, the thing was always the same: immediate, unambiguous surrender.
No shame attended it.
In this devil's domain, everyone understood that pride was a luxury paid for in broken bones and shattered meridians.
Here, survival was the first doctrine, and only a fool fought a battle already lost.
As a result of this widespread pragmatism, the match sequence moved forward with remarkable speed.
Fights that were actually contested took time to resolve, but instant surrenders meant many "matches" concluded within seconds of starting. The progression through the bracket moved much faster than it would have if every competitor stubbornly fought regardless of odds.
Before long, Lordi could see that his own match was rapidly approaching in the sequence—only a few more pairings remained before Category A, Numbers Eleven and Twelve would be called.
Recognizing that his time was coming soon, Lordi decided he no longer needed to continue observing other people's matches. Instead, he turned away from the arena platform and began walking back toward Kay Gool's betting station, an idea forming in his mind about one final wager he wanted to place before stepping onto the platform himself...
PPPS: upset
When I was small and shelves were tall,
I'd sneak a coin or two.
"Grandpa, did you notice, ever, at all?"
He smiled and said, "I knew."
"Then why not hide them somewhere safe?"
I asked.
"I left them there," he said with grace,
"So you could find them."
Now I'm grown, with coins of my own,
But shelves feel bare and gray.
I search the house, I walk alone…
I can't find Grandpa today.