The arena did not calm after Lin Xuan's victory.
It grew louder.
Wu Jian was not weak. Ranked twelfth in the Outer Court, his defeat was not something to dismiss lightly—especially not with a single clean strike.
But those with sharp eyes had noticed something.
Lin Xuan had not overpowered him.
He had timed him.
That was more dangerous.
Lin Xuan returned to the waiting area without expression. He did not sit. He did not cultivate.
He observed.
Wu Jian was being assisted off the field. No permanent damage. Just fractured ribs and disrupted breathing.
Controlled force.
That alone made some elders exchange glances.
High control meant experience.
Experience meant either talent—
Or secrets.
The next matches passed quickly.
Then the announcement came again.
"Lin Xuan versus… Sun Qiang."
A ripple of surprise spread.
Sun Qiang was ranked ninth.
Top ten.
And known for ruthless methods.
Lin Xuan stepped forward without hesitation.
Across the arena, Sun Qiang smiled faintly.
Unlike Wu Jian, he did not rush.
He circled slowly.
"You're being tested," Sun Qiang said softly. "You know that, don't you?"
Lin Xuan didn't answer.
The signal dropped.
Sun Qiang vanished.
Not speed—
Illusion.
Three afterimages appeared around Lin Xuan simultaneously.
The crowd gasped.
This was not simple movement technique. It was a specialized martial art.
From the elder seats, Elder Han leaned forward slightly.
Lin Xuan's pupils contracted.
He did not attack blindly.
Instead, he closed his eyes.
For half a breath.
Inside his consciousness—
The dragon's perception expanded outward.
Not visible.
Not detectable.
But it allowed him to sense the faint difference in air pressure.
Left.
Lin Xuan turned instantly.
A blade flashed toward his throat.
Clang.
His forearm blocked the strike, spiritual energy condensing at the last second.
The real Sun Qiang appeared, eyes flashing with surprise.
"You can see through it?"
Lin Xuan pushed forward instead of retreating.
Palm strike.
Sun Qiang twisted away, but the edge of the strike brushed his shoulder.
Not strong enough.
Sun Qiang retreated three steps.
His smile disappeared.
The illusions multiplied again.
This time—five.
And simultaneously—
A hidden needle shot from one of the illusions toward Lin Xuan's lower abdomen.
Poisoned.
Lin Xuan sensed it too late to dodge fully.
The needle grazed his side.
Pain flared.
He stepped back.
Sun Qiang reappeared ten meters away, calm again.
"You're strong," Sun Qiang said. "But not careful enough."
The arena murmured.
Lin Xuan glanced down briefly.
The wound was shallow.
But the poison had already entered.
Not deadly.
Paralytic.
Slow-acting.
So that was the plan.
Not to defeat him cleanly.
But to weaken him for the next round.
From above—
One elder frowned slightly but said nothing.
Poisoned hidden weapons were not forbidden.
Only killing was.
Lin Xuan straightened.
He circulated his energy subtly.
The poison began spreading toward his meridians.
Inside his mind, the dragon's voice echoed with faint amusement.
Again?
Lin Xuan exhaled quietly.
"Not yet."
He could burn it instantly.
But that would reveal too much.
Instead—
He slowed his breathing.
Compressed the poisoned blood toward the wound.
Restricted its movement.
Temporary control.
He needed to end this quickly.
Sun Qiang moved again.
Illusions flooded the arena.
But this time—
Lin Xuan did not close his eyes.
He stepped forward aggressively.
Not toward the nearest illusion—
But toward the center of their formation.
Sun Qiang's real body stiffened for a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
Lin Xuan's fist drove forward.
Not flashy.
Not explosive.
Just brutally direct.
The illusions shattered.
The punch landed squarely in Sun Qiang's chest.
A cracking sound echoed.
Sun Qiang's body flew backward and rolled across the platform.
He tried to rise—
Failed.
The referee stepped forward.
"Sun Qiang… defeated."
The arena erupted.
Two top-ranked disciples defeated consecutively.
And Lin Xuan was visibly injured.
Breathing heavier now.
Face slightly pale.
Perfect.
Let them believe the poison was working.
From the elevated seats, Zhao Feng's eyes narrowed.
"He's slowing down," Zhao Feng muttered.
Beside him, a cloaked elder finally spoke.
"Or pretending to."
Zhao Feng clenched his jaw.
"If he enters Black Mist Valley in this condition…"
The elder's lips curved faintly.
"Then fate will decide."
As Lin Xuan stepped down from the arena, his vision blurred slightly.
Not from poison.
From the strain of suppressing it.
He could eliminate it fully—
But not here.
Not under this many eyes.
He returned to the competitor area.
The next announcement echoed across the arena.
"Final match before top-five selection…"
A pause.
"Lin Xuan versus… Zhao Feng."
Silence.
Then chaos.
Zhao Feng stood slowly.
Ignoring his injured arm.
Spiritual energy surged around him.
Cold.
Sharp.
Killing intent barely restrained.
This was not arranged coincidence anymore.
This was personal.
Lin Xuan lifted his head.
Their eyes met across the arena.
The real test had arrived.
And this time—
There would be no pretending weakness.