“No,” Zhan whispered, the word a raw, tearing sound in his throat. His mind churned against the sheer unfairness of corrupted conduct codes. “No, this isn’t how a league operates. You don’t… you don’t poison the trophy!”
Old Man Gou’s spectral form flickered from the obsidian staff. “Poison? Kid, this is the Nine Cauldron Realm, not some children’s game of tag. Your father is a *snake*, and you’re the rat he’s cornered. The pill isn’t the prize; it’s the bait. The true power is in the tournament itself, in the arrays woven beneath this wretched arena complex. Raw spirit energy, purified and funneled into its grand winner, or in this case, into the winning bloodline. If you could just… *intercept* that flow, redirect it…”
Intercept. Redirect. The concept slotted into place. He couldn't trust the ‘prize.’ He had to subvert the tournament grid. Not win the tournament, but dismantle its very engine. He would claim the pure energy of the Ascent itself, before it could ever be tainted by his father’s schemes. It was a risky, impossible gambit, one that flew in the face of every ‘rule’ he thought he knew. But Xia’s fading breath was a clock winding down.
“But how?” Meilin choked out, tears tracing paths through the grime on her cheeks. “The core array is sealed. Even a Grand Elder would struggle to disrupt it.”
“It’s simple, Meilin,” Zhan said, voice flat and deliberate. “If the *rules* are broken, then the *match* is void. And if the match is void, you change the playbook.”
A low growl rumbled through the darkness, not from Gou, but from the depths of the pit. Large, bioluminescent eyes, like twin emerald moons, blinked open in the shadows. A hulking form, draped in matted, ash-grey fur, lumbered into view. It was an Iron-Tusk Ape, its massive, tusks – each as thick as Zhan’s thigh – gleaming ominously in the faint light filtering from above. Behind it, a dozen smaller, sinewy Dire-Wolves emerged, their fangs bared, their jaws dripping stringy saliva onto the gravel.
Meilin gasped, reaching for Zhan. “They’re waking up! Zhan, you have to go, now! I can hold them for a moment, but…”
“Hold them?” Zhan scoffed, ignoring the fear that prickled at Meilin's skin. He looked at the Iron-Tusk Ape, then at the sheer, impossible walls of the pit. “No, Meilin. We’re not *fighting* them. We’re *using* them.”
The Iron-Tusk Ape let out a deafening roar, shaking the very stones. It charged, a living battering ram of muscle and bone. Zhan didn’t meet its attack. Instead, he moved with the speed of a startled viper, dodging its initial swipe, then, with a shocking display of agility, he vaulted onto its shoulder, driving his dark iron-banded pole into the thick hide just behind its neck.
The ape shrieked, bucking wildly. “Hey! Referee! Foul play! This beast is clearly not following official engagement protocols!” Zhan yelled, gripping the staff like a rodeo rider clinging to a rogue mount. He began to jab the staff rhythmically, not to wound, but to *steer*. “You think you can just charge a player mid-match? Untrained! Unsportsmanlike! Get this oaf moving!”
The ape, maddened by the unfamiliar weight and the constant jabs, started to instinctively scramble up the pit wall, its powerful limbs finding purchase on the rough-hewn stone. Gou cackled. “He’s using it like a damn ladder! You’re a madman, kid!”
Meilin stared, dumbfounded, as Zhan, atop the raging ape, began to ascend the impossible incline, leaving the snarling Dire-Wolves scrambling fruitlessly below. The ape, driven by blind fury and Zhan’s insistent goading, became a living projectile, bursting through the shattered remnants of the pit’s ceiling with a deafening *CRACK* that sent dust and stone fragments raining down.
He emerged, astride the roaring Iron-Tusk Ape, directly into the astonished main arena. The beast slammed into the ornate, carved railing of the spectator stands, sending a shower of splinters across the stunned onlookers. Dust plumed, obscuring the view for a moment, before revealing Zhan, still perched precariously on the ape’s back, his dark shaft raised high.
In the VIP box, Wei Tianhai watched, his jaw frozen. The teacup he held, filled with steaming Star Anise Brew, slipped from his fingers. It shattered on the polished floor, sending porcelain shards scattering, the liquid staining the pristine white carpet like fresh blood. His son. Still alive. And riding a demonic beast like a common mount.
“Referee!” Zhan bellowed, his voice echoing across the silent arena, completely oblivious to the terror he’d just instilled. He pointed his staff at the gaping hole in the arena floor. “Unacceptable structural integrity failure! This is a clear breach of venue safety regulations! I demand a penalty kick for the damage sustained, and immediate disqualification for the host sect for creating such a hazard!”
The crowd, initially terrified, erupted into a roar of bewildered laughter and cheers. This eccentric genius, who had just ridden a demonic ape from the Beast Pit and was now demanding a ‘penalty kick’ from the sect master, was a spectacle unlike any they had ever seen. The sheer audacity, the brazen disrespect, was a breath of fresh air in the suffocating formality of the tournament.
Chief Arbiter Borin, a gaunt man with a perpetually furrowed brow, stood on the elevated platform, his face a mask of barely contained fury, sweat beading on his temples. He shot a nervous glance towards the VIP boxes, where Wei Tianhai’s gaze was a silent, murderous command. Borin knew he had to contain this chaotic element, and quickly.
“Wei Zhan!” Borin’s voice boomed, amplified by an inner Qi array. “Your… *unconventional* tactics have been noted. Due to the extreme nature of your survival and the disruption caused by the arena’s… *unforeseen collapse*,” he stammered, his eyes darting to Tianhai’s box, “the council is prepared to offer you a unique proposition. A bye to the grand finals. All charges for ‘unsportsmanlike conduct’ will be rescinded. In return, you will sign the Vermilion Crane Pavilion’s Blood Fealty Contract, pledging your allegiance and services to the sect for a period of no less than one hundred years.”
Zhan dismounted the now dazed Iron-Tusk Ape, which simply slumped to the ground, panting. He strode forward, the black stave thumping lightly against the stone floor. He listened to Borin’s words, his head cocked, then scoffed. “One hundred years? And a ‘bye’ to the finals for *my* trouble? This is a terrible draft contract! You think I’d sign away my athletic career for a minor concession after your arena nearly collapsed on me? And ‘allegiance’? To a league that can’t even maintain its own infrastructure? Utterly preposterous!”
Borin’s face went crimson. He clenched his fists, the veins standing out on his neck. Tianhai’s stare felt like daggers in his back. “Then you leave us no choice, Wei Zhan,” Borin snarled, his voice laced with venom. “For your continued blatant disregard for Vermilion Crane Pavilion authority, your unspeakable insolence, and your refusal to accept our magnanimous offer, you are hereby condemned to the Gauntlet of a Thousand Blades. May the ancestors have mercy on your soul.”