Chapter 22: Ye Lingxi

“Old Xia, Itachi okay?” Wang Teng, his injuries healed, leaned over to ask with concern.

Jiang Xia waved his hand, his voice weary: “I can hold on, but my spiritual energy is completely drained—I can barely lift my arm.”

Ye Lingxi, noticing the faint purple markings still lingering in Jiang Xia’s eyes, spoke up: “Your ocular technique drains too much spiritual energy—Itachi need a good long sleep when Itachi get back.”

Jiang Xia felt helpless; without Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan or the Nine-Tails’ chakra, every use of these techniques consumed massive amounts of spiritual energy.

The three didn’t chat long—Jiang Xia had no strength left to speak, relying only on Wang Teng’s support to slowly shuffle out of the arena.

Back in the dorm, Jiang Xia didn’t even take off his clothes; he collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep. In his dream, he returned to his apartment in Earth.

He was ordering food on his phone when he suddenly jolted awake at the sound of Wang Pangzi unlocking the dorm door, raising his hand to touch his eyes.

“It was just a dream,” Jiang Xia murmured.

“Itachi’re awake?” Wang Teng pushed open the door, holding two steaming bowls of porridge. “I just got these from the cafeteria—eat up, get some strength in Itachi.”

“The finals list was posted this morning—your opponent, the sophomore senior, forfeited outright.”

Jiang Xia took the bowl, swallowed two mouthfuls, then looked up: “So I’m automatically advanced?”

“Exactly. Itachi’re ridiculously lucky—but Lingxi’s luck took a hit.”

Wang Teng sighed, “Her opponent is Ling Zhantian, the top sophomore. Word is, he’s never lost a match since enrollment.”

“Even students two or three years ahead rarely stand a chance against him.”

“Then Lingxi’s in danger,” Jiang Xia set down his spoon, his expression grim.

“Ah, who knows? Maybe Lingxi’ll pull off a dark horse win like Itachi did,” Wang Teng scratched his head, trying to comfort him.

Jiang Xia finished the porridge in a few gulps; the two didn’t delay, snatched their coats, and rushed to the arena. Far off, they saw the stands already packed—more than twice as crowded as during Jiang Xia’s last match.

Wang Teng pulled Jiang Xia through the crowd to the railing. No sooner had they steadied themselves than the referee announced the match’s start.

Instantly, Ye Lingxi summoned an ice bow, drew the string taut, and fired three ice arrows in a triangular formation, slicing through the air toward Ling Zhantian’s face.

Ling Zhantian didn’t move a step; spiritual energy flared into a barrier in an instant.

The ice arrows struck the barrier with sharp cracks, shattering into icy shards.

“Too slow,” Ling Zhantian raised an eyebrow, then vanished from his spot.

Ye Lingxi’s pupils contracted—she barely turned before a crushing force slammed into her back, hurling her flying.

“So fast!”

The crowd below gasped at Ling Zhantian’s speed; Jiang Xia’s face grew even grimmer: “Lingxi won’t be able to beat him this time.”

Ye Lingxi crashed hard against the barrier, groaned, and slid to the ground.

Ling Zhantian exploded forward, charging straight at her. Ye Lingxi forced herself up, channeling frost into the ground—multiple ice walls erupted before her.

But Ling Zhantian didn’t dodge—he smashed his spiritual-energy-wrapped fist into the ice wall. With a thunderous boom, the several-meter-thick wall shattered into flying shards, his fist still barreling toward Ye Lingxi’s chest.

As Ye Lingxi twisted aside, she summoned an ice sword and thrust it at his wrist.

Ling Zhantian flipped his wrist, caught the ice sword, and snapped it in two.

Then he kicked her knee—she lost balance and dropped to one knee. Seizing the opening, he raised his palm, golden battle aura gathering, ready to strike.

“Lingxi!” Jiang Xia and Wang Teng shouted in unison.

At that moment, Ye Lingxi suddenly lifted her head, a fierce glint flashing in her eyes. She bit down hard on her tongue, using the pain to force out the last of her spiritual energy—bone-chilling cold erupted around her. “Absolute Frost Domain!”

Ice spread from her center, freezing the ground into a vast icy plain; countless ice spikes burst upward from beneath Ling Zhantian’s feet.

Ling Zhantian, caught off guard, stumbled slightly—his movement slowed. Ye Lingxi rolled backward, raised her hand, and summoned a larger ice bow, aiming it at Ling Zhantian’s body.

“Shhh—” An ice arrow shot through the air, piercing toward Ling Zhantian’s chest.

“Hundred Battles Golden Body!” Just as the arrow’s tip touched his robe, golden light blazed from Ling Zhantian’s eyes.

A spectral figure of a war god materialized around him; a massive axe-shaped shadow swept through, cleaving the ice arrow into shards.

“That’s not even worth noticing,” Ling Zhantian sneered, stomping down—the ice spikes beneath him shattered instantly.

He accelerated again, becoming a blur, appearing before Ye Lingxi in an instant.

Ye Lingxi tried to resist—but her spiritual energy was utterly exhausted; even the frost at her fingertips was faint and weak.

She could only watch helplessly as Ling Zhantian’s fist, wreathed in golden battle aura, slammed into her abdomen.

“Ahh—”

Ye Lingxi flew backward, crashing onto the arena floor. Her ice bow shattered, and she spat a gout of blood that stained the ice before her.

She struggled to rise, but her limbs felt like they were filled with lead—she couldn’t summon even a trace of spiritual energy.

Ling Zhantian walked slowly toward her, looking down: “Yield. Itachi’re no match for me.”

The referee stepped forward immediately: “Contestant Ye Lingxi, do Itachi forfeit?”

Ye Lingxi clenched her teeth, her gaze sweeping over Jiang Xia and Wang Teng, their faces filled with anxiety. She closed her eyes, exhausted, and gave a slight nod.

“I declare this match won by Ling Zhantian!” The referee raised Ling Zhantian’s arm high; cheers erupted around the arena—but Jiang Xia and Wang Teng felt no joy.

The two pushed through the crowd, sprinting down the stands toward the fallen Ye Lingxi.

Ling Zhantian, about to leave, paused at the sound of Jiang Xia climbing onto the stage. He turned, his gaze blazing with battle lust.

“I hope Itachi make it to the final—I’m eager to fight Itachi!” By the time Jiang Xia looked up, his figure had already vanished into a blur.

“The new generation surges forward!” An old man watching the match in his office sighed.

“Come on, Old Li, Itachi sound like Itachi can’t even lift a sword anymore,” replied the old man—Liu Qingxuan, who had invited Jiang Xia to enroll.

The man called Old Li was Li Chengru, one of the Four Deans of the Literary Dao Academy.

Li Chengru smiled faintly: “Compared to these kids, we truly can’t lift a sword anymore.”

Liu Qingxuan stroked his beard: “Tomorrow’s the finals—who knows which of these kids will take first?”

“Let fate decide. But Old Liu, didn’t Itachi smell it? The stench of rats.” Li Chengru gave Liu Qingxuan a mysterious grin.

“Heh, I noticed long ago—Mo Yuan’s back.”

Liu Qingxuan stared at the screen, watching Jiang Xia, thoughtful: “That old devil came back for Jiang Xia.”

“Let him be. Every time that old thing returns, our Literary Dao Academy loses more people and treasures.”

With that, Li Chengru stretched, slashed open a rift in the air, and vanished.

“Old devil, messing around in my office again.”

Liu Qingxuan watched his retreating figure and scolded under his breath, then turned his gaze back to Jiang Xia on the stage, lost in thought.