Chapter 38: Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Cultivation Cage

The man before him was covered in blood, yet showed no wounds; combining this with the black-robed man’s words of “two wins,” Pei Ye nodded cautiously.

This was clearly a place where everyone but him was an enemy; Pei Ye had already guessed the origin of the blood on these men.

Unlike his earlier assumption, Wu Zaigu’s status was not so crucial—he was not the sole chosen one, merely eligible to compete.

In fact, this made more sense: though Wu Zaigu had appeared an invincible foe at the time, for a mysterious scheme capable of swallowing someone like Zhu Gaoyang, its core must have included a Grand Master.

And the current competition was clearly to the death; only one among these twenty-odd men would emerge alive.

But the man did not seem to regard him as an enemy: “You’re young—killing their hosts means you’re promising for your age. Who’s your master? How did you end up in this godforsaken place?”

“I have no master. I’m just a commoner from a nearby county.”

“No master?” The man laughed. “If you have no master, where did you learn to control qi? Did you figure it out yourself?”

“I don’t have any qi.”

“...No qi? Then how did you kill the Longshe host? They’re all Sixth or Seventh Life realm, aren’t they?”

“...Lucky coincidence,” Pei Ye said.

“Lucky coincidence? Lucky coincidence let you kill him without qi, just with martial technique?”

“Mm.”

The man leaned close, staring intently from below upward; only then did Pei Ye notice his eyes were a pale silver-gray, while his face was marred by burns and scars—terrifying to behold.

Those strange, beautiful eyes fixed on him, Pei Ye shrank back, frowning: “What?”

“I’m checking if you’re one of the Warrior Lords of Bai Lu Palace.”

“...”

Bai Lu Palace was famed as the pinnacle of martial technique—this was clearly sarcasm.

The man studied Pei Ye’s calloused hands: “You use a sword?”

Pei Ye nodded. “My swordplay is decent. What about you?”

The man’s expression turned slightly odd: “I... my swordplay is passable too.”

“How did you get here?”

“I acted for justice—and ended up as a scapegoat.” The man leaned back against the wall and sighed deeply. “Now I regret it. Deeply.”

“What’s your name?”

“You first.”

“I’m Pei Ye.”

“Just give your real name? So honest?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“In the Jianghu, you usually give a nickname—Little Fish, Little Horse, Little Turtle, that sort of thing.” The man’s tone shifted. “Since you’re so sincere, I’d be petty to hide mine—listen well: I never change my name or alter my ways—I’m Zhang Siche.”

“Oh, Brother Zhang.” Pei Ye gave a slight bow. “May I ask—what exactly is this place?”

"What place? The dogfight arena. The breeding cage." Zhang Siche grinned. "Pick the fiercest one."

“The fiercest...”

“Don’t misunderstand—it’s not selecting people.” Zhang Siche placed a hand on Pei Ye’s dantian; Pei Ye startled and moved to block—but his hand passed through empty air, every hair on his body standing on end, yet the hand merely tapped once. “It’s selecting them.”

“...”

“Everyone’s meridian tree has been digested by it. None of us have any qi. What do you think determines victory in combat now?”

“...”

“It’s what’s inside you.” Zhang Siche chuckled mockingly. “Like choosing concubines—whichever one’s the strongest gets to bear the dragon’s seed.”

Pei Ye fell silent, for he remembered: all the energy he’d accumulated had been poured into Jing Ziwang. His body now held only a glowing cocoon, drained of every last bit of power.

That cocoon was the “contestant,” and the energy was its weapon and armor—yet he’d stripped it bare.

“I’ll lend you mine.” Zhang Siche leaned against the wall, watching him lazily.

Pei Ye froze: “Why?”

"Because we're the only two humans in this den of beasts. Is that enough?" Zhang Siche extended a long, strong hand, palm open; dark blood had dried along its creases.

Pei Ye hesitated, then reached out; two dusty hands clasped together.

Extreme environments strip away pretense; suspicion and testing vanish. Among circling wolves, even leopards and tigers ally first.

“Nine out, thirteen back,” Zhang Siche grinned.

Before Pei Ye could ponder the meaning, a torrent of energy surged up his arm; the glowing cocoon in his dantian drank it like sweet spring water, instantly drawing it close in a swirling embrace.

The energy flowed endlessly; soon it exceeded twice what he’d once stored, and for the first time, the cocoon within his belly sent a sensation of fullness.

Pei Ye looked up, astonished, at Zhang Siche, who returned a lazy smile and withdrew his hand: “The bottle must grow larger before it can hold more water.”

Pei Ye instinctively glanced toward the door; Zhang Siche said: “They won’t interfere—as long as it’s internal circulation. Your dantian’s thing won’t change rank.”

“Rank?”

Zhang Siche gave a strange smile: “Win one round, you become second-rank.”

Pei Ye instantly understood the meaning behind the man’s “two wins, then off”: “You’re—”

“Correct. I killed [Eighteen] first, became second-rank, then killed [One], another second-rank. Now I’m the only third-rank here—lord of all.”

Pei Ye said nothing, feeling the restored energy flooding back into his body: “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me.” Zhang Siche flashed a row of white teeth. “In return, grant me one wish.”

“What wish?”

“Tell me a story.”

“...What?”

"‘The Remnants of Heroism’—the new installment this August is the finale. I haven’t read it yet." Zhang Siche sighed. "No one here is likely to have read it—I thought I’d die with regret."

“But!” Zhang Siche slapped Pei Ye’s shoulder. “Thankfully you came—what’s that look for? You haven’t read it either, have you?”

Pei Ye glanced at him, then said slowly: “Chapter Twenty: ‘Already a withered ghost for eighteen years—when will he fly to the First Tower?’”

Zhang Siche hissed, grinning: “I knew it—there had to be a twist. How could Master Wu Chou have lost so easily?”

He blinked his silver-gray eyes at Pei Ye: “Go on.”

Pei Ye shook his head: “That’s all. I only read the chapter title.”

Zhang Siche stared at him, silently, for seven or eight breaths—then sighed deeply and let his back thud against the stone wall: “Fate denies what it refuses to give.”

Pei Ye prodded him with a finger; Zhang Siche shot him a sidelong glance: “What?”

Pei Ye, slightly embarrassed, said: “But you could tell me— I’ve only just read Chapter One.”

At that moment, the wooden door opened; a blood-soaked man entered, his black robe clinging to dark red, strip-like tissues—indistinguishable whether crushed muscle or shattered organs.

“[Nineteen] wins. Next pair: [Twenty-One], [Twenty-Two].”

The two men glanced up; Zhang Siche turned away and murmured: “Fine.”