Chapter 133

The gray-robed man swung his iron blade downward.

A massive green blade shadow roared down like a pillar holding up the sky.

The two puppet soldiers—one raised his iron shield above his head, the other frantically fired volley after volley of crossbow bolts into the air—but none had any effect.

In an instant, the green blade shadow flashed and struck the two puppets.

A deafening crash!

Amid flashes of green light, the two puppet soldiers remained unharmed, but countless threads of green light exploded outward through the surrounding void.

The next moment, these threads whirled rapidly around the two puppets, spinning faster and faster—seen from afar, they instantly formed a colossal green vortex, swallowing everything nearby.

The once-harmless green threads now became razor-sharp, like countless fine blades, savagely slicing through everything within the vortex.

The two puppet soldiers at the vortex's center saw their thick armor instantly covered in deep gashes, each moment adding more—within mere breaths, the two puppets, riddled with wounds, shattered and disintegrated within the vortex, their heads, limbs, and weapons all twisted into clumps of fragments.

The horse-faced elder let out a cry and instantly clutched his head, writhing in agony.

The gray-robed man pointed his iron blade across the arena, and the massive green vortex roared forward toward his opponent.

"I yield."

Seeing this, the horse-faced elder, having barely suppressed the backlash to his spiritual sense, immediately surrendered without hesitation.

The gray-robed man chuckled, sheathed his iron blade behind his back, and the giant green vortex dissolved into nothing.

The scholar above declared the result.

At that moment, the gray-robed man's gaze turned toward the stone platform where Wang Yu stood.

Clearly, he knew exactly who his next opponent would be.

"So this is the famed Green Wave Blade—truly deserving of its reputation!"

"The Mi family was once a mid-tier clan; their ancestral foundation is certainly not comparable to ordinary small families."

"Hmm, an eleven-spirit-pattern artifact—hardly even a full-fledged Artificer could forge such a thing."

"If our clan had such an artifact, perhaps we could have secured a spot too."

…

On the stone platform, the crowd murmured in awe and envy, some even burning with jealousy at the terrifying power of the Green Wave Blade.

"Husband, the Green Wave Blade's power is too overwhelming," Yin Linglong said to Wang Yu, her voice tinged with concern.

"It's an eleven-spirit-pattern artifact—such power isn't surprising," Wang Yu replied calmly.

Seeing Wang Yu's composure, Yin Linglong felt reassured.

The two Yin clan elders, however, still wore expressions of worry.

The trials on the training ground continued.

But the remaining clan representatives fought with far less effort—clashing briefly and settling outcomes hastily, neither victor nor defeated showing any sign of joy.

As a result, the next dozen matches held no excitement whatsoever.

Soon, the final match arrived.

"Number sixty-three, number sixty-four."

Liu Ming, high above, announced coldly.

A figure leapt from one of the stone platforms, and before even landing on the arena, unleashed a terrifying surge of spiritual energy—though far weaker than Liu Ming's initial pressure, it was still incomparably stronger than any ordinary Qi Condensation late-stage cultivator.

"Qi Condensation peak."

Someone in the crowd gasped aloud, and instantly, countless eyes from the platforms snapped toward the figure on the arena.

The man was an elderly man with snow-white hair and beard, his face deeply wrinkled, eyes clouded, leaning on a silver cane, trembling as he stood—utterly impossible to believe such a powerful spiritual surge had come from him.

Everyone knew what Qi Condensation peak meant; seeing the old man's frail appearance, their earlier confusion gave way to understanding.

If they had reached peak Qi Condensation at this age, they certainly wouldn't dare attempt Foundation Establishment.

After all, if a cultivator hadn't achieved Foundation Establishment by sixty, their declining vitality made success increasingly unlikely each year—given this old man's age, even with a Foundation Establishment Pill and all auxiliary spiritual items, his success rate would be less than one percent; attempting Foundation Establishment now was nearly suicide.

Yet his Qi Condensation peak spiritual power and formidable spiritual sense were genuine, sufficient to crush ordinary Qi Condensation late-stage cultivators.

No one could fathom which clan had summoned this elder ancestor to represent them in the contest.

But strangely, though the old man stood on the arena, his opponent remained absent—no one emerged from any platform, no one appeared.

This bizarre scene left every clan on the platforms stunned.

The old man's half-closed eyes slowly opened wider.

"Brother Xin, why hasn't your clan sent anyone? Are you forfeiting?" Bi Jiazhu couldn't help asking the drunken man across from him.

The two clans had always shared the same platform; while others might not know, Bi Jiazhu was certain the Xin family had never sent anyone forward—clearly, the Xin family was meant to be the opponent in this final match.

As for Qingge Shiren, he had already awakened during the earlier matches and, without even offering an excuse, had left in shame.

Bi Jiazhu had no intention of stopping him.

"Brother Bi, how could I forfeit? Just watch," the drunken Xin Jiazhu said, lifting his wine flask and taking another sip.

No one knew what kind of artifact his flask was—no matter how much he drank, it always remained full.

Hearing this, Bi Jiazhu looked toward the arena, skeptical but uncertain.

"Match begins."

Though only the old man stood on the arena, Liu Ming declared without hesitation.

At these words, the old man, who had been slightly bewildered, suddenly turned pale—he realized something, and thrust his silver cane sharply downward.

The ground beneath him roared, and a thick ring of earth surged upward, encircling him completely.

Then, with one hand forming a seal and murmuring incantations, he opened his mouth and spat forth continuous streams of gentle wind—though weak, the wind was relentless, sweeping across half the arena in moments.

Yet where the breeze passed, nothing stirred—no anomaly, no sign of movement.

This puzzled the old man again, but then he remembered something—he raised his cane, preparing to strike upward.

But at that instant, a faint ripple disturbed the air above his head—and a slender figure suddenly materialized, then plunged downward.