Chapter 22: The Masked Rookie
Time: 3 Days Later.
Location: Inside the Farming Space.
The artificial sun hung motionless in the white void, casting a stark, shadowless light over the fifteen acres of thriving greenery. Usually, this place was a paradise of abundance, filled with the rustle of corn and the bleating of spirit goats. But today, the atmosphere near the tool shed was heavy with frustration.
Luo Feng stood in the center of a small clearing he had flattened for training. He was stripped to the waist, his torso gleaming with sweat. In his right hand, the heavy Spirit Iron Saber hummed, vibrating slightly as he channeled his Qi into the blade.
He stood perfectly still, eyes closed, visualizing an enemy.
Whoosh.
He slashed.
It was a perfect vertical cut. The blade moved with terrifying speed, cutting the air with a high-pitched whistle. The force of the swing kicked up a cloud of dust. Mechanically, it was flawless. His muscles, tempered by the Sun & Moon Spring Water and the Iron-Skin Yams, generated torque that could snap a small tree in half.
But Luo Feng didn't look satisfied. He looked disgusted.
He opened his eyes and stared at the saber.
"Heavy," he muttered, gripping the hilt until his knuckles turned white. "But slow. It lacks... intent."
He walked over to the stone table where a jar of the newly brewed Spirit Surge Wine sat. He poured a cup and drank it. The warm, revitalizing energy rushed through his meridians, filling his Dantian to the brim instantly.
His cultivation was currently at the peak of Qi Refining Layer 4.
By all logical metrics, he should be happy. He was consuming more high-grade energy in a single day than most rogue cultivators saw in a year. He had the Flame Spirit Wine to expand his capacity, the Spirit Milk for his bones, and the Spirit Rice for his flesh.
But for the last three days, his progress had stalled completely.
The energy he absorbed just sat there in his Dantian, sluggish and heavy like stagnant water. It refused to integrate into his foundation. When he tried to circulate the Sun & Moon Technique, the Qi moved lazily, resisting his commands.
"Resources alone are not enough," Luo Feng realized, the truth settling in his gut like a cold stone. "I am like a goose being fattened for slaughter. I am stuffing myself with power, but I am not burning it."
He looked at his hands. They were calloused from farming tools, but they were clean of blood.
Since his reincarnation, he had only fought once—against the clumsy bandits in the forest. He had won that fight because he had a magical gun, not because he was a warrior. If he encountered a real killer—someone who had clawed their way up from the gutter using blade and wit—his high stats would mean nothing. He would just be a high-quality corpse full of expensive pills.
"A blade cannot be sharpened on silk," Luo Feng said to the empty air. "It needs a whetstone. And the only whetstone for a cultivator... is death."
He needed pressure. He needed fear. He needed to force his body to metabolize the excess resources through the crucible of combat. Without that, he would never reach Layer 5. He would just bloat until he exploded.
The Preparation.
Luo Feng walked to the fermentation area. He needed an insurance policy. If he was going to seek out danger, he needed to make sure he survived it.
He opened a wooden crate. Inside were rows of small, sealed ceramic flasks.
This was his newest creation: Spirit Surge Wine.
Unlike the fiery, dangerous Flame Spirit Wine that was meant for long-term cultivation, this wine was brewed from the Stabilized Crimson Grapes grown in the mixed Red-Brown soil. It didn't burn, and it didn't leave sediment. It was pure, distilled liquid energy.
One sip could restore 30% of a Layer 4 cultivator's Qi reserves instantly.
"In a fair fight, skill matters," Luo Feng whispered, tucking ten flasks into a padded box. "But in a desperate fight, the man with the most mana wins."
He went into the bedroom. Luo Xia was sleeping soundly, her breathing deep and even. The Spirit Milk porridge he had made her earlier had done its job; the color had returned to her cheeks, and the drain from the pregnancy seemed to have stabilized for now.
He didn't wake her. He simply placed a note on the table saying he was going to the market to buy supplies.
He grabbed a heavy black cloak from the wardrobe. Then, he reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out a piece of metal he had bought weeks ago from a blacksmith in the mortal district.
It was a mask.
It was crude, made of cold iron, unpainted and rough. It covered his entire face, leaving only two slits for his eyes. It wasn't a hero's mask; it was an executioner's mask.
He tied it onto his face. The cold metal pressed against his skin, smelling of rust.
"Luo Feng the Farmer stays here," he whispered, his voice muffling behind the iron. "Tonight... I am just a weapon."
He stepped out of the house, flashed to the courtyard gate, and vanished into the twilight of Green Willow City.
The Underground.
The Battle Hall was not located in the glorious central plaza where the Sect disciples flaunted their jade tokens. It was located in the West District, buried beneath the sprawling slums and the black market.
It was a massive subterranean cavern, originally a mine, now reinforced with stone pillars and silencing arrays.
As Luo Feng descended the long, spiraling stone staircase, the air grew hotter and thicker. It smelled of unwashed bodies, cheap ale, dried blood, and the metallic tang of adrenaline.
The noise hit him before he even reached the floor.
ROAR.
Hundreds of people were screaming. They were hanging off iron railings, waving betting slips, cursing, and cheering. Below them, in a pit surrounded by rusted iron cages, two figures were blurring in a dance of violence.
Luo Feng stood in the shadows of the entrance archway, his black cloak pulled tight, observing.
In the cage, a man with a spear was fighting a man with dual daggers. The spearman was technically superior—his stance was rigid, his thrusts precise. He looked like a disciple who had practiced in a dojo his whole life.
But the dagger user was a feral dog. He threw sand. He spat. He rolled in the mud. And when the spearman hesitated for a fraction of a second, the dagger user tackled him, bit his ear off, and drove a blade into his throat.
The crowd erupted.
"Dead! He's dead! Pay up!"
Luo Feng felt a chill run down his spine. This wasn't sparring. This wasn't a friendly exchange of pointers. This was a meat grinder.
"Rigid," Luo Feng analyzed, watching the spearman's body being dragged away. "He died because he was rigid. He treated the fight like a form. The other man treated it like survival."
That spearman was Luo Feng. That was exactly how he would die if he fought right now. He had too much theory, too little instinct.
He took a deep breath, vibrating his vocal cords with Qi to deepen his voice, and walked toward the registration desk.
The Registration.
The registration counter was a slab of scarred stone behind a heavy iron grate. Behind it sat a man who looked like he had been chewed up and spat out by a demon beast.
He was old, bald, and missing his left eye. A jagged scar ran from his forehead to his chin. He was cleaning his fingernails with a wicked-looking curved knife, ignoring the line of fighters waiting to sign up.
When Luo Feng stepped up, the man didn't look up.
"Name?" the clerk grunted.
"Iron Mask," Luo Feng said. The sound was flat, metallic, and devoid of emotion.
The clerk paused. He slowly looked up, his single good eye scanning Luo Feng from top to bottom. He saw the clean hands. He saw the crisp, black combat robes that hadn't seen a speck of dust. He saw the stiff way Luo Feng held his shoulders.
The clerk sneered, revealing yellow, broken teeth.
"Fresh meat," the clerk chuckled, shaking his head. "Let me guess. Young master from a merchant family? Or maybe a rogue cultivator who found a lucky inheritance? You smell like milk, boy. Go home."
Luo Feng didn't move. "I am here to register."
"Cultivation?"
"Qi Refining Layer 4."
"Sparring match is on the left," the clerk waved his knife dismissively. "Entry fee is 5 Spirit Stones. The referee will stop the fight before you get too hurt. Go play with the other children."
"No sparring," Luo Feng said. His voice dropped an octave, cutting through the noise of the lobby. "Death Match."
The clerk froze. The knife stopped moving.
The atmosphere around the desk shifted. The other fighters in line stepped back, giving Luo Feng a wide berth. In the Battle Hall, a 'Death Match' was a specific legal contract. No referees. No rules. No clan retribution allowed. Winner takes everything the loser is carrying.
The clerk leaned forward, pressing his face against the iron grate. His single eye narrowed into a slit.
"Listen to me, Iron Mask," the clerk hissed. "The Death Match isn't a game. We don't stop it when you tap out. We stop it when your heart stops beating. We toss your body into the incinerator, and your family gets a bag of ash. You are a rookie. I can smell it. You will die in thirty seconds."
"Are you the clerk or the grandmother?" Luo Feng asked coldly.
The clerk's face flushed red with anger. "You have a death wish? Fine. Registration fee for a Death Match is 20 Spirit Stones. Pay up and sign your life away."
Luo Feng didn't reach for his coin pouch.
Instead, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a heavy wooden box. He slammed it onto the stone counter with a heavy thud.
He unlocked the latch and flipped the lid open.
Inside, nestled in black velvet, were 10 Flasks of the Spirit Surge Wine.
As soon as the box opened, a faint red mist drifted out. The scent was unmistakable. It cut through the stench of sweat and blood like a sharp blade. It smelled of pure, condensed, high-grade Spirit Qi. It smelled like vitality.
The clerk's eye widened. His nostrils flared.
"Spirit Wine?" The clerk whispered, his anger replaced by greed. "And... high purity. This isn't the watered-down swill they sell at the taverns."
"Ten flasks," Luo Feng said. "I don't have Spirit Stones on me. I wager this."
The clerk licked his lips. He was an experienced cultivator; he knew quality when he smelled it. One flask of this wine could restore a significant amount of Qi in the middle of a battle. It was a life-saving treasure. Ten flasks were worth at least 50 to 60 Spirit Stones.
"You're betting a fortune," the clerk looked at Luo Feng with a new expression—not respect, but predatory amusement. "You really are a fat sheep."
"I bet on myself," Luo Feng said. "If I win, I keep the wine and I take the opponent's purse. If I lose... the wine is yours."
The clerk grinned, a nasty expression that stretched his scar. "Deal. I'll waive the registration fee just to see who kills you."
He pulled out a thick parchment—the Death Waiver. He slammed it on the counter along with a brush dipped in red ink.
"Sign."
Luo Feng looked at the paper. It was a standard liability release. The Battle Hall is not responsible for dismemberment, death, or soul damage.
He picked up the brush. His hand hovered for a second.
This was the line.
Behind him was the farm, Luo Xia, and a safe, slow life.
In front of him was the cage, blood, and the potential for true power.
He thought of his stagnant Qi. He thought of the unborn baby that would need a father who could protect it, not just feed it.
He signed: IRON MASK.
"Good," the clerk snatched the paper back. He consulted a ledger, running his finger down a list of names. "Since you are so confident, I have the perfect match for you. We have a prisoner from the Borderlands. A bandit leader they call 'The Butcher'. Layer 4 Peak."
The clerk looked up, his eye gleaming with malice.
"He uses cleavers. He likes to chop off fingers and toes before he finishes the job. He's killed forty men in this arena. Nobody wants to fight him because he's disgusting. Do you accept?"
Luo Feng felt a cold sweat break out on his back. His survival instinct was screaming at him to run. The Butcher. The name alone carried the weight of slaughter.
But then he remembered the sensation of the "Heavy Plow" technique feeling empty. He remembered the feeling of being a "fat sheep."
If he ran from a bandit now, how could he ever face the Cultivation World later?
Luo Feng gripped the edge of the counter.
"I accept," Luo Feng said.
"He's in Cage 3," the clerk handed him a wooden token with the number '3' burned into it. "You're up in ten minutes. Go to the preparation room. And kid?"
Luo Feng paused.
"
He adjusted his mask. There was no turning back now.
[End of Chapter 22]
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