The fog that morning wasn't gray. It was red.
The residual venting from the Dragon Heart breach had stained the lower atmosphere of the mountain. It clung to the armor of the five hundred men and women standing in the square of Block 9.
Yang Yi stood at the front. The Grave Digger was strapped to his back, the massive hilt rising above his right shoulder like a tombstone. The weight of the sword—Thunder steel, Frost steel, and Earth core—pressed down on his spine, a constant reminder of the gravity he now commanded.
"No chanting," Yang Yi said. His voice was low, a rumble of tectonic plates grinding together. "No cheering. We walk in silence. We are the ghost that the Sect tried to bury."
He turned and began the march.
Iron Hand Zhang walked to his right, his metal skin dull in the dawn light. Lin walked to his left, her breath misting in the chill air.
Behind them, the Pack moved.
They didn't look like cultivators. They wore armor fashioned from overlapping Basilisk scales, dull green and gray, impervious to acid and steel. They carried shields made of hull plating and spears tipped with scrap iron. They marched with a heavy, synchronous rhythm that shook the loose cobblestones of the slum.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
They left the Dregs.
They climbed the winding road past the other Outer Sect blocks.
Disciples from the Tiger and Ox sectors came out to watch. They held their cheap weapons, eyes wide. They saw the discipline. They saw the scars. They smelled the lingering scent of chemicals and dried blood.
"Join us," a Viper lieutenant whispered to a gawking group of Ox disciples. "Or stay here and starve."
A few dropped their tools and fell in at the back of the line. Most just watched, paralyzed by the sight of the bottom feeders rising up.
They reached the Gate of Ascension.
This was the checkpoint between the Outer Sect slums and the massive plateau where the tournament would be held.
Usually, it was guarded by two sleepy disciples. Today, it was blocked by a phalanx of fifty Inner Sect guards in polished blue armor.
A heavy barrier of shimmering qi blocked the archway.
The Captain of the Guard stepped forward. He sneered at the approaching army.
"This is a tournament for cultivators, not a riot for beggars. Disperse, or we open fire."
Yang Yi didn't stop. The Pack didn't break step.
"Disperse?" Yang Yi repeated, closing the distance. "The invitation said 'open to all'."
"Open to all who can pass the threshold," the Captain scoffed. He pointed to the shimmering barrier. "The Wall of Sighs. It repels anyone below Tier 3. It crushes weak bones."
Yang Yi stopped five feet from the barrier. He could feel the energy radiating from it. A repulsion field.
He looked at the Captain.
"You put a wall in front of a landslide."
Yang Yi reached over his shoulder. He gripped the hilt of the Grave Digger.
He didn't draw it fast. He drew it with a slow, grinding screech of metal against the leather sheath.
The sword came free. It was huge—a slab of dark, storm-colored steel with a jagged green spine. Purple arcs of poisonous lightning crawled along the edge.
Yang Yi spun the sword once. The air whooshed, heavy and displaced.
He stepped forward.
He didn't slash the barrier. He leaned the sword against it.
Just the tip.
He released his grip, letting gravity take over.
Weight.
The sword was forged from the core of an Earth beast. It carried the density of a collapsed tunnel.
The tip of the sword touched the qi barrier.
The barrier bent. It groaned. The light distorted, struggling to repel the impossible mass pressing against it.
Yang Yi placed his hand on the pommel. He activated the Void-Iron Body.
Singularity.
He pushed.
CRACK.
The barrier didn't shatter like glass; it tore like wet fabric. The immense gravity of the sword, combined with Yang Yi's density, punched a hole straight through the field.
The feedback loop screamed back into the generators.
The guard phalanx buckled as the array exploded, sending showers of sparks raining down on their polished armor.
The barrier flickered and died.
Yang Yi picked up his sword. He stepped over the smoking remains of the threshold array.
The Captain stared, mouth agape. "You... you broke the array with... weight?"
Yang Yi didn't answer. He backhanded the Captain with his armored forearm.
The Captain flew into the wall, his helmet crumpling.
"We're in," Yang Yi announced.
The Pack surged forward, flowing through the broken gate like a tide of oil.
The Tournament Arena was a colossal bowl carved into the mountain's flank. Tiered seating rose hundreds of feet into the air, filled with tens of thousands of spectators—Outer disciples, servants, merchants, and in the VIP boxes, the Inner Sect elite.
In the center was the stage. A massive platform of white marble, suspended over a pit of spikes.
The air buzzed with excitement and the hum of protective formations.
When Yang Yi and his army marched through the southern tunnel and spilled onto the staging grounds, the noise died.
The other competitors were clustered in groups. Distinct, colorful, arrogant.
The Thunder Sect hopefuls in blue and silver. The Iron Mountain disciples in heavy plate. The Spirit Wind clan in flowing green silks.
And then, the Mud.
Five hundred gray-clad warriors, smelling of the sewer, led by a monster carrying a sword that looked like a piece of a ruined building.
Yang Yi halted the column.
"Form up," he commanded softly.
The Pack moved instantly. Shields locked. Spears lowered. They formed a solid, prickly square in the corner of the staging ground. A fortress of refuse.
A hush fell over the VIP box.
Luo Bing sat there, sipping wine. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he saw the sword on Yang Yi's back.
"He reforged it," Luo Bing whispered to the Elder beside him. "He took a masterpiece of aerodynamics and turned it into a sledgehammer."
"It's vulgar," the Elder sniffed. "It has no soul."
"It has weight, Elder. Sometimes that's enough."
A gong sounded. The vibrations shook the dust from the arena walls.
The Sect Master's projection appeared in the center of the air. Massive. Benevolent. Fake.
"Welcome to the Crucible! The rules are simple. Survive."
The projection gestured to the crowded floor.
"Round One is the Cull. There are too many of you. Only one hundred will advance to the duels."
The floor of the arena began to rumble.
"Begin."
The Cull wasn't a tournament. It was a massacre.
The alliances broke instantly. The Thunder Sect disciples turned on the Iron Mountain. Spells flew. Fireballs, wind blades, and lightning arcs turned the arena floor into a meat grinder.
Except in the south corner.
The Pack stood still.
A group of fifty Spirit Wind disciples saw the stationary target.
"Easy points!" their leader shouted. "Break their line!"
They charged, wind qi accelerating their movements. They looked like green blurs.
"Shields," Yang Yi ordered.
The Centipedes raised the Basilisk-scale shields.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The wind blades hit the scales. They didn't cut. The acid-treated scales absorbed the impact, dissipating the qi.
"Push."
The Centipedes stepped forward in unison. A wall of metal and scale.
The Spirit Wind disciples bounced off the shield wall.
"Vipers," Yang Yi said.
From behind the shield wall, the Vipers threw their payload.
Not darts.
Glass spheres.
Basilisk Acid Grenades.
They shattered on the ground amidst the Spirit Wind group. Green clouds erupted.
Screams followed.
"My eyes! It burns!"
The Spirit Wind formation dissolved into chaos.
"Harvest," Yang Yi said.
The shield wall opened. The Vipers surged out with their iron-shod clubs and scrap spears. It was brutal, efficient, and short. Within seconds, the fifty Spirit Wind disciples were on the ground, groaning, broken, or unconscious.
The Pack retreated back into their turtle formation.
Yang Yi hadn't moved. He stood in the center of the square, leaning on the Grave Digger, watching the rest of the arena tear itself apart.
He wasn't fighting. He was managing.
Across the arena, a man in red robes—a disciple of the Blazing Sun Hall—incinerated three opponents with a wave of fire. He turned and saw the gray square.
"Cowards!" the Blazing Sun disciple roared. "Hiding behind shields!"
He gathered a massive fireball, the size of a carriage.
"Burn!"
He threw it. The fireball roared across the arena, aimed dead center at the Pack.
Lin tensed. "Yang!"
Yang Yi opened his gold eyes.
He grabbed the hilt of the Grave Digger.
He stepped out of the formation.
He didn't dodge. He swung.
It was a baseball swing.
The flat of the massive blade met the fireball.
The Void-Iron gravity field caught the plasma. The Basilisk earth essence grounded it.
CLANG.
Yang Yi didn't absorb the fire. He hit it.
The fireball was batted back.
It flew faster than it came, compressed by the impact.
The Blazing Sun disciple's jaw dropped.
The fireball struck him.
BOOM.
He was blasted out of the arena, trailing smoke, crashing into the protective barriers of the stands.
Yang Yi rested the sword back on his shoulder.
"Home run," he muttered.
He looked at the remaining competitors. The fighting had stopped. Everyone was looking at the man who played tennis with superior cultivation arts.
"Anyone else want to pitch?" Yang Yi asked.
Silence.
The gong sounded again.
"The Cull is paused!" the announcer's voice wavered slightly. "One hundred combatants remain."
Yang Yi looked around. His Pack was intact. They took up space. They had eliminated three other factions just by existing.
He looked up at the VIP box. He met Luo Bing's gaze.
Yang Yi raised a clawed finger and tapped his temple.
I'm thinking, the gesture said. And that makes me dangerous.
He turned to his army.
"Round One clear. Rest. Drink the water. Round Two is where they try to separate us."
He knew the game. The Sect couldn't handle an army. They would change the terrain. They would force duels.
But Yang Yi had brought the Dregs to the sky. And mud, once it gets on your boots, is impossible to shake off.