It had been three months since Jin Wu-ren entered the Jin Clan.
This morning the sky over the Jin Clan's outer sect was gray and dull, with no wind. The outer sect training field was already crowded. Hundreds of disciples gathered near the open arena—a flat, stone-paved circle surrounded by cracked walls and basic formations. Disciplinary elders sat on raised platforms, watching from above.
This was the start of the Outer Sect Combat Trials.
Disciples were supposed to show their skill and potential. Winners would get better cultivation spots, access to more resources, and even possible recognition by inner sect elders.
To most, this was a huge opportunity.
To Jin Wu-ren, it was a way to kill time.
He stood near the back of the crowd, looking like just another poor disciple. His robes were clean but plain. His cultivation aura was faint—barely at third stage Body Tempering. He stood with his hands behind his back, posture loose, face blank.
No one noticed him.
No one talked to him.
That was how he liked it.
The first match was already underway. Two disciples clashed in the center of the arena, exchanging sword strikes. The onlookers shouted and cheered, but Wu-ren barely glanced at them.
"Too slow. Too loud. Too proud," he muttered to himself.
He could already see how it would end. The boy with the faster footwork would win in three moves.
And he did.
When the next two stepped up, he predicted the outcome again. Same result.
These so-called "geniuses" of the outer sect were barely above street thugs in his eyes. He used to command gods. These children swung swords like farmers chasing rats.
Still… it was interesting to see what kind of weeds the Jin Clan had cultivated over the years.
A few matches later, Wu-ren finally heard his name.
"Next match—Jin Wu-ren versus Jin Bao."
He walked out calmly, hands still behind his back. No one cheered. No one cared.
His opponent, Jin Bao, was tall, broad, and had a heavy saber slung over his shoulder. His aura showed sixth stage Body Tempering—twice as strong as what Wu-ren was pretending to be.
"You sure you're in the right place, brat?" Jin Bao said, sneering. "You don't even have a real weapon."
Wu-ren didn't reply. He stepped onto the arena floor and stood still.
Jin Bao looked annoyed. The referee elder gave a bored nod.
"Begin."
Jin Bao charged instantly, swinging the saber with both hands. His qi surged around the blade, thick and wild.
Wu-ren didn't move.
At the last second, he shifted half a step to the side. The saber missed by an inch.
Jin Bao blinked. He swung again—this time faster. Another miss.
Then again.
Miss.
Wu-ren didn't fight back. He just moved, always one step ahead. He dodged with the smallest motion possible, like he'd seen the future.
After the sixth miss, Jin Bao was sweating.
"Stop dodging, you rat!"
He roared, channeled all his qi into one final overhead slash.
Wu-ren raised a hand.
A finger.
Not to block.
Just to point.
His finger touched the flat of the blade as it came down—and it stopped. Like it had hit a mountain.
Jin Bao froze. His arms shook. His qi scattered.
Wu-ren flicked his finger.
The saber flew out of Bao's hands and crashed into the arena wall, embedding itself deep into the stone.
Silence.
The referee elder narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. He didn't see any energy from Wu-ren. No techniques. No strike.
"This match is over," the elder said. "Jin Wu-ren wins."
Jin Bao stumbled backward, staring at Wu-ren like he'd seen a ghost.
Wu-ren turned and walked off the stage. He still hadn't taken his hands out from behind his back.
Some disciples whispered.
"Who was that…?"
"How did he win without even fighting?"
"Was it a trick?"
But most lost interest quickly. There were still dozens of matches left today, and Wu-ren didn't look impressive.
That was fine.
He walked back to the edge of the field and leaned against the wall, face calm again.
"This level is too shallow," he thought. "But maybe… someone interesting will show up later."
The combat trials dragged on.
Same clumsy sword swings. Same yelling. Same desperation.
Jin Wu-ren yawned once, then quietly turned and walked away before the next match was called. No one stopped him. He was just another name on the list.
He wandered the Jin Clan's outer sect without any destination. Stone paths, wooden buildings, spirit stone lanterns—it was all plain to him. He'd seen celestial palaces crumble. Mortal sects like this felt small and slow.
Some areas were restricted, marked with warning talismans and simple formations meant to ward off weaker disciples.
Wu-ren passed through them like walking through fog.
The formations didn't react. They couldn't sense him. His presence was like a ghost—too refined, too suppressed, too far beyond their reach.
He moved past an alchemy workshop. Then an herb garden. Then a row of servant quarters. At one point, he passed a bamboo bathhouse, half-hidden behind trees and a privacy ward.
He glanced once. Inside, a few female disciples were bathing.
Their skin steamed in the water, their voices soft. One of them laughed.
Wu-ren didn't slow down. He didn't leer. He had seen beauties far beyond these. Mortal appearances meant nothing to someone who had once commanded divine spirits.
Further along, he passed an old man sitting under a plum tree, quietly crying. A spirit tablet was placed in front of him. Probably a dead child or wife. Wu-ren didn't stop for that either. Grief was part of the mortal path.
He kept walking—until he felt something familiar.
Rage.
Shame.
Frustration boiling behind closed doors.
He stopped outside a plain stone building near the back of the elder quarters. The windows were shut, and qi barriers surrounded the walls, but none of that mattered.
Inside, an elder was smashing furniture. Cups shattered. Scrolls were thrown. A portrait of the sect master was ripped in half.
This was the man Wu-ren had seen days ago—the one who tried to force himself on a female disciple. The same one whose manhood Wu-ren had disabled with a casual flick of qi.
Now the elder's spirit energy was twisted, unstable. He hadn't recovered. His body functioned, but that part remained lifeless.
Wu-ren leaned against the wall outside, smiling to himself.
"Still broken, are you?" he muttered.
He could've walked away. But he didn't.
Instead, an idea formed in his mind. Amusing. Cruel. Fitting.
He sat down cross-legged right outside the building, invisible to everyone, and closed his eyes. He began whispering something under his breath—a cursed version of an old divine chant.
It wasn't a combat spell.
It was the Infinite Sutra.
Once used by lust demons to torment heavenly priests, the Infinite Sutra wasn't for pleasure. It was a prison. A cycle of growing, unending desire with no relief. A torment that made mortals beg for death.
But Wu-ren wasn't going to use it on himself.
He directed it into the building.
Not through brute force. Not through overwhelming energy. That would be obvious.
He used a subtle thread of spiritual intent, weaving the chant's influence into the elder's meridians, embedding it like a parasite.
The elder stopped shouting.
He clutched his chest, gasping, his face twitching.
The lust hit him instantly.
His pupils dilated. His breathing grew shallow. His skin flushed red.
But there was no outlet.
His body was still broken. His manhood still didn't work.
Wu-ren kept whispering the sutra for one more cycle, then stopped. His eyes opened, calm and cold.
"Let's see how long you last," he said softly.
He stood and walked away, leaving no trace.
Behind him, the elder's room filled with animalistic screams. Groaning. Wailing. Furniture crashed again. A mirror broke.
No one would know what was wrong with him.
Doctors would fail. Pills would do nothing. No matter what he tried, the hunger would grow. And it would never, ever be satisfied.
Wu-ren smiled faintly as he disappeared into the shadows of the next courtyard.
That had been… mildly entertaining.
Meanwhile the combat trials had moved into their final matches. The sun was high, casting long shadows over the arena.
Disciples gathered closer to the stage now, buzzing with conversation. The air was heavier, more expectant. Some of the inner sect elders had arrived to watch the final rounds.
On the elder platform, Elder Jin Rou sat with a calm expression, sipping tea. Her presence was sharp and dangerous, like a blade hidden behind silk. She didn't speak, but her eyes swept over the arena, clearly waiting for one specific match.
The referee elder glanced down at his scroll and raised his voice.
"Next match—Jin Wu-ren versus Jin Renshu!"
The crowd stirred.
Jin Renshu was already stepping forward, smug as ever. He was dressed in fine outer sect robes, custom-fitted and embroidered with gold thread. He grinned as if the outcome was already written.
"Where's the other guy?" someone muttered.
"Maybe he ran away."
But before the whispers grew louder, Wu-ren appeared.
One second the space beside the arena was empty. The next, he was there—calm, quiet, standing straight with his hands behind his back.
No one saw him arrive.
Jin Renshu blinked, confused for a second, then scoffed.
"What, finally crawled out of whatever hole you sleep in?" he sneered. "You should've just saved yourself the humiliation."
Wu-ren didn't respond. He stepped into the arena without a word.
Renshu kept talking, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"You think you're better than us, huh? You act all quiet and mysterious, but you're just another rat scraping for scraps. You don't belong in this clan, let alone on the same stage as me."
Wu-ren stared at him with the same blank expression he wore for every fight so far.
The referee elder raised his hand.
"Begin."
Renshu didn't waste time. He launched forward with a burst of speed, swinging a bright silver saber. His qi surged—he was already at the ninth stage of Body Tempering, almost at Qi Gathering Realm.
He wanted to end this quickly.
Wu-ren moved only slightly. A shift of weight. A tilt of the head.
The blade missed cleanly.
Before Renshu could react, Wu-ren's foot snapped forward and hit his knee.
Bone cracked.
Renshu dropped to one leg with a grunt of pain.
Then a slap across the face.
Then a punch to the gut.
Another to the jaw.
The sound of each hit was dull and heavy, like flesh hitting stone. Renshu tried to fight back, but his movements got slower with each second.
No one in the crowd was cheering anymore.
Renshu finally screamed in frustration, gathered all his qi, and formed a burst of saber light.
"You're dead!" he yelled.
Wu-ren walked through the light like it wasn't there. His palm struck Renshu's chest—clean, simple, direct.
Renshu flew backward and hit the arena wall hard enough to crack it.
He slumped down, blood leaking from his mouth.
Silence again.
Most would've stopped here. The fight was clearly over.
But Wu-ren didn't stop.
He walked forward and raised a finger. Qi gathered—pure, sharp, and lethal.
He aimed straight at Renshu's dantian.
His next strike would destroy the boy's spirit root. No more cultivation. No more second chances.
But just as he moved, the air above the arena trembled.
A soft breeze.
A ripple in space.
Then a shadow appeared between him and Renshu—Elder Jin Rou.
She landed quietly, but her gaze was sharp as steel.
She didn't speak, just raised her hand to block Wu-ren's finger.
He stopped.
He looked down at Renshu's unconscious, broken form—bloodied, bruised, eyes rolled back. He looked back up at Jin Rou, meeting her cold gaze with one of his own.
He could swat her aside like an insect. She was nothing compared to what he used to face.
But today wasn't the day.
He stepped back.
"Take him," he said flatly.
Jin Rou narrowed her eyes but said nothing. She lifted her son gently with one hand and vanished with him in a swirl of light.
The referee elder hesitated.
"Match over," he finally said. "Jin Wu-ren… wins."
Some disciples clapped weakly. Others stayed silent.
Wu-ren walked off the stage, same as before—hands behind his back, expression unreadable.
Another round. Another meaningless fight.
But this time, he felt a few more eyes on him. A few more whispers.
He didn't care.
Let them whisper.