He lunged forward, not dodging the rapier, but slipping under it.

His flexibility was impossible for a man of his size; he bent backward, his spine curving like a hunting leopard’s, the silver blade missing his nose by a hair’s breadth.

Before Feng could recover his stance, Hu Yanlie’s hand shot out. His fingers were curled into rigid, claw-like hooks.

He didn’t punch, but swiped through.

His hand struck the flat of Feng’s rapier with the force of a falling boulder. The high-grade spiritual sword didn’t just deflect; it shattered into three pieces with a resounding CRACK.

Feng stared at his broken hilt in absolute disbelief. "M-My sword..."

"Steel is weak!" Hu Yanlie barked, his golden eyes flashing with dominant arrogance. "Flesh and instinct are absolute!"

He grabbed the stunned swordsman by the front of his pristine robes with one massive hand. With a terrifying display of raw, unadulterated physical strength, Hu Yanlie lifted the grown man entirely off his feet, holding him in the air with one arm.

He leaned in close, his feral eyes locking onto the terrified senior. He sniffed the air around Feng’s neck loudly, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

"Weak blood," Hu Yanlie growled, his lips pulling back to reveal slightly elongated, sharp canine teeth. "You don’t even have the scent of a true fight on you. Pathetic."

With a casual, almost bored flick of his wrist, Hu Yanlie threw the senior disciple across the ring. Feng skipped across the black stone like a skipped pebble, tumbling violently out of bounds and crashing into the barrier.

"Match concluded! Hu Yanlie advances!"

The Beast Peak disciples in the stands erupted into primal howls and cheers, beating their chests in support of their feral king.

Hu Yanlie stood up straight, stretching his arms above his head. He didn’t look at the crowd for validation. He was the apex predator; the opinions of the sheep meant nothing to him.

He turned his head, sniffing the air deeply. His golden, slitted eyes darted across the sea of faces in the spectator stands, filtering through the scents of sweat, fear, and cheap perfume.

And then, his gaze snapped directly to the sidelines of Ring One.

He locked eyes with Lin Ji’an.

Hu Yanlie’s nostrils flared. His acute, beast-like senses bypassed the superficial scent of the gray uniform and honed in on the lingering, chaotic aroma clinging to Ji’an.

He smelled the sweat of a desperate battle, the metallic tang of ghost ash, the rich, savory scent of seasoned rhino meat, and beneath it all, the burning, concentrated Yang Qi of the Harmonious Five-Grain Constitution.

It was the most intoxicating, complex, and dangerous scent he had ever encountered. It smelled like survival. It smelled like a worthy mate.

Hu Yanlie didn’t blow a kiss, and he didn’t offer a polite smile.

He pounded his fist against his bare chest twice, a dull, heavy thud that echoed across the distance.

He bared his sharp teeth in a wide, utterly feral grin, his golden eyes burning with dominant, possessive intent.

’You smell delicious,’ his posture screamed. ’I am going to hunt you down!’

***

Sitting on her stone bench, Lin Ji’an slowly lowered her bag of melon seeds.

She looked at the four arenas.

In Ring One, Gu Zhiwei was currently healing the opponent he had just politely blasted into next week, occasionally looking over his shoulder to beam at her like a golden retriever waiting for a treat.

In Ring Two, Lu Jianheng was aggressively polishing his scabbard, shooting her haughty, tsundere glares that demanded she acknowledge his flawless technique.

Near the exit of Ring Three, Xiao Yichen, the smiling sadist, was leaning against a pillar, fanning himself while keeping his dark, calculating eyes fixed firmly on her location.

And in Ring Four, Hu Yanlie, the feral Beast Lord, was practically salivating as he stared at her like she was the finest cut of premium steak he had ever seen.

And right behind her, standing like a silent, immovable glacier of absolute jealousy, was Xie Wangchen, whose aura was currently freezing the air around her bench simply because the other four were looking at her.

Lin Ji’an closed her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose. A profound, soul-deep exhaustion washed over her.

’I didn’t ask for this,’ Ji’an mourned internally, her chef’s soul crying out for the peace of a prep kitchen. ’I just wanted to make dumplings and avoid death flags. Instead, I have accidentally assembled the Avengers of toxic romance tropes...! Damn my luck, what kind of sin did I commit in my past life? What kind of combination is this?!’

The holographic bracket above the arena suddenly flashed, pulsing with a bright, warning red light.

The first block of matches was over.

The second block was loading.

The Head Elder’s voice boomed across the silent plaza, the words sounding like a death sentence in Ji’an’s ears.

"The next block shall commence! Ring One: Candidate #459, Lin Ji’an, versus Candidate #88, Yan Lie! Participants, enter the ring!"

Ji’an opened her eyes.

She looked across the plaza to where the Blood Sovereign, the Mini Demon Lord, was already walking up the black stone steps.

Yan Lie dragged his massive, blood-red halberd behind him, the blade sparking against the stone, his demonic red eyes burning with the promise of utter, chaotic violence.

"Right," Ji’an whispered, standing up and gripping her Black Iron Spatula. She felt the gaze of all five Protagonists lock onto her simultaneously.

"If I survive this," Ji’an promised herself, rolling her shoulders and stepping forward into the crucible, "I am charging all of them double for the premium soup. No exceptions."

.

.

.

The sparring matches of the Celestial Sword Sect’s Grand Tournament were, by design, solemn affairs.

They were grand exhibitions of martial prowess, steep tradition, and the unyielding dignity of the Dao.

Disciples were expected to observe with quiet reverence, clapping politely or offering measured murmurs of approval when a particularly exquisite technique was executed.

Lin Ji’an, however, was not a traditional disciple.