The crowd’s murmurs swelled again, a mix of pity and morbid curiosity.

The legendary, hilarious chef of Class 9 was about to step into the ring with the most brutal, terrifying rogue cultivator in the tournament.

Ji’an took a deep breath as her boot touched the first black stone step.

’Time to see if the customer service voice works in a death match,’ she thought, marching up into the arena to face the Demon Lord.

The black spirit-stone steps leading up to Ring One felt heavier than they looked.

Lin Ji’an ascended slowly, her Black Iron Spatula gripped loosely in her right hand. The deafening roar of the spectator stands had faded into a low, buzzing hum in her ears, completely drowned out by the frantic, hammering rhythm of her own heart.

Across the elevated arena, Yan Lie was waiting.

The Blood Sovereign did not look like a disciple participating in a friendly sect tournament. He looked like an apex predator lounging in a cage he could break out of at any moment.

He leaned his considerable weight against the shaft of his massive, blood-red halberd, his dark crimson robes shifting in the high-altitude wind.

His wild black hair framed a face that was brutally, aggressively handsome, but it was his eyes... burning with that chaotic, demonic red light, that pinned Ji’an to the spot.

He was smiling, but it wasn’t a polite smile. It was a feral, deeply amused smirk that promised a very specific, highly personalized brand of violence.

Down on the sidelines, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Xie Wangchen stood at the very edge of the runic barrier. His knuckles were bone-white as they gripped the hilt of Winter’s Sigh.

The air around the Ice Genius had dropped to a temperature so lethal that the stone beneath his boots was actively cracking.

He was calculating the exact millisecond it would take to shatter the arena’s protective dome and intervene the moment Yan Lie made a lethal move.

His Heartless Dao was completely overwritten by a singular, frantic directive: If that beast hurts him, I will freeze the blood in his veins.

Even Gu Zhiwei, who usually viewed the world through rose-colored glasses, looked terrified.

He was bouncing nervously on his heels, his golden Sun Qi flaring erratically. "Brother Lin... please be careful! He looks so mean!"

Ji’an finally reached the center of the ring. She stopped ten paces away from the undercover Demon Lord.

"You look pale, Dear Grandmother," Yan Lie drawled, his deeply sarcastic, yet gravelly voice effortlessly carrying across the silent plaza. He tilted his head, his red eyes practically dancing with sadistic delight. "Did the ghost drain too much of your fire? Or are you finally realizing that a spatula isn’t going to save you from me?"

Ji’an let out a long, slow breath. She was terrified, yes, but she was also fundamentally, chronically exhausted by this man’s flair for the dramatic.

"Listen to me very carefully, edge-lord," Ji’an muttered, keeping her voice low enough that the referee couldn’t hear. "I am running on fumes, a single pastry, and spite. If you are going to throw me out of this ring, do it quickly, and do not break my spatula. It is perfectly seasoned cast iron, and if you snap it, I will haunt you."

Yan Lie’s grin widened. A low, vibrating chuckle rumbled in his chest. To anyone else, Ji’an’s words would sound like the desperate bluff of a dead man walking.

But to Yan Lie, it was the most refreshing, utterly fearless insolence he had ever encountered. Lin Ji’an wasn’t begging for his life; she was negotiating the safety of her cookware.

The referee, a seasoned deacon who nonetheless looked incredibly nervous standing between the two fighters, raised his hand high into the air.

"Match One of the second block!" the referee shouted, his voice echoing through the amplifying arrays. "Candidate #459 versus Candidate #88! Are both combatants ready?"

Ji’an tightened her grip on the spatula, bending her knees into a defensive stance. She prepared herself for the inevitable, bone-crushing impact.

Yan Lie didn’t shift into a combat stance.

He simply continued to lean against his halberd, his red eyes locked onto Ji’an’s face, savoring the tension.

"Match... BEGIN!" The referee’s hand slashed downward.

The crowd held its collective breath. Xie Wangchen drew Winter’s Sigh exactly one inch from its scabbard, the blade hissing with lethal frost.

Yan Lie finally moved.

He didn’t charge, nor swing his halberd.

Instead, he lazily raised his free hand high into the air, the universal signal to halt the match.

"I forfeit," Yan Lie announced.

The silence that slammed into the Jade Terrace was so absolute, so profoundly heavy, that the wind itself seemed to stop blowing.

The referee froze, his hand still suspended in the air. His jaw went slack. "I... I beg your pardon, Candidate #88? Did you say... forfeit?"

Down in the stands, thousands of disciples blinked in synchronized confusion. Did they mishear?

Did the terrifying rogue cultivator, the man who had casually brutalized the Outer Sect trials and radiated an aura of pure slaughter, just surrender to a gray-robed chef without a single blow being struck?

Ji’an blinked, entirely thrown off balance.

She lowered her spatula a fraction of an inch.

"Wait, what are you doing?" she hissed at him.

But Yan Lie ignored her.

He turned to face the referee, and by extension, the entire, silent audience of the Celestial Sword Sect.

He amplified his voice with his demonic Qi, ensuring that every single syllable reverberated with crystal-clear, dramatic perfection across the mountain peaks.

"You heard me, Deacon. I forfeit the match," Yan Lie declared, his voice a booming, resonant baritone that commanded absolute attention.

He gestured broadly toward the utterly bewildered Lin Ji’an.

"I survived the Lower Realm with this one," Yan Lie continued, his tone shifting into one of exaggerated, mock-solemnity. "I watched him dismantle a Rank 4 Iron-Hide Rhino with nothing but a cleaver and a bad attitude. He tenderized a beast made of living armor into submission in under an hour."