A horrified murmur began to ripple through the spectator stands.

The disciples who hadn’t been in the Lower Realm were suddenly looking at Ji’an with dawning, terrified awe.

Yan Lie wasn’t done. He placed a hand over his heart, shaking his head with a perfectly manufactured sigh of self-preservation.

"I am a man who knows his limits," Yan Lie projected loudly. "I have no desire to anger a chef who can cook a high-level beast so freely. If I fight him and earn his grudge, I fear I will wake up tomorrow to find myself being marinated in chili oil and turned into a spicy stew. I value my life too much to risk the wrath of the Class 9 Chef."

He then executed a slow, sweeping, highly theatrical bow directly toward Lin Ji’an.

As he straightened up, he met Ji’an’s incredulous, horrified gaze.

He winked at her, a blatant, arrogant, completely psychotic wink that promised he was enjoying this far too much.

He hoisted his massive halberd onto his shoulder, turned on his heel, and casually strolled out of the ring, walking down the steps with the swagger of a man who had just won a war, rather than forfeited a match.

"My work here is done," Yan Lie chuckled darkly to himself as he bypassed the stunned referee.

For three seconds, nobody moved.

And then, the Assembly Plaza exploded.

It wasn’t a cheer. It was a chaotic, panicked uproar of rumors, whispers, and sheer, unadulterated terror.

Yan Lie’s masterful, sarcastic trolling had been completely, disastrously misinterpreted by the hyper-competitive, literal-minded cultivation audience.

"Did you hear him?! He turns people into stew!" a disciple from Class 3 shrieked, clutching his head.

"The rogue cultivator surrendered out of fear! He was terrified of being marinated!"

"A Rank 4 beast! He butchered a Rank 4 beast with his bare hands! The spatula is just a limiter to hold back his true power!"

Up in the cheap seats, the surviving members of the Class 9 squad were doing absolutely nothing to help the situation.

"THAT’S OUR BOSS!" Tang Bo screamed at the top of his lungs, waving his iron skillet in the air, tears of pride streaming down his face. "HE DOESN’T EVEN NEED TO FIGHT! THE DEMONS RUN FROM HIS WOK!"

"Senior Brother Lin is a god of the kitchen and the battlefield!" Liu Liu cheered, completely ignoring the terrified looks of the disciples around her.

In the VIP pavilion, the Peak Masters were exchanging deeply disturbed glances.

"Turning opponents into stew...?" the Alchemy Peak Master muttered, looking slightly green. "Is that a metaphor, or a new, highly unethical branch of dual-cultivation?"

Elder Qin Changxu simply closed his eyes, praying for the sweet release of a Qi deviation.

Down on the sidelines, the Protagonists were having wildly different reactions to Yan Lie’s theatrical exit.

Xie Wangchen had completely sheathed Winter’s Sigh. The murderous tension had drained from his shoulders, replaced by a profound, smug satisfaction.

He didn’t care about the rumors or didn’t care that Yan Lie was trolling. He only cared that his Young Master was safe, uninjured, and had won without having to exert a single ounce of Qi.

’He bowed to him,’ Wangchen thought, a faint, proud smile touching his lips. ’As he should.’

Lu Jianheng, however, was practically pulling his hair out. "Cowardice! Utter cowardice!" the Sword Lord yelled at Yan Lie’s retreat. "To surrender before crossing blades based on a culinary threat?! Is there no honor left in this sect?!"

Wen Shiru chuckled softly, snapping his golden fan. "A psychological victory is still a victory, Brother Lu. Lin Ji’an has managed to weaponize his reputation as a cook to bypass physical combat entirely. It is a terrifyingly efficient monopoly on fear."

Inside Ring One, Lin Ji’an was experiencing a catastrophic system failure.

She stood frozen in the center of the black stone, her spatula hanging limply at her side. Her jaw was slightly slack.

She stared at the space where Yan Lie had been standing, her mind desperately trying to process the absolute absurdity of what had just occurred.

’He trolled me,’ Ji’an realized, a slow, burning flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck. ’The literal Demon Lord of the North Territories just forfeited a match to make the entire sect think I am a cannibalistic Gordon Ramsay. I am never going to live this down!’

The referee, finally recovering from his shock, cleared his throat loudly.

"Ahem! Due to the voluntary forfeiture of Candidate #88, the victory is awarded to Candidate #459, Lin Ji’an!" the referee announced.

A scattered, highly nervous round of applause echoed from the stands.

People were clapping, but they were doing it very politely, clearly afraid that stopping would result in them being added to a soup menu.

"However!" the referee raised his hand, signaling the next phase of the tournament protocols. "As per the rules of the Grand Tournament, any Outer Disciple who secures a victory in the bracket must face the Trial of the Seniors to solidify their ranking and official entry into the Inner Sect!"

The referee turned to the massive seating area reserved specifically for the current Inner Disciples, the veterans of Classes 1 through 5 who were not participating in the primary bracket.

"Are there any Senior Disciples who wish to step into Ring One to challenge the victor?" the referee called out, his voice echoing across the plaza. "Step forward to test his foundation!"

In a normal tournament, this was the moment where senior disciples eagerly leaped into the ring.

It was a chance to show off, to put arrogant rookies in their place, and to earn merit points from the Elders. Usually, there was a line of people fighting for the opportunity.

The referee waited, expecting a flurry of movement.

Silence.

Absolute, pin-drop silence.

The referee blinked a few times, then looked at the section holding the Class 3 and 4 sword masters.

The senior disciples there suddenly found the sky incredibly fascinating. Some were aggressively inspecting the fingernails on their sword hands.