Chapter 72
Malphas‘ body was dragged from the arena in silence.
No cheers followed.
No laughter.
Only a strange, uneasy stillness hung over the duel grounds.
For several long seconds, no one moved. The crowd stared at the shattered stone, the cracks radiating outward like a warning, as if afraid that breathing too loudly might summon something worse.
Then murmurs began to ripple.
“He… he defeated Malphas.”
“That wasn’t luck.”
“But there are still twenty left.”
“No one can keep that up.‘
Freya sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression calm on the surface, but her nails dug into her palm hard enough to draw blood. One immortal falling was unexpected. Unacceptable, even. But survivable.
One meant nothing.
She lifted her chin slightly and gave a subtle nod.
The air changed instantly.
Three figures stepped forward from different sides of the arena, their movements silent, coordinated, practiced. Unlike Malphas, they didn’t announce themselves with overwhelming pressure or theatrical flair. Their auras were restrained, controlled, layered like deep water hiding unseen currents.
Cultivators who had survived long enough to learn restraint were far more dangerous.
SunThe first was a thin man draped in gray, his eyes constantly shifting as though tracking invisible threads. The second was a woman with long black hair and pale skin, her presence cold and unsettling, like frost creeping along bone. The third wore simple robes and carried no visible weapon, but the ground beneath his feet warped subtly with each step.
A collective gasp rippled through the stands.
“Three at once?”
“They’re not even waiting their turn!”
“They’re testing him–trying to wear him down!”
Kai’s jaw tightened. He took a step forward instinctively, then stopped himself. This was Adrian’s battle.
Adrian remained at the center of the ring, breathing slow, controlled. His chest rose and fell steadily, but only he could feel the subtle strain creeping into his muscles, the faint hum beneath his skin where power circulated faster than it had in years.
Three immortals at once wasn’t meant to be fair.
It was meant to break him.
The man in gray spoke first, his voice thin and echoing oddly. “You’re impressive for someone who hasn’t fully stepped onto the path,” he said. “But brute force won’t save you here.”
The woman smiled faintly. “You’ve already expended more energy than you realize.”
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The third cultivator said nothing. He simply raised his hand.
The arena shifted.
The air thickened, becoming viscous, heavy, as if the space itself were resisting movement. Spectators near the ring felt pressure on their chests and instinctively leaned back.
Adrian’s boots sank a fraction of an inch into the stone.
Manipulation.
Not raw power–control.
The man in gray flicked his fingers, and invisible threads snapped into place around Adrian’s limbs. The woman extended her palm, and a cold, numbing force seeped into the ground, crawling upward like frostbite. The silent cultivator stepped forward, his presence anchoring the formation, amplifying the others.
They moved as one.
Adrian felt it immediately.
His circulation stuttered. His breath caught. His vision narrowed for a split second as pressure slammed into his internal pathways from three directions at once.
The crowd leaned forward.
“He’s slowing down.”
“See? He can’t keep this up.”
“Three immortals working together–no one survives that.”
Lucas grinned from the stands, his earlier fear giving way to vicious hope. “This is it,” he muttered. “This is where he breaks.”
The first blow landed without warning.
A condensed strike of force slammed into Adrian’s side, sending him skidding across the arena floor. He twisted mid–fall, barely managing to keep his footing as another attack clipped his shoulder. The frost–like energy bit into his skin, numbing his arm instantly.
Then the threads tightened.
Adrian felt his movement restricted, his reactions delayed by a heartbeat that shouldn’t have existed.
The third cultivator struck.
The impact was brutal.
Adrian coughed violently as blood sprayed from his lips, the sound sharp and unmistakable. He dropped to one knee, one hand braced against the cracked stone.
The arena erupted.
“He’s bleeding!”
“I knew it–he’s finished!”
“No one walks away from that!”
Freya’s lips curved into a faint smile.
Adrian remained kneeling, head lowered, blood dripping onto the ground beneath him. His breathing was heavier now, uneven for the first time since the duel began.
For a moment, even Kai felt his heart sink.
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Then Adrian laughed.
It was quiet at first, breathless, almost hoarse—but it was unmistakably a laugh.
He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed himself slowly to his feet. His legs trembled, just slightly, but he stood straight nonetheless.
“You’re right about one thing,” he said, lifting his gaze. “I am getting tired.”
The three immortals narrowed their eyes.
“But you made a mistake,” Adrian continued calmly. “You assumed exhaustion means helplessness.”
He took one step forward.
The threads snapped.
The man in gray staggered backward, shock flashing across his face. “Impossible-!”
Adrian moved again, faster than before–not with explosive speed, but with timing so precise it felt like he was always a step ahead. He ducked beneath a strike, twisted around the frost cultivator, and tapped her wrist lightly.
Her entire arm went numb.
“What–what did you do?” she hissed.
Adrian didn’t answer.
He shifted his stance subtly, changing the rhythm of his breathing. To the trained eye, it looked like a mistake–his guard lowered, his posture open.
The silent cultivator lunged, seizing the opening.
Adrian let him.
The strike landed squarely against Adrian’s chest, sending another shockwave through his body. Pain flared, sharp and deep, and his vision swam for a split second.
The crowd roared.
But that was exactly what Adrian wanted.
As the cultivator committed fully to the attack, Adrian’s hand snapped upward, fingers pressing into a precise point beneath the
man’s ribs.
There was a dull crack.
The cultivator’s eyes widened, and he collapsed instantly, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The formation shattered.
The woman screamed in frustration and unleashed everything she had, her frost surging wildly. Adrian staggered, blood spilling from his mouth again–but he twisted through the attack, feinting left, then right, his movements erratic on purpose.
A trick.
The man in gray lunged to capitalize—
And Adrian vanished.
He reappeared behind him and struck once.
The man folded like paper.
The woman froze, staring in disbelief at her fallen allies, her breath hitching as Adrian turned toward her, eyes steady despite
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the blood on his lips.
“You manipulate space well,” he said evenly. “But you rely too much on others.”
She tried to retreat.
She didn’t make it three steps.
When her body hit the ground, the arena fell into stunned silence,
Adrian stood alone again at the center of the ring, breathing heavier now, shoulders rising and falling, blood staining his sleeve –but still standing.
Somewhere in the crowd, someone whispered, almost in awe, “He fell… and got back up.”
Freya’s smile had vanished.
And the realization settled over everyone watching:
If this was Adrian tired—
What would he be like when he stopped holding back?
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