Chapter 28: The Fierce Western Wind (Second Update Today)

A white cloud slowly changed shape, drifting farther away under the blazing midday sun. The young man lying on the ground spat out a mouthful of blood, his chest soaked red where his clothes were stained. His eyes were dull, hollow, until the shape of that drifting white cloud reflected in his pupils, stirring one last glimmer of life in their depths.

He coughed up more blood, the wound through his abdomen signaling his impending death. Fixing his gaze on the distant cloud, he watched until his breath finally ceased. Was the cloud journeying into the unknown, or returning home? This was the last question in his heart.

Morrison surveyed Abuli’s team of challengers, his face expressionless. The man he had felled with a single blow, his fist tearing through the man’s abdomen, now lay dead.

“What’s going on?” The Soul Sect’s envoy, seated on the viewing platform, stood up in shock at the bloodshed in the arena. “Wasn’t this supposed to be a contest? How did it turn fatal?”

Jin Buhuan, sitting tall among the honored guests, opened his eyes slightly to glance at the scene below. “Is any contest ever without mishap?” he said.

“But those are potential Chosen of Destiny! In all the previous trials within the Spirit Realm, has anything like this ever happened?” The Soul Sect envoy was just recovering from his astonishment. The dead man had been discovered and brought in by their sect, and even if he hadn’t become the Chosen of Destiny, the sect still intended to recruit him. Travelers from other worlds were often especially gifted, with unique strengths.

“I’ve always said, how could a true Chosen die so easily? If he’s dead, it only means he never was one,” Jin Buhuan replied, his tone now sharper.

The envoy sat back, his dissatisfaction evident, but he would not risk offending Jin Buhuan, the Spirit Realm’s Grand Elder, over someone already dead.

Zuo Hui watched the arena with a smile, meeting Morrison’s gaze and giving him a small nod. Morrison rubbed his right arm and wrist, then turned and walked straight back to the competitors’ rest area.

Several disciples of the Spirit Realm’s second generation quickly appeared in the arena. Staring at the corpse with its gaping abdominal wound, one of them muttered, “Such brutality. With this much of a gap in strength, there was no need to kill.”

Another disciple said, “Doesn’t it feel like something’s off about this year’s contest?”

“Enough talk. Do your job,” the third said, and the conversation ended as they silently carried the body away.

At that moment, four matches were taking place on the arena simultaneously. With all the factions and sects participating, there would be thirty matches in the first round.

Morrison had been first to fight, and first to finish—dispatching his African opponent with a single punch, the match lasting barely three minutes from start to finish.

Soon, the other three matches also concluded. The victors: a contestant from the Beast Sect, one from the South Wind family, and a white man named Jack. Of the other travelers, one was knocked unconscious by the South Wind family’s contestant, while the other two were killed.

Tension now gripped the arena. Not only did the participants glare at each other with murderous intent, but even the envoys seated on the platform wore grim expressions, silent.

The second round began swiftly. Abuli faced off against a mysterious Russian powerhouse. After a fierce struggle, Abuli emerged victorious, but not unscathed—two of his ribs broken by a heavy blow.

As the matches grew ever more brutal and bloody, it became clear: whenever Abuli’s side met Morrison’s, there would be no mercy, only death or ruin.

More and more travelers fell, dead or gravely wounded. Abuli sat in the rest area, head bowed. Moments before, a fellow African had been killed by a trio from Japan and Korea. Watching his fallen comrade being carried away, Abuli remembered the man’s smile as he’d spoken of home. Rage overtook him; he slammed his fist into the stone floor, leaving a crater. Blood flowed from his knuckles, for the flagstones of the Spirit Realm were harder than iron.

His blood seeped into the earth. Where his fist had sunk into the ground, a faint earthen glow began to envelop his hand, the wound slowly healing.

It was now noon. From the very first death, the envoys had understood that the Spirit Realm was condoning these killings. They had all chosen silence, quietly whispering a few words of warning to their own competitors before sitting, stone-faced, to watch the carnage unfold.

By the next round, only ten pairs of contestants remained. Of these, five, even in victory, were too badly injured to continue and withdrew from the contest.

Abuli now faced the South Wind family’s representative.

The South Wind family’s contestant was a woman—strikingly beautiful, with a graceful figure and revealing attire, but possessing formidable power as well.

Clutching his left chest, Abuli stepped slowly to the center of the arena. Looking at the alluring woman before him, he found himself unconsciously shy.

The tall, lanky boy offered his opponent a bashful smile.

She was taken aback by the purity of his smile. How rare it was, that such innocence could survive here.

She approached Abuli.

Now, all eyes in the arena were drawn to their match. The woman’s beauty was captivating enough, but more remarkable was the smile of the tall, dark-skinned youth. After a morning of bloodshed and death, with so many innocent lives lost, a heavy gloom hung over everyone. Yet this young man smiled—so clean, so pure, his smile warmed the crowd like sunlight.

As the South Wind family’s contestant drew nearer, the entire audience found themselves hoping the space between them would stay unbroken, that they would not fight.

Though she walked slowly, the distance between them was small.

Abuli did not move as she approached.

“Is he just waiting to die?” someone whispered.

“No, the South Wind family specializes in ranged attacks. Why is she getting close?”

She stopped in front of Abuli, meeting his eyes. Seeing his bright smile, she smiled back.

Usually, the South Wind women were infamous for their seductive charm, their coquettish smiles having ensnared many a hero. This young woman was a prodigy among them—her beauty could topple cities. But now, her smile was pure, as fresh as spring. If Abuli’s smile was sunlight, hers was a gentle breeze.

“My name is Nan Feng Xiaolang,” she said.

“I’m Abuli,” he replied.

For some reason, they seemed to understand each other perfectly.

Nan Feng Xiaolang placed her hand on Abuli’s left chest.

“Is she about to strike?” murmured the crowd, as the envoys rose to their feet.

A gentle breeze formed in her palm, swirling delicately over Abuli’s injured ribs.

He felt his broken ribs mending, the soft wind bringing him comfort.

“What the hell is this?” Zuo Hui slammed the table, standing in disbelief.

Nan Feng Lang chuckled. “No one said this was against the rules, did they?”

“That’s the South Wind family’s wind-healing art! What are they up to?”

“Are they healing their opponent first, just to defeat him at his best?”

Yet again, Nan Feng Xiaolang surprised everyone. After healing Abuli, she offered him a gentle smile, turned, and left the arena, signaling her surrender.

The crowd erupted in astonishment. Nan Feng Xiaolang was one of the most outstanding young warriors in the Rosendo, and she had given up without a fight.

“You think this will change anything?” Zuo Hui growled. “Relying on that black devil? Foolish. He couldn’t even beat your family’s weakest.”

Nan Feng Lang retorted coolly, “I’ve known countless men; I can judge character better than a monk like you.”

A dangerous gleam flickered in Hui’s eyes. “You’ll soon see whose judgment is true!”

The South Wind family’s move had alerted the envoys—an effort to win over the travelers. Everyone understood: Morrison’s group had already thrown in their lot with the Beast Sect, but the others were still worth courting.

After all, even if they won the contest, there would be little reward. The demon clans were on the rise, and the Spirit Realm’s true masters had no time to guide the winners; at most, they’d get some spirit pills, precious but not worth sacrificing young talents with so much potential.

Thus, in the rounds that followed, the various factions’ contestants began to forfeit one after another.

Only five travelers remained: Abuli, Morrison, Jack, a Japanese samurai, and a burly German.

The final showdown had arrived. Jin Buhuan stepped down from the viewing platform, and the five finalists stood in a row beneath the setting sun.

Jin Buhuan looked them over, then stopped before Morrison. “You—advance directly.”

Nan Feng Lang stood up, her voice strong and resolute, echoing through the arena. “I object.”

“So do I,” said the envoy from the Northern Star family, rising.

“And I,” added the Soul Sect envoy.

“I object as well.”

“And I…”

The envoys all understood the factions and rivalries among the travelers. From the very start, they had noticed something was amiss: the weaker members of Abuli’s group kept being matched against the stronger fighters on Morrison’s side, while Abuli’s strongest allies clashed with the Russians and Germans, leading to mutual destruction.

This was no accident. The envoys began protesting in silence, withdrawing their own contestants and tending to the wounded travelers.

Now, with Jin Buhuan’s blatant favoritism toward Morrison, their anger finally erupted.

Even the second-generation disciples in charge of security began to shout in protest.

Jin Buhuan frowned, then unleashed an overwhelming aura, like a war god descending. He turned to face the crowd, pointing at Morrison and thundering, “If anyone dares to challenge him—step forward now!”

His power was such that few in the world could hope to defeat him. Though many strong warriors were present, none could match him. His voice rolled over the arena like a tidal wave, and all fell silent.

Everyone now understood: Jin Buhuan was determined to protect Morrison. Why remained a mystery to the various sects and factions, but power ruled all, and none dared speak against him.

The setting sun stained the sky crimson. As Jin Buhuan’s wrathful roar echoed, a fierce west wind suddenly swept across the arena.

“What if I say I dare?” A figure appeared at the entrance to the arena—Zhou Yu, stuffing a steamed bun into his mouth as he strode in.

PS: Please support the story in every way you can!